A Cut Above (2 page)

Silence.

Then, “Well! My goodness. That was some speech there, Andrea Autumn Adams.” Miss Mona’s voice doesn’t hide the surprise or the hint of humor behind her words. “Something’s sure worked itself—or maybe I should say someone’s worked
him
self—under your skin. Looks like our boy’s done a number on your wherewithal, and I say, good for him!”

Aunt Weeby titters.

Miss Mona laughs.

I groan—again.

We drive on. By the glow of a streetlight, I notice our driver’s Cheshire cat grin. I love Miss Mona almost as much as I love Aunt Weeby, but the two of them and their antics can give anyone heartburn. And I’m a veteran of the ulcer wars; I need no help upsetting my internal equanimity.

“Oh dear,” my aunt then says, her words devoid of any further humor. “You don’t think this means they’re gonna go all lovey-dovey on-screen, now, do you, Mona?”

The car bucks to an abrupt stop. Miss Mona’s sleek, bob-haired head swivels. The darkness hides her eyes—for which I’m eternally thankful, since I’m sure she’s glaring at me. “You wouldn’t dare!”

I slink lower on my vertebrae. A quick glance out the window tells me we’re nowhere near Miss Mona’s house yet. At the rate I’m going, I’d better plan on calling my friendly neighborhood chiropractor in the morning.

Either that, or change the subject.

I inch up. “How soon did the contractor say his men could start on the house?” I ask my aunt.

Her hand flutters up in a dismissive wave. “Don’t even think about that, sugarplum. Mickey’s crews are on other jobs for about another two, maybe three weeks.”

Miss Mona starts the Jag on its way back to her Mac-Mansion—have I mentioned how rich the Shop-Til-U-Drop Shopping Channel has made the already well-to-do widow? “Now, don’t you go talking about moving out again, Livvy. You either, Andie, honey. We’re going to have us the best, longest-running pajama party ever.”

Me and the Daunting Duo. For weeks. What kind of nuttiness will they cook up during that time? How am I going to keep them from dragging me along in their wake? Am I in trouble or what? “Maybe—”

“Mona, dear,” my auntie says, ignoring my start. “I already told you we’re hunting for a sweet little cottage for Andie. It’s time she graduates from girl to woman, and nothing says grown-up more than your own home. A . . . what is it the kids say? Oh, yes! A pad, her own pad, is what she’s needing.”

And here I’d hoped she’d forgotten about that crazy idea.

“You do have a point,” Miss Mona says before I can conjure a diversion. “It’ll be so much fun to go house hunting for Andie. Do you have a Realtor yet?”

“Of course. I’m working with that darling Evie Carson. Can you believe that child’s gone and grown up like that? Why, I do remember when she was in my Sunday school class . . .”

The conversation continues without any input on my part, just as the hunt for a “pad” for me will also go, I’m sure. Not that I have any interest in moving out from the Adams home. I came back to Louisville to take care of Aunt Weeby. She’d had an encounter with a bovine that ended with her leg in a sling at the hospital after surgery to repair multiple compound fractures. And even though her leg’s now as fine as frog legs—her description, not mine—she has an astonishing talent for the unexpected. The woman needs a keeper. That’s where I come in.

And while I don’t want to have to drag her out of another of her escapades, I do like living with her. My parents are missionaries, and they’d decided years ago, during one of their assignments, I’d be better off with Aunt Weeby and her late husband. I spent much of my teenage years in the hundred-plus-year-old house, and to me it spells all that’s wonderful about family. I may be an independent adult with a great career, but I had all the aloneness I could’ve wanted while I lived in New York. Besides, there’s something very comforting in spending my evenings with my dearest relative and closest friend.

Don’t! Don’t even mention that kissing male to me right now, okay?

Sudden exhaustion drops over me. I don’t have the energy to argue with Aunt Weeby. The wrestling match with the newly arrested gemstone thief nearly did me in, and my sore body is letting me know exactly what parts were most grievously assaulted.

I close my eyes and pray. I pray for a confession from the thief—I have no interest in testifying in another trial. Remember the dead vendor? Yeah. Once in a lifetime was more than enough for me.

I pray for Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona. They regularly court disaster, not to mention injury, and the thought of any harm coming to either of the zany seniors is more than I can stand.

But mostly, I pray for wisdom and guidance. I have a lousy track record when it comes to men. Men? Hah! Think college classmate—
one
college classmate, at that—who found what my brain could do for his cumulative grade-point average far more appealing than my company itself. I’ve been a coward ever since, and my cowardice made me treat Max like dirt. I’m ashamed of my actions.

I’ve since apologized and asked his forgiveness, but I really never expected God to stun me with these intense feelings toward my cohost.

My thoughts meander back to the kiss. Max’s tenderness again moves me.

The Jaguar screeches to a stop. I bounce against my seat belt. My head snaps forward and back, and I blink at the sight of Miss Mona’s well-spotlighted house. I blink again, and a random thought hits me like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Could Max feel the same way I do?

“Rise and shine, sunshine!”

I open one reluctant eye. “Wha . . . ?”

“Good!” Aunt Weeby chirps. “You’re awake.”

It’ll never do me any good to tell her I’d still be asleep were it not for her. “What’s up? How come you’re impersonating an alarm clock so early?”

“Why, we have us an appointment with Evie Carson, sugarplum. She’s got a couple of cute little places she says are just right for you.” She marches over to the window on the east wall of the room Miss Mona has given me for the duration, and flings the two halves of the drapes wide open. Brilliant sunshine stings my bleary eyes.

“Hey!” I cover my face with my blanket, but Aunt Weeby drags it off me.

“Come on, Andie. Let’s get to getting. We have us a house to find you. That’s going to take some time, you know. Great houses don’t grow on trees. And I just can’t wait for the fun to start.”

Fun. Yeah, right.

It won’t do me any more good to object to the foray into the wilds of house hunting than it did to my rude awakening. And my lack of interest or desire for a new home has no bearing in this equation, you know. I drag myself upright, and mental images of last night’s frightening events flash through my thoughts. The shock I felt when I realized who’d tried to run my car off the road was only slightly less than the revulsion I still feel knowing she’s killed two men. And all for a pair of fabulous stones. A human life is so precious, so worth more than even the most valuable gem.

“Oh, Lord Jesus . . . thank you . . .”

I shudder, make my way to my dresser and wardrobe, pull out clean clothes, and then head for the shower. The spigots squeak as I adjust them so the water reaches the right steaming temperature, and then I let the hot water splatter against me.

As I shampoo my short-short hair—short, thanks to the fire—I let the image of Max replace the nerve-wracking thoughts of last night, danger, and murder. I have to be mature about this, about him. I have to face the reality that I’m going to have to make myself vulnerable, to let Max get close. I also have to face the possibility of heartbreak in the end.

What’s most frightening is that this time, it won’t be a matter of post-adolescent infatuation, as my college romance was. This time, I suspect, I’m going to have to give a hundred percent. I know Max. He won’t expect anything less.

Neither will God.

“Lord?” I murmur, confident the shower will hide the sound of any confession I make from curious elderly ears. “I’m scared. This could be the real deal, and you know I don’t know how to react when face-to-face with . . . well, the real deal. I know you’ll be there to pick up the pieces afterward, but I don’t want to wind up as a bunch of pieces for you to pick up.”

I automatically reach for the squirt pump on the conditioner bottle, but then consider the minuscule scraps of red locks left on my head. There’s not enough up there to benefit from the liberal application of emollients and bodifiers and who-knows-what-else they put into those bottles.

With a twist, I turn off the water, slide the shower curtain aside, and reach for the towel. The fluffy cotton is a comfort against my face.

“It’s all about trust, isn’t it?” As usual, God doesn’t answer me, but I know the answer already. “Okay. I’m going to take your promises as seriously as I always promise to do. But it’s up to you to help me hang in there.” My stomach lurches. “Help me with my weak knees here. I want to remember all the time how you’ve told me you’ll never leave me nor forsake me.”

God never promised you an unbroken heart,
my conscience says.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. What you really promise is to be there for me, no matter what comes. And all you ask is that I walk with you, no matter where I go. Just give me some smarts about this, okay?”

Not so sure about my romantic smarts but certain of God’s faithfulness, I dress and head down to the kitchen. Where I find Aunt Weeby impatiently checking her watch.

“Well, it’s about time, sugarplum. We have us places to go, houses to see. Come on, come on. Let’s go. Davina’s outside waiting for us.”

Davina is the S.T.U.D.’s limousine chauffeur, a quiet, intensely loyal, former racecar driver who tops the measuring tape at a lofty six foot one. I never know what she’s thinking, but I hesitate to get on her bad side. She could take me down in a blink, should she so desire.

Truth be told, she strikes me as someone you’d see in a James Bond flick.

“Did you really have to rope her into this scavenger hunt of yours?” I ask my aunt as I snag a granola bar from the basket on Miss Mona’s gleaming granite kitchen counter. I doubt I’ll see food again until Aunt Weeby’s inner Energizer Bunny winds down.

Aunt Weeby’s blue eyes twinkle with mischief. Uh-oh.

“Davina’s a smart girl,” she says. “She knows we’re going to have us some fun today.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure, she’ll have fun. At my expense. Da-vina’s not dumb.”

A chuckle comes from the far corner of the kitchen. I glance over my shoulder. There, on the ever-so-comfy, down-stuffed loveseat Miss Mona keeps by the walk-in–size hearth, I find the S.T.U.D.’s smirking chauffeur. Hmm . . . now I think of it, would the correct term, since she’s female, be
chauffeuse
? Weird.

“Morning, Andie,” the taller-than-tall driver says.

I know when I’m beat. “All right, all right. Let’s get this over with. What time do we have to be at Evie’s office?”

“Oh, no, no, no, sugarplum. We’re not heading to Evie’s office.” Aunt Weeby slides her classic black leather handbag on her forearm and heads for the back door. “We’re meeting the sweet girl at the first place she wants to show us. We don’t want to waste any time, you know.”

I know no such thing; I’d much rather dawdle than have to fabricate reasons why I don’t like this or that splendiferous place. But who am I in this house-hunting deal? Just the schmuck who’s being plunked into a house she doesn’t want, is all.

“Lead on—er . . .
lay
on, Macduff,” I say, remembering yesterday’s English Lit lesson.

In the cushy limo, I stare out the window as we zip down streets lined with luxe mansions and out of the exclusive enclave. There are no “cute little cottages” in this part of town, and that’s what Aunt Weeby is bound and determined to find for me.

“Oh, look!” Aunt Weeby trills as Davina guides the land yacht vehicle around a corner. “Isn’t this a sweet street?”

I have to give her that much. On either side, 1930s and ’40s bungalows line the street. Tall, leafy trees provide shade, and flower beds teem with fresh color. I get a sense of cozy comfort, pride of ownership, warmth, and permanence. “Nice . . .”

The canary-feathered smile on my aunt’s face reminds me not to say a thing. The woman has laser-sharp hearing and an agenda in mind.

When Davina stops the car, I get out and study the house before me. It’s a cute little story-and-a-half bungalow, slate blue with white trim and cranberry-red shutters and door.

Both sides of the front walkway are lined with a riot of red and white geraniums, and lush green azalea bushes nestle up against the foundation. At the end of the driveway, I spot a matching one-car garage.

I’m in trouble, folks. I have just fallen in love.

Maybe the inside’s a dump, all torn up and piled ceiling high with decades-old newspapers. Maybe it’s painted in shrieking shades of purple and orange and slime lime-green.

Or not.

“Ooooh!” Aunt Weeby coos. “Isn’t our Evie one smart girl?”

I face my wily relative. “And where is your smart girl? Wasn’t she supposed to meet us here?”

Just then, a school-bus yellow SUV pulls up. From what I can remember of the Evie I once babysat, the vehicle is exactly what she would drive. The driver-side door pops open, and out jumps a livewire dressed in electric blue. Asymmetrically cut black hair frames a pixie face, a cell phone glued to the ear on the side with the shorter cut hair.