She dredged up a smile. “I’ll try.” But just how far did her faith extend? Will Swain still want to sit with you when work no longer requires it of him? How fine was the line between faith and delusion?
“It’s gonna work out.” She picked up the comb and resumed smoothing Eden’s hair. Frowning slightly, she said, “I didn’t think about it before, but I guess it’s lonely for you right now, not being able to really get to know people or let them get to know the real you.”
Bingo, thought Eden. You’re lonely. Swain’s lonely. You’re living in a bubble. Things will feel different once it pops.
You hope.
“A little,” she conceded. “It’s not like I’m isolated or anything, but…no offense to ladies of leisure…I don’t usually spend my days sitting around the house, or my evenings in a bar participating in conversations targeted to a couple guys with whom I have very little in common. And now I sound like I’m complaining about the job.” Complaining to your boss’s wife about your job. “Which I’m not. Sorry.”
Ginny shrugged off the apology. “Please. I built this salon into a legit business with my bare hands, and I love my work, but Shaun still gets an earful some evenings. The chemicals, the hours on my feet, the client who won’t take my advice on color or cut but then cries in my chair when she’s unhappy with the result, so I have to spend yet another hour on my feet fixing the disaster she demanded at no additional charge. Every job has downsides.” She winked at Eden. “And everybody needs to vent about them sometimes. So”—Ginny lifted her hair and let it fall as it would—“your layers look great, and the highlights are holding up well, if I do say so myself. What are we going to do today?”
“I don’t know,” Eden admitted. “I’m supposed to circulate around town and throw money at myself like some kind of Real Housewives wannabe so Swain sounds credible whenever he whines to Kenny and Dobie about my spending. I didn’t know where to start, except here.”
“You’ve come to the right place. We’ll make you look like a million bucks—at no charge, as I consider this my civic duty. How about a blowout and a mani-pedi? Then go across the street to Sassy Shoes and pick yourself up a pair of sandals to show off the pedi. You’ll be all set to hit ladies’ night at Rawley’s this evening and let that gorgeous partner of yours drop more of his hard-earned money on you.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She followed Ginny to the wash station at the back of the salon and happily submitted to a shampoo complete with scalp massage. Tension drained from her body. The woman had talent.
“Speaking of your gorgeous partner, how’s that working out?”
“Uh…”
“Shaun mentioned Swain wouldn’t have been your first choice.”
The day in the commander’s office seemed like eons ago. She winced at the memory. “I think that went double for him, but…it’s fine now.” A strong urge to confide more overtook her. Not only was Ginny Buchanan already under the covers as far as the op went, she was astute, open, and kind. And also, at the moment, the closest thing Eden had to a real girlfriend. Still, the Bucha
nan part of her name shouldn’t be ignored.
“Fine?” Ginny began rinsing. “Lou Ann was in my chair earlier today, and she mentioned you and Swain just about burned Rawley’s down the other night, with all the heat going on between the two of you.”
Eyes closed, Eden prayed Ginny attributed any red in her face to the hot water. “That was for show.”
“Ah.” Ginny turned off the tap, squeezed water from Eden’s hair, and wrapped a towel around her head. “I hope it’s no hardship putting on a show like that with him. He is easy on the eyes, but if he’s not respectful when it’s just the two of you—”
“Oh, no.” She stood and followed Ginny back to the chair, anxious to reassure the woman. “He’s completely trustworthy.” He would argue the opposite, but he was when it came to this. “He hasn’t crossed any lines.” None after that first night. None she hadn’t willingly redrawn, at any rate. Unsure of how to respond honestly but appropriately, she shut her mouth and sat.
“You know, this chair is kind of like a confessional.” Ginny removed the towel, picked up the comb, and began working it through Eden’s hair. “Sometimes a girl just needs to unload. I know how to keep those matters to myself. Even when I go home to Shaun and vent about my day, what’s said in the confessional stays in the confessional. So, speak the truth, Officer Brixton. Are you tapping that fine young sheriff you’re shacked with?”
Eden laughed. “Mayor Buchanan, I am tapping him like a keg.”
Ginny held out a fist, and Eden bumped it. “Atta girl. How does he like your hair? Up or down? Or is he the kind that likes it up, but loose, so he can”—she mimed hands running through her flame-colored locks—“take it down himself?”
“That’s a very interesting question. To be honest, I don’t really know.” But now she wanted to.
Ginny’s smile would put the Mona Lisa to shame. “What’s say we find out?”
Sixty minutes later, Eden left the salon with red toenails that popped nicely against her wooden-heeled black-and-white floral slides, pearly pink fingernails, and a casual updo that left curls framing her face and a controlled cascade from a bundle at the back of her head. Hell, even she couldn’t believe how sexy it looked. She definitely couldn’t wait to see Swain’s reaction. She walked to the corner, prepared to cross the street to the shoe store Ginny had recommended, and took another peek at herself in the corner shop window.
A month ago, she wouldn’t have recognized the woman with the tousled hair, curve-hugging white halter top, and thigh-skimming, black-cuffed shorts. Overtly sexy just wasn’t the way she presented herself. Now she did it without batting an eyelash. What did that make her? Well, a good cop, in this case. And the fact that she actually enjoyed it a little? That made her human, she supposed. Exercising one’s power to attract attention and admiration on a purely physical level was still an exercise of power. She never wanted to make it her primary power, but she no longer felt like it diminished any attention or admiration she earned through hard work, intelligence, or persistence.
As she stared at her reflection in the window, movement behind her caught her eye—across the street, where two women on the sidewalk talked and two little girls twirled around an old-fashioned wrought iron streetlamp, a toddler stepped off the curb, into the street.
Concerned, Eden whirled to see the little towhead take several unsteady steps into the crosswalk, chasing a blue squishy ball that had gotten away from her. Air brakes honked, drawing her eyes up the street. A Budweiser truck tried to drop from thirty-five miles per hour to zero in less than one hundred feet.
She didn’t call out—that would endanger more people. She kicked off her sandals and bolted. Come on, Eden. You can run a hundred meters in fourteen seconds. That’s what you’ve got.
The little one was running, too—unaware but running toward her. And the truck driver was standing on the pedal so hard the tires locked and screeched. Somebody screamed. The smell of burning rubber singed her nostrils. A soft grunt burst from her lungs as she caught the toddler, pivoted, and flung her arm out in a wholly instinctive and completely useless attempt to hold back the slowing truck.