Angels Fall

me?"
    "Well, yeah." He shook his head as if the question were ridiculous. "Obviously."
    "Of course. I'll think about it." Relaxed again, she sat back with her wine. "I'd offer you seconds, but, one, I promised Mr. Drubber some leftovers; two, there wouldn't be enough for me to send some of the roast home with you so you could make sandwiches; and three, you'll need to save room for dessert."'
    Brody latched on to point one. "How come Mac rates leftovers?"
    "For installing my dead bolt. He wouldn't let me pay for it. either."
    "He's a little sweet on you."
    "I'm a little sweet on him. Why isn't he married?'"
    Brody gave a sad, sad sigh. "Typical female question. I had higher hopes for you."
    "You're right, it is typical. But I wish he had someone making him pot roast and working with him in the store."
    "He's got you making him pot roast, apparently. And he's got Leon and Old Frank working with him in the store. Beck tills in part-time when Mac wants him."
    "Still, it's not like having someone who works with you and cares that you get a nice hot meal at the end of the day."
    "Word is he had his heart broken about a quarter century ago. Was engaged, and she jilted him—if not at the altar, steps from it. Took off with his best friend."
    "Not really. Really?"
    "That's the word, which is probably duded up to make it more important. Some root of truth in it, I imagine."
    "That bitch. She didn't deserve him."
    "He probably doesn't even remember her name."
    "Of course he does. I bet she's on her fourth husband by now, and has a raging prescription drug habit brought on by complications from her third face-lift."
    "You're a little mean. I like it."
    "When it comes down to someone hurting someone I care about, I'm vicious. So. Why don't you retire to the salon, enjoy your wine. I'm going to clear this up."
    "Define clear ."
    "Watch and learn."
    "Fine, but the view's better from here. I saw a picture of you from a few years back. Articles on the Internet, from papers, magazines," he explained when she only stared at him.
    "Why were you looking at articles on the Internet?"
    "About you specifically? Curiosity. Your hair was shorter."
    Reece picked up the plates, took them to the sink. "Yes. I used to go to this upscale salon on Newberry. Pricey, but worth every penny. Or it was to me then. I haven't been able to handle a salon since…" She turned on the water, squirted in dish soap. "So I've let it grow."
    "It's nice hair."
    "I used to love going to the salon, having someone so focused on me, my appearance. Sitting there sipping the wine or tea or fizzy water they'd serve me, walking out feeling fresh and new. It was one of those areas of life where I loved being female."
    She turned away from the sink to divide the leftovers into the two take-away boxes she'd gotten from Joanie's. "After I got out of the hospital, my grandmother treated me to a spa day at my salon. Booked hair, nails, a facial, a massage. Everyone was so solicitous, so gentle. I panicked in the dressing room. I couldn't even unbutton my shirt to put on the robe. Just had to get out."
    She took the boxes to store in the refrigerator. "My stylist—I'd gone to him for years. He's a sweetheart. He offered to come to the house for me. But I just couldn't.
    "Why not?"
    "Mortification played a big role."
    "That's just stupid."
    "Maybe, but it was real. And it was easier to be embarrassed than afraid. In the big scheme, beauty-salon phobia isn't such a hardship. But they stack up."
    "Maybe you should try it again."
    From the sink, she shot him a look over her shoulder. "Do I look that bad?"
    "You look good. You've got lucky genes. But it's stupid not to try to get back something you enjoy."
    Lucky genes, she thought as she set dishes in the drainer. Not exactly a poetic compliment. Still, it made her feel better about her appearance than she had in a very long time.
    "I'll put it on my list."
    She turned, drying her hands on the cloth just as he pushed off the stool. She didn't take a step back—though she thought of it. Retreat wouldn't work with him. More to the point, she supposed, she wasn't sure if she wanted to step back or step toward him.
    He took the cloth out of her hands, tossed it aside in a way that made her wince. It needed to be laid flat to dry so it wouldn't—
    He laid his hands on the lip of the sink on either side of her, much as he'd done on the hood of his car. "What's for dessert?"
    "Apple brown betty with vanilla bean ice cream. It's been