With her wet hair plastered to her scalp, every bone in her face seemed to stand out in the harsh fluorescent light. Her lips curled in disgust. She looked like a death’s-head.
Noticing her expression, Alice spun the chair around, putting Sam’s back to the mirror. Picking up a comb, she gently ran it through the tangles. Anne crossed the room and joined them.
“So, Alice,” she said cheerfully, “how’s Pumpkin?”
The comb paused over Sam’s head. “Fine, just fine,” Alice replied. “ ’Course she still misses Miss Fifi.”
Sam’s gaze stole to the pictures lining the wall, settling on one in particular. A poodle, sitting regally on a chair, stared out at her from a frame draped in black ribbon. Miss Fifi? Before she could ask, Alice waved the comb toward the picture.
“That was my baby,” she said to Sam, her eyes misting. “My first Miss Fifi. I had her the longest—thirteen years.”
Sam felt Alice’s remark deserved some kind of acknowledgment, but she was at a loss. “Um . . . um . . . you breed poodles?” she asked lamely.
“Oh no, honey, I’m not a breeder, but I surely do love them.” She picked up her scissors and began snipping. “Do you have a dog?”
“No. I’ve never had time for a pet.”
“That’s too bad.” Her scissors stopped as her gaze stole back to the pictures. “I’ve had poodles for . . . oh, twenty, thirty years now . . . and I don’t know what I would’ve done without them. They’re a lot easier to live with than my ex ever was.” She let out a raucous laugh. “They don’t argue and they never leave the toilet seat up.”
“Maybe I should get a dog,” Anne said with a chuckle. “I’ve never asked, but how did you get started with poodles?”
Alice’s smile faded while she turned her attention to cutting Sam’s hair. “An old friend.”
“Really? Who?”
“Oh,” Alice said, her attention suddenly darting to the two women who were still waiting for the other stylist, “just someone who lived around here. You wouldn’t know them.”
“But—”
“How’s Caleb?” Alice suddenly asked, changing the subject.
Sam listened to their banter and tried to tune it out. Who cared about dogs? Or what Anne’s son had planned for the summer? As her thoughts drifted, she realized that Anne’s remark about painting had bothered her more than she’d let on. It had been so long since she’d held a paintbrush in her hand, but if she closed her eyes, she could remember how it felt. The way her fingers had curled around the smooth wooden handle while the scent of turpentine surrounded her. The excitement of staring at a canvas that seemed to beg her to fill it with color. How the images had danced through her mind and flowed through her brush onto that canvas, and she’d become so lost in what she was creating that she’d completely lose track of time.
No
. Sam shoved the thoughts away. As her father had pointed out, art was fine as a hobby, but one couldn’t make a living from it. She’d been much better off listening to him and joining the advertising agency. So what if she hadn’t had the time to indulge herself by painting. She’d enjoyed more success than she’d ever dreamed of having, and by God, she wasn’t done yet. Thinking of Dan and the way he was sucking up to her father, she clenched her hands beneath the plastic cape she was wearing. She’d fight her way back into her job if she had to.
And if she lost the fight? Forgetting Alice and her scissors, Sam gave a quick nod. She’d start her own agency and she’d give the old man a run for his money. Jackson wouldn’t approve. He wouldn’t want any bad blood between members of the family, but too bad. He’d just have to deal with it. She’d start work on her business plan as soon as she got back to the cabin. Then if her father refused to give her her job back, she’d be covered.
Her mind still racing with ideas, Sam looked up and found both Anne and Alice staring at her with a puzzled expression. “Ah, sorry, did you say something?” she asked, feeling a blush stain her cheeks.
Removing the cape, Alice spun the chair around so it faced the mirror. “There,” she said, winking at Sam’s reflection. “How do you like it?”
Sam’s eyes widened. The ragged locks were gone. Instead, her auburn hair was arranged in a shiny cap around her face that seemed to mute and soften the gauntness. She began turning her head this way and that, and the strands bounced and glistened in the light. Sassy . . . she felt sassy, she thought, grinning at herself.
She looked up at Alice and her smile widened. “Thank you,” she replied with sincerity. “It looks great.”
Pleased, Alice helped Sam to her feet and, with one last touch, fluffed the hair on either side of Sam’s face. “Come back in six weeks for a trim.”
Sam sobered.
Not likely. I’ll either be back at my old job or launching my own agency by then
.
“In six weeks, I’ll be back in the Cities,” she said, shooting a determined look at Anne.
Anne looked down at her feet, refusing to meet Sam’s stare, and Sam felt her pleasure slip away. The other woman didn’t believe that she’d be better in six weeks.
What had she been thinking? She gave herself a backward glance in the mirror. A new haircut hadn’t changed anything, she thought as she limped across the beauty shop. It wouldn’t get her job back, and it wouldn’t make the muscles in her leg stronger. And who was she kidding? If she threatened her father with the possibility of opening her own agency, he’d only laugh at her.
Useless, she was still useless.
Sam slammed into the cabin. “I’m going back to my bedroom,” she called over her shoulder as she headed toward the hallway.
“Fine, I’ll come get you when I’ve finished straightening up the kitchen.” Anne flung her purse on the table and crossed to the counter. “We’re going for a walk today.”
The stress caused by the women at the beauty shop whispering about her and by being asked questions that she didn’t want to answer was more than Sam could handle. She stopped short and turned back around. She didn’t care what Anne wanted. She wanted to be alone, even if it meant locking herself in her bedroom. Narrowing her eyes, she studied Anne’s biceps. Probably not a good idea. The woman looked more than capable of dismantling a door.
“I need rest,” Sam cried with a stamp of her good leg. “You’ve been dragging me around all day. Can’t you leave me alone for five minutes?”
“No problem,” Anne replied pleasantly. “That’s about how long it’s going to take me to put away these dishes . . . then we’ll go for that walk.”
Sam crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the other woman. “I don’t want to go.”
“Sure you do. It’s a nice afternoon and a short trip up the lane will help strengthen your leg. Then, when we get back, I’ll do another deep muscle massage.”
Her self-assured tone had Sam gritting her teeth as she struggled to come up with a response. “Don’t you ever get tired of giving orders?”
“Don’t you ever get tired of trying to hide out in your bedroom?” Anne fired back.
“I’m not hiding out.”
“You would if I let you.”
“I’ve done everything you’ve asked—no, wait,
told
me to do.”
“And bitched about it the whole time.”
It was no use. Anne was like an immovable object and arguments bounced off her like raindrops on concrete. She didn’t listen to Sam any more than her father and Jackson did. Sam felt hopelessness threaten to swamp her.
Suddenly a woman’s squeal drifted up from the lake followed by the sound of a deep baritone voice.
“Just touch it.”
Her attention flew to the open patio door.
“No,” the woman shrieked. “It’s wiggling.”
“Oh, come on,” her male companion said. “It’s not that big. It’s only ten inches.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sam saw Anne’s mouth twitch with a grin. “My God, I hope he’s talking about a fish.”
An absurd image flashed through her mind and something rose inside Sam like effervescent bubbles, driving away the hopelessness. Something so foreign, she’d forgotten what it felt like. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she laughed.
As Sam walked down the gravel path, the sun did feel good on the back of her neck, but she wouldn’t give Anne the satisfaction of admitting it. The breeze blowing off the lake carried with it the smell of pine and honeysuckle. Ahead of them, a cloud of gnats whirled in the air. If Anne hadn’t been with her, she might have stopped and let the sun soak into her body to warm the constant cold spot deep inside.
But if Anne wasn’t with her, she’d be alone, outside, no longer protected by four safe walls. Out in the open, where anyone could find her. The cold spot inside grew and her steps faltered.
Anne noticed and halted. “Are you doing okay?”
She didn’t answer and kept walking.
In two long strides, Anne came even with her and took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. “Doesn’t this make us feel better?” She sounded like an adult talking to a little kid. “Being outside in the fresh air and sunshine? Instead of cooped up in that old cabin?”
“Look, Nurse Nancy, don’t patronize me,” Sam grumbled. “There is no ‘us.’ There’s you and there’s me.”
Anne shook her head, slowing her pace to match Sam’s. “You are a prickly one.”
“I have the right,” Sam shot back.
“Maybe you do,” Anne said as her gaze wandered to the stand of pine trees growing along the road, “but a good outlook can help the body heal.”
Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Another lecture about my attitude? You really do like playing amateur psychologist, don’t you?”
“No, but I’ve worked with patients who’ve suffered trauma and I know how it can mess with your mind,” Anne replied calmly. “Dr. Van Horn told me about how you were attacked.”
“At least you didn’t call it an ‘accident,’ ” Sam muttered, lowering her head.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Sam kept her focus on the ground. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Anne ignored her. “He said it happened two weeks before your wedding, and—”
Sam’s feet skidded to a stop on the pea gravel. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Talking helps. It’s not good to keep it all bottled up inside.”
“Ha,” Sam said with an angry snort. “How would you know?”
Anne lifted a shoulder. “I’ve had my share of problems . . . maybe not like yours . . .” She paused, as if weighing her words. “Before we moved here,” she continued, “my son was running with a bad crowd and—”
Sam’s hand flew to her throat. “Bad crowd? What does that mean? Your son was in a gang?”
A gang had ruined her life, and now here was a woman whose son was just like them. Her heart pounded. She had to get back to the safety of the cabin.
Spinning on her heel, Sam stumbled, but Anne’s hand shot out and steadied her.
“My son wasn’t in a gang, yet . . .” She faltered. “A friend—a coworker at the hospital—took the time to listen to me.” Anne dropped Sam’s arm. “She suggested we move to the lake, and coming here saved us. Maybe it will save you, too.”
“It’s not that easy . . .” Sam’s hand strayed to her weak leg. “I’ve lost everything.”
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
Sam felt the bitterness crawl out of the cold spot inside. “If you call this living—I don’t.” She took a step forward. “I want to go back to the cabin.”
“Nope,” Anne said, gently taking Sam’s arm again and turning her around. “See that cabin down the road? Today we walk that far . . . tomorrow a little farther.”
“Why do you have to keep pushing me?”
Anne gave her arm a little tug. “I was hired to help you and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“I’ve had enough help for one day.”
“I don’t think so,” she replied, giving Sam’s arm another jerk. “Come on; keep moving.”
Sam shrugged away from Anne’s grasp. Another battle lost. Okay, fine, she thought, she’d walk to the neighbor’s damn cabin. Maybe she had promised to cooperate, but she had to draw the line somewhere. Anne was taking complete control of her life, and she’d had enough of that from her father and Jackson. Anne wouldn’t win the next fight. With a sense of purpose that she hadn’t felt for a long time, Sam took a firm step. The other woman followed.
As they approached the cabin, two dogs rushed toward the chain-link fence surrounding the cabin, startling Sam. She stopped while the dogs danced around barking. Behind them, back in the far corner, she spied another dog, cowering next to a tree. Two black ears lay flat against its head while it stared at the world with haunted eyes, as if at any moment it expected a blow to fall. Pink patches of skin showed along its haunches, and even at this distance, she could see the poor thing’s ribs. She thought of Alice’s pampered poodles. This dog had never been pampered in its life.
The dog’s eyes suddenly locked onto her, and in an instant, her mind flashed back to the parking garage, and she saw herself on her knees, begging for her life. Humiliated and afraid to move—just like that dog.
It’s not fair—no living creature, not even a dog, should ever experience that kind of terror.
Her breath caught in her throat as the dog’s eyes seemed to plead for help. The blood rushed to her face and all the anger bottled up inside her burst. She hadn’t been able to save herself, but maybe she could save this dog. With determined steps, she limped past the fence and headed toward the small deck that extended from the front of the cabin.
“What are you doing, Sam?” she heard Anne call from behind her, but she ignored her.
Grasping the railing, she hauled herself up the steps, one at a time. She crossed the deck and pounded on the front door. From inside, she heard the soft strains of a saxophone.
Suddenly the music stopped and a man wearing jeans—no shirt, just jeans—answered and stepped out on the deck. Above his narrow waist, dark hair trailed across his tan chest. From what Sam could see, and she could see quite a bit, he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.
“Yes?” he said as his dark brown eyes questioned her.
Shaken by the vision of a half-dressed man standing in front of her, Sam felt her words die in her throat. Then she remembered the dog with the frightened eyes and her anger flared again.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she lectured, jabbing a finger at the man. “That poor dog out there. He needs help, and—”