Love Finds a Way (26 page)

He held up one hand as if to silence her. “I’m afraid I have an admission to make.”

“Oh, and what might that be?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

“All three of my 911 calls were trumped up.”

Wendy waved both hands in the air. “No? You think?”

He laughed lightly, but she didn’t respond to his mirth. Those calls had frightened her, and she saw nothing funny about calling out the paramedics for false alarms either.

He motioned her to take a seat. “It’s like this, honey—I thought Kyle Rogers would be working today, so—”

“Kyle has the day off,” Wendy interrupted. “He came into the barbershop for a shave and a haircut this morning.”

Dad’s face brightened considerably. “He did?”

Wendy nodded. “Yes, but it might be the first and last cut he ever gets at Campbell’s Barbershop.”

“Oh, Wendy! You didn’t scare him off, I hope.”

“Scare him off? What’s that supposed to mean, Dad?”

“Kyle’s a nice young Christian man, and I think he would make good husband material.”

Wendy moaned. “Husband material? Oh, Dad, please don’t tell me you’ve been trying to set us up.”

He shrugged, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Okay, I won’t tell you that.”

“Dad! How could you?”

He hung his head sheepishly. “I thought you needed a man. I thought it might help—”

The rest of his sentence was lost on Wendy. All she could think of was the fact that everything had finally come into crystal-clear focus. Dad wasn’t really that lonely after all. The old schemer was trying to set her up. What in the world was she going to do about this?

Right after lunch, Wendy convinced her dad to take a nap. He had seemed a bit overwrought ever since the paramedics left, and she thought he needed some rest. Besides, it would give her a chance to think things through more clearly.

Wendy closed the door to his bedroom and headed across the hall to her own room. She grabbed the telephone from the small table by her bed and dialed the Grangely Clinic. Since Dad was feeling fine, she saw no reason for him to see Dr. Hastings this afternoon after all.

A few minutes later, the appointment she’d scheduled had been canceled, and Wendy hung up the receiver. At least, she thought it was hung up. Preoccupied with thoughts of Kyle,

Dad, and her own self-doubts, Wendy missed fitting the receiver completely into the cradle. She left the room quickly and took a peek at Dad. He was sleeping like a baby, so she grabbed her coat and headed out the front door.

Outside the house, the air felt frigid. From the gray clouds gathering in the sky, it looked like it might even snow. Wendy stuffed her hands inside her pockets and hurried down the street toward her barbershop, hoping the storm wouldn’t be too severe.

When she arrived at the shop, good old, joke-telling Clyde Baxter was waiting outside the door. He was leaning up against the building, just under the swirling, traditional candy-cane-style barber pole, blowing on his hands and stomping his feet up and down. “You’re late,” he grumbled, “and it’s gettin’ mighty cold out here. My eyes are sure smartin’, too.”

When Wendy apologized, his irritation seemed to vanish as quickly as it had come. He chuckled softly and said, “Say, here’s a question for you, little lady. When are eyes not eyes?”

Wendy shrugged and opened the shop door. “Beats me.”

“When the wind makes them water!” Clyde howled as he stepped inside, then slipped out of his heavy jacket and hung it on a wall peg.

Hanging up her own coat, Wendy let out a pathetic groan. “Sorry, Clyde, but I’m afraid I’m not in much of a laughing mood today. Things got a little confusing at home during lunch, and I ended up staying longer than usual.”

“Everything okay with your dad?”

Wendy nodded. “Besides his arthritis, the only thing wrong with Dad is a very bad case of meddleitis.”

Clyde’s bushy white eyebrows shot up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged. “Never mind. You probably wouldn’t understand anyway.”

“Try me,” Clyde said as he took a seat in Wendy’s chair and leaned his head back in readiness for a shave.

Wendy drew in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “For some reason, Dad thinks I need a man, and he’s been making 911 calls in order to play matchmaker.” She grabbed a handful of shaving cream and was about to apply it to Clyde’s face when he stopped her.

“Whoa, hold on just a minute, little lady. I wholeheartedly agree with the part about your needin’ a man, but what’s all this about Wayne calling 911?”

Wendy bit her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood. Wincing, she replied, “In the past two weeks, he’s called the Grangely Fire and Rescue Department three times, and they were all false alarms.”

“Are you sure? I mean, maybe his arthritis is gettin’ the best of him, and he just can’t cut the mustard no more,” Clyde defended.

Wendy shook her head, patting the shaving foam into place on the old man’s weathered cheeks. “They were
planned
false alarms, believe me.”

Clyde squinted. “Even if they were, what’s that got to do with Wayne becomin’ a matchmaker?”

“He’s trying to pair me up with one of the paramedics who’s been responding to his fake calls,” Wendy replied. “It took awhile to learn the truth, but now that I know just what Dad’s little game is, I’ve got a few games up my own sleeve.” She shot him a playful wink. “We’ll just see who wins this war.”

“I thought you said it was a game,” Clyde mentioned as she dropped a hot towel over his face.

“It is,” she said with a wry grin. “A war game!”

W
endy lifted her weary head from the small desk where she sat. “When will the pain go away, Lord? Please make it go away.” A nagging headache had been plaguing her for hours. She was grateful her workday had finally come to an end. Her last customer, a teenager named Randy, had nearly driven her to distraction. The pimple-faced juvenile had asked for a special designer haircut with the initials
PHS
for Plumers High School cut and shaped into the back of his nearly shaven head. This took extra time of course, which meant she wasn’t able to leave the shop until five thirty.

Grabbing her coat and umbrella, Wendy stepped outside. It was snowing hard. A biting wind whipped around her neck, chilling her to the bone. Caught in the current, the umbrella nearly turned inside out. With an exasperated moan, she snapped it shut. “Can anything else go wrong today?”

Wendy shivered and tromped up the snowy sidewalk toward home. Today had been such an emotional drain. First, Kyle Rogers coming in for a shave and a haircut, which had evoked all sorts of feelings she’d rather not think about. Then another 911 scare, followed by her father’s admission of the false calls. After she’d returned to the shop, there had been joke-telling Clyde waiting, then several walk-ins, ending with Randy Olsen, who had just about made her crazy expecting such a ridiculous haircut! It would be so good to get out of her work clothes and into a sweat suit. After she fixed an easy supper of canned soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, she would collapse on the couch for a well-deserved rest. Hopefully, after a good night’s sleep, she could come up with a game plan. She needed to figure out something that would keep Dad busy enough so he wouldn’t have time to think about her needing a man.

As Wendy approached her house, she noticed there were no lights on inside. She thought that was a bit strange. Dad may not have been able to do many things, but he always managed to have several lights on in the living room.

As usual, the front door was unlocked. Wendy turned the knob and stepped inside. Everything was dark and deathly quiet. Believing Dad to still be asleep in his bedroom, she tiptoed quietly into the living room and nearly tripped over something. She bent down and snapped on a small table lamp.

Wendy let out a startled gasp as the sight of her father came into view. He was lying facedown on the floor, with one bloody hand extended over his head. “Dad! Can you hear me, Dad?” She dropped to her knees and shook his shoulder. “Dear Lord, please let him be okay.”

Suddenly Dad turned his head, and his eyes shot open. “Oh, Wendy, I’m so glad you’re finally home,” he rasped, attempting to roll over.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” Wendy’s voice shook with fear. “Why are you lying on the floor? What happened to your hand?”

“After my little stunt earlier today, I wanted to make amends,” he said, wincing as she helped him roll over and then lifted his hand for inspection. “I was going to make savory stew for dinner, but I’m afraid the knife got the better of me.”

“Knife?” she shrieked. “Dad, you know better than to try using a paring knife.”

“Actually, it was a butcher knife,” he admitted. “I couldn’t get my stiff, swollen fingers to work with that little bitty thing you always use.”

“So what are you doing on the floor? Did the blood loss make you dizzy?”

He struggled to sit up. “I guess maybe it did.”

“Let me get a towel for that hand; then I’ll help you get to the couch,” Wendy said as she stood up.

“It’s a pretty deep cut,” her father acknowledged. “I think it might need a few stitches.”

“Just stay put until I get back,” she insisted.

Wendy returned with a hand towel, which she quickly wrapped around her dad’s hand. “Why in the world didn’t you call me, or at least call—” She stopped in midsentence. “I guess after our little discussion earlier today, you weren’t about to call 911 again, right?”

“Actually, I couldn’t call you or the paramedics,” he replied with a scowl.

“Why not?” she asked, leaning over so she could help him stand.

“No telephone.”

Her head shot up. “No phone! What are you talking about, Dad?”

He nodded toward the phone, sitting on a small table across the room. “I never even considered calling 911 this time, but I did try to call you. The phone seemed to be dead though.”

Wendy led him to the couch, then moved to the telephone and picked up the receiver. She frowned. “That’s funny. It was working fine when I used it earlier today.” Before her father could open his mouth to comment, a light seemed to dawn. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” he called to her retreating form.

“To check the extension in my room.”

A few seconds later, Wendy returned to the living room, tears filling her eyes. When she knelt in front of the couch, Dad used his uninjured hand to wipe away the moisture on her cheek. “I’m gonna be okay, honey, so please don’t cry.”

“The phone was off the hook,” she wailed. “How could I have been so careless?” She blinked several times, trying to tame the torrent of tears that seemed to keep on coming. “What if you had bled to death? What if—”

“But I didn’t, and I’m going to be fine now that you’re here.” He gave her a reassuring smile.

“We’d better get you to the hospital. I’m sure that cut will require stitches.”

“In a minute,” he replied. “First I want to say something.”

“What is it, Dad?”

“My actions over the past few weeks have been inexcusable, and I owe you a heartfelt apology, Wendy girl.” He grimaced as though he were in pain.

She nodded. “You’re forgiven.”

“I made those phony calls so you could meet a nice man, but I was meddling,” he acknowledged. “Matchmaking and matters of the heart should be left up to the Lord.”

“You’re the only man I’ll ever need,” Wendy said softly.

“I’m holding you back,” he argued. “If you didn’t have to take care of me, you’d probably be married and raising a family of your own by now. If it weren’t for my disability, I’m sure you’d be going out on all kinds of dates instead of staying home and playing nurse-maid to a fully grown man.”

Wendy shook her head. “I’m not interested in dating—or men, Dad.”

“Why the ‘I don’t like men’ attitude?” he pried. “You work on men’s hair five days a week. I would think by now one of your customers might have caught your eye.”

Wendy moaned. “Remember when I was away at barber’s school?”

Her father only nodded in response. “I dated a guy named Dale Carlson for a while. He treated me awful, Dad.”

“Physical abuse?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

She shook her head. “No—uh—he wanted me to compromise my moral standards—if you get my meaning.”

“You should have dumped that guy!”

“I didn’t have to—he dumped me. When I wouldn’t give in to his sexual advances, Mr. Self-Righteous, Phony Christian dropped me for Michelle Stiles.”

“I guess I must have had my head in the sand,” her father said in obvious surprise. “I didn’t know you were that serious about anyone, much less realize some knucklehead was treating you so badly.”

“I really didn’t want to talk about it,” Wendy admitted. “I made up my mind after the Dale fiasco that I was done with men.” She shrugged. “So many of the guys who come into the barbershop are either rude, crude, or lewd.”

“I understand your feelings of betrayal and hurt,” her father said, “but you’re not right about your interpretation of all men. One bad apple doesn’t have to spoil the whole barrel, you know. You can just pluck out the rotten one and choose a Washington State Delicious.”