Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

happen to be a particularly good Brittany. She was originally bought as a family pet, and for Bill to play around with in obedience. But once the Reddings started going to shows, Allison was seduced by the glamour of the conformation ring and decided that she wanted Ginger to finish there, too.
    “You know Todd. He could walk a pot-bellied pig in the ring and convince the judge it was a French Bulldog. And even he had a hard time getting that last major on her.”
    I supposed that showed what little I knew about Brittanys. I’d always thought that Ginger was a perfectly fine specimen of the breed. Certainly she was a pretty dog to look at. Then again, I’d learned enough from Aunt Peg to know that the fact that a dog was attractive didn’t necessarily mean that it had correct structure or breed type.
    “It all adds up,” Terry was saying. “Even when you do part of it yourself, there are entries, gas, and hotels. Not to mention time off from work. Which, by the way, neither Bill nor Allison is doing at the moment. Right now their idea of gainful employment seems to consist of promoting Ginger.”
    “Are you sure? First time we met over at Champions, Bill was wearing a suit and tie. I thought he looked like he’d left work to come to the reception.”
    Terry shook his head. “The way I heard it, Bill was in the habit of cutting out on work whenever something that looked like more fun came up. He got laid off about six weeks ago. Maybe he had an interview the morning you saw him. Or could be he was thinking of the contest as his potential new job. One hundred thousand bucks would take care of a lot of bills.”
    It would indeed.
    While we’d been speaking, Terry had finally stopped working. He’d laid the comb and scissors down on the counter. He studied me carefully, then reached up to nudge a few errant strands of hair into place with his fingers.
    My hair had been damp when he’d started cutting it. Usually Terry would blow it dry when he was done. But now it was so much shorter, it felt as though it had dried already. I slid off the stool and lifted a tentative hand to touch the results.
    “No touching.” Terry slapped my hand away. “Look first.”
    He led the way to a powder room off the kitchen, flipped the light switch, then stood back so I could slip past him and see the mirror.
    I was almost afraid to look. What if I hated it? I’d seen the mound of hair on the floor beneath the stool. I’d never done anything this drastic before. If it was awful, it would take years to grow back. Sam had married a woman with long hair. What if he hated it . . . ?
    “Would you stop agonizing and look already!”
    So I did.
    Slowly I turned to face the mirror. My eyes widened. For a moment, I didn’t even recognize the face I saw there. Now framed by a cap of loose, tousled curls, it looked like it belonged to a totally different person.
    “It turns out your hair has a lot of body when it’s not weighted down by all that length,” Terry said.
    I was still staring at my reflection. I’d had long hair all my life. Long straight hair. I would never have imagined that lopping off seven or eight inches would make this big a difference.
    “Wow.” I exhaled.
    That didn’t seem to be the response Terry was hoping for. He squeezed into the small room next to me. Our faces swam side by side in the mirror. Mine still looked like I’d been poleaxed. His looked unsure.
    “Is that wow good, or wow bad?”
    “I think I love you,” I said.
    Terry grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
    I shook my head, gently at first, and then harder. The curls bobbed and spun, then settled back into place. “Upkeep?”
    “Wash, finger comb, maybe add a little gel if you feel like it. That’s all there is to it.”
    After years of hassling with a blow dryer and hot rollers, that routine sounded like heaven. “Will you marry me?”
    “You’re already married.”
    “Damn.”
    “But I’ll do your hair forever.”
    “Will you?” I turned to face him. An image of Crawford flashed before my eyes. Suddenly the moment felt serious. So many things were perfect in my life right now; I didn’t want any of it to change. “Promise?”
    “Promise,” Terry affirmed. “Scout’s honor.”
    Neither of us could control the future. He knew that as well as I did. But just for that moment, I wanted to believe.
    “Scout’s honor,” I echoed softly. It came out sounding like a prayer.

23
    T hat weekend it was my turn to