The Prince Charming List (5 page)

Maybe with the Lord’s help I could have gotten past all that, but there was something else. And that something was The List. When I was a freshman in high school, the girls in my Wednesday night Bible study went on a weekend retreat—one of those camping experiences that put a dozen teenage girls in a dorm with one bathroom. The weekends are designed to promote friendship and bonding but instead they become a battle over who gets to plug her blow-dryer into the
one
outlet first.

The guest speaker talked about issues like modesty and respecting yourself and we politely yawned our way through her Friday night message. Most of us at the retreat were raised in Christian homes and we’d heard so many variations of her speech over the years we could have written our own.

On Saturday morning, though, she handed out paper and pens, sat on the arm of the couch, which I’d never seen a guest speaker do, and told us to write down all the qualities we’d like to see in our future husband.

A guest speaker that was
telling
us to think about guys? This was something new. She didn’t say a word while we giggled over descriptions like
great looking
and
drives a Porsche
. When we finished our assignment, she told us to read through the list again and turn it into a prayer request.

A prayer request?

There was an uncomfortable silence. I looked at my list and immediately crossed off two things and added three more. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the girl sitting across from me crinkle hers up into a ball and start over. There were no more giggles as we tackled our lists again with the intense concentration we’d use to take our SATs.

The really strange thing was that none of us shared our revised list after that. I didn’t. I tucked it in my Bible in the Song of Songs, which was an appropriate place not only because it’s all about love and romance but also because I figured no one who accidentally grabbed my Bible to look something up would look up something
there
. I’d blushed my way through that particular book a few years ago and can understand why pastors don’t quote verses from it with the same enthusiasm they do from 1 Corinthians 13.

After that, I started silently comparing any guys I’d meet to The List. It got a little discouraging. It wasn’t like I was in a hurry to get married or anything, but couldn’t I meet someone who hit at least one or two out of my Top Five? Was my list unrealistic? Even though I’d changed the
great looking
(yes, that was me) to
attractive,
maybe my expectations were still too high. But I’d comforted friends who’d lowered their standards to
warm and breathing
just so they wouldn’t sit alone on the weekends. If God was presently molding a man to meet my specifications, all I had to do was wait patiently until He was finished. And obviously it was taking a while. But I was still convinced that waiting for Mr. Right was better than settling for Mr. Right Now.

“Still thinking about Mrs. Kirkwood?” Bree’s voice floated over her shoulder, muffled by the soft thud of Buck’s hooves against the road.

Rose had taken advantage of my momentary split with reality. When I snapped back to attention, she’d also taken a little side trip and was busy nibbling at the grass along the ditch.

“No, just decompressing after a horrible, no-good, very bad day.” I tugged on the reins and Rose ignored me. In fact, I’m pretty sure I heard her laugh.

Bree twisted around in the saddle and saw my dilemma. “Give her a little kick with your heels. She’s testing you.”

And she gets an A plus.

I obeyed and exhaled in relief when Rose trotted to catch up to Buckshot. I didn’t want Bree to think I wasn’t a natural at this, even though my tailbone was wearing away like erosion on a riverbank every time it connected with the saddle.

There was a low growl behind me and Bree whirled Buck around. “Uh-oh.”

I caught the look of concern on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“I hear a motorcycle. Buck loves them. He runs to the fence whenever a Harley goes by, but Rose—”

“What about Rose?” I squeaked. The noise was getting louder and it sounded like someone was riding a chain saw.

“She might not like…” Bree lunged for the loop of rein a mere second before Rose decided she could outrun the horse-eating motorcycle. She must have figured she was close enough to home to make a break for it. So she did.

I just happened to be along for the ride.

R
ose came in first, with Buckshot a close second, but Rose and I were the ones that rearranged the Cabotts’ landscaping on the way in.

Rose downshifted from a full gallop to a sudden stop and if I hadn’t been clutching the saddle horn, I would have somersaulted over her head. Instead I poured off the saddle like a bucketful of sand as the motorcycle roared past at warp speed.

Bree jumped off Buck and ran over. “Are you all right?”

My lungs weren’t working. They pushed out short, hot gusts of air but refused to let any back in. I could feel my eyes begin to bulge.

“What a jerk!” Bree spoke the very words that were going through my mind. “I can’t believe he didn’t slow down when he saw the horses.”

Riley ran up with Dex—Dex?—right behind him. My brain couldn’t quite process why
he’d
be at Riley’s.

“Is she okay?” Riley looked at Bree and I was touched by his concern.

“I’m fine,” I managed to wheeze.

“Poor baby,” Riley murmured, dropping to one knee to examine Rose’s feet.

Bree rolled her eyes and I realized I wasn’t the one he was concerned about. She’d told me how attached he was to his horses so I didn’t take it personally.

“Who
was
that?” she asked, frowning at the veil of dust still dancing in the air.

“Nobody from around here, that’s for sure.” Now Riley looked at me. “Are you okay, Heather?”

The adrenaline had subsided and I could inhale again. “Uh-huh.”

“Shaken not stirred,” Dex said under his breath.

I looked at him suspiciously, but he didn’t crack a smile.

“Rose never bolts,” Riley fretted. “I don’t think you need to worry—”

“I’m supposed to get back on again, right?” I interrupted.

Riley and Bree exchanged approving looks, but I saw Dex frown.

“That’s if you fall off,” he pointed out.

Details, details. If I subtracted the heart-stopping terror of being held prisoner on the back of a runaway horse and focused instead on the exhilaration I’d felt when I finally got her to stop (okay, technically it was Mrs. Cabott’s gazing ball that stopped her), all in all it had been kind of fun.

And it had helped me forget about the twins. And Mrs. Kirkwood. And The List.

Bree looked at Dex and then at Riley.

“Oh, sorry. Bree, this is Dex. Dad hired him to help with the barn chores once a week,” Riley said. “Dex, this is Bree Penny. She lives down the road. And this is—”

“We met this morning.” And I have the faucet-less bathtub to prove it. “You’re working for the Cabotts, too?”

“I’m picking up a few jobs here and there.” Dex shrugged. “Whatever comes along and pays a few bucks.”

“Too?” Bree looked at me and I could tell she was wondering why this tidbit of info hadn’t come up during our conversation over supper.

“Alex hired him to do some remodeling at the apartment this summer.” I buried a sigh. “Some carpentry, painting.
Faucets
.”

Dex didn’t respond except to lift one shoulder and use it to nudge his glasses back to the bridge of his nose where they belonged.

“You never mentioned him…I mean
that,
” Bree said. There was a funny sparkle in her eyes that warned me I was going to get the third degree later. How was I supposed to describe Ian Dexter? Narcoleptic handyman by day, sword-wielding treasure hunter by night?

“You can go riding with us if you want to, Dex,” Riley offered. “We’ll probably start a bonfire when we get back and roast some hot dogs.”

I saw the color drain from Dex’s face. “No, thanks. I have to get back.”

“I could put you on Iris,” Riley said, oblivious to the fear in Dex’s eyes. “My four-year-old cousin rides her all the time.”

Riley may have been sensitive to Bree, but obviously he needed a bit of fine-tuning when it came to dealing with other guys. Or maybe it was a test to find out where Dex’s nerves were on the wimp-o-meter.

Come on, Dex,
I silently urged.
Here’s your next line: Iris? What is she, a Shetland pony? Don’t you have something with a few more cylinders?

He ad-libbed instead. “That’s okay. I’ll catch up with you some other time.”

Riley might have pushed the issue but Bree must have felt sorry for Dex, too, because she came to his rescue with a simple but effective maneuver. She stepped in front of Riley, pulled her rain-straight blond hair off her neck and then let it sift through her fingers, completely short-circuiting Riley’s thought process.

“It’s warm tonight, isn’t it?”

Riley nodded mutely. Oh, the power of the right haircut!

“We better get going. Daylight is aburnin’, as Grandpa Will always said,” Bree sang. She slipped her boot in the stirrup on Buckshot’s saddle and he stood like a perfect gentleman as she swung her leg over his wide back.

I wasn’t an experienced rider like Bree, so my attempt to get back in the saddle wasn’t nearly as graceful as hers. To complicate things, Rose took a step to the side whenever I put my foot in the stirrup. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Dex would put his fears aside and help me out.

Nope, chivalry was truly dead. He was already halfway to his car—an ancient Impala the color of French dressing. I shuddered. Maybe he was color-blind.

Riley was the one who noticed I was having trouble and, like a knight in shining spurs, he held Rose still while I scrambled awkwardly into the saddle. I was a little nervous but instead of taking the road again, Riley led the way to the trails that meandered through a huge stand of maples on the back of the Cabott property. When I realized the trails were too narrow and bumpy to accommodate anything with an engine, I relaxed a little.

None of us said a word as the horses nodded their way through the woods. The setting sun filtered through the branches and formed intricate stencils on the ground under our feet. I closed my eyes and trusted Rose enough to go on autopilot for a few seconds while I soaked up my surroundings, lulled by the gentle creak of leather and the warm smell of horses and summer.

I talked to God a lot throughout the day and I tried really hard to listen, too, although it wasn’t as easy. I wondered if He ever got impatient with my rambling commentaries.

Thanks, God, for getting me through my first day at the salon. And thank You for bringing me to Prichett. You knew I’d need a quiet place this summer to hear Your voice, didn’t you? Well, I’m listening. Go ahead!

From the day Mrs. Holmes, my first grade Sunday school teacher, rewarded my perfect attendance with a Bible (a cardinal-red hardcover with gold-tipped pages) to my high school graduation, when I’d received a plaque engraved with the verse from Jeremiah that promises God has a hope and a future for us, I accepted that God had a plan for me. And if He could create the entire universe in six days, eight weeks would give Him plenty of time to yank out the file marked Heather Lowell and let me in on it.

“Heather.” I heard Riley’s polite cough. “You probably should ride with your eyes
open
.”

“Shh,” Bree scolded. “She’s praying.”

I wasn’t surprised she knew what I was doing. Bree is a believer, too. She brought God into our conversations as naturally as she did horses. Which meant she thought about Him a lot. I’d figured out that people tend to
talk
about the things they
think
about, which was another reason I was wary of the guys in YAC. Their conversations were dominated by
compare and contrast.
Comparing their scores on the newest version of a video game (pick one) and contrasting their cell phone plans. The only time God seemed to get worked in was during prayer time in small groups on Sunday mornings.

When we got back from our ride, Riley dragged out some rickety lawn chairs and started a bonfire large enough to bring a 747 in safely. Bree and I ended up round and drowsy from eating all the hot dogs and marshmallows he supplied us with. Finally, we saddled up the horses again and headed back to the Penny farm. By now it was past ten and the sun had slipped away, officially off duty.

“This is more peaceful than what you’re used to in the city, right?” Bree asked as we started out. Now that the two horses were better acquainted, they walked shoulder to shoulder on the road.

“Peaceful?” She had to be kidding. The crickets and the frogs were belting out a chorus in the ditch at a volume level that rivaled my alarm clock. “Okay, maybe it’s not sirens and honking horns but—”

“Not again.” Bree groaned.

I heard it, too. And it was coming this way. The motorcycle. I felt Rose’s shoulders bunch and I knew my nerves weren’t up for another lap around the track. I slid off her back, hoping that if
both
our feet were on the ground she wouldn’t be tempted to go AWOL again.

A headlight barreled toward us, but just as I braced myself to become a human windsock, the bike slowed way down and stopped a few yards away.

“Hey.” The muffled Darth Vadar voice beneath the helmet was definitely male. I saw a tall shadow unfold. Now I wish I had stayed on Rose. I’d still be five foot six but at least I would have
felt
bigger. And I was about to get up close and personal with the guy responsible for re-creating the Kentucky Derby a few hours ago.

“Hi.”
Why aren’t there any streetlights around here?

God must have heard my pitiful question because suddenly the moon rolled out from behind a cloud and lit up the area like a spotlight. It gave me courage to know He was keeping a watchful eye on us.

“You almost scared the horses to death,” I said bravely, buying some time now so I could give the police a full description later. I started at the storm trooper helmet and memorized my way down the black leather jacket to the slashed blue jeans and heavy boots.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Just before he reached me, he yanked off the helmet, releasing a ponytail that swung against his shoulder. But he didn’t look threatening anymore. Maybe it’s because he looked…well, drop-dead gorgeous. I heard Bree suck in a breath.

He smiled at us and shrugged helplessly. “I think I’m lost.”

“Who are you looking for?”

He hesitated for a second. “A cow named Junebug?”

When Marissa Maribeau stumbled into the salon the next day, I almost performed a pirouette. Bernice had told me she’d been trying to coax Marissa into her chair for years but apparently she was a hairstylist’s ultimate challenge—a self-trimmer. She had thick, waist-length hair, but the ends reminded me of frayed wire and the humidity was definitely not her friend. She must have come right from her pottery studio because she was wearing baggy khaki pants and a white T-shirt smeared with dried clay.

It didn’t matter that she hadn’t made an appointment. Bernice had warned me about the customers she referred to as Wild Cards. The ones who impulsively decided to get their hair colored, cut or styled and they wanted it done
now
.

I snapped a fresh cape open and held it up. Marissa skidded to a stop in front of me. I shook the cape and she took a wary step backward.

“My four-thirty canceled, so you can be my last customer of the day.” I gave the chair a cheerful, game show hostess spin.

“I’m not here…” Marissa glanced in the mirror and her eyes widened. She reached up and pressed on her hair. Which promptly sprang back into place like a chocolate cake just out of the oven.

She groped for the arm of the chair and sat down. Hard.

Bernice wasn’t going to believe this! The elusive Marissa Maribeau was now a Cut and Curl customer.

“You’ve got beautiful hair,” I told her. “There’s just way too much of it. Especially when you’re fine boned. You want people to see your face, not your hair.”

“I don’t like to fuss.”

“You’d have to fuss a lot less if it’s shorter.”

“How much shorter?”

Using my fingers as scissors, I made a pretend cut at her shoulder and ignored her low moan. “It’ll still be long enough for you to put in a ponytail or tie in a scarf, but this will get rid of the split ends.”
All ten inches of them.

“I guess it would be all right.”

That was good enough for me. I hustled her over to the shampoo sink and grabbed a bottle of industrial-strength conditioner.

She blinked up at me. Natural brunettes like Marissa usually had brown eyes, but hers were a striking bluish-gray. Tiny pleats marked the corners, indicating she wasn’t as young as I thought she was when I’d met her at the wedding. Her skin was smooth and well moisturized, but some oil-free powder wouldn’t be a bad idea for her T-zone…

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“I know that look and you can forget about it.”

“There was no look.” I honestly had no idea what she was talking about.

“I’m an artist, remember? I throw a pot and I can see exactly what I need to do to finish it. What kind of glaze. Whether to etch it with leaves or flowers or just leave it alone.” Marissa settled back comfortably in the chair. “I suppose it’s the same for you when you’ve got someone’s face in front of you.”