Page 52 of Heaven, Texas (Chicago Stars 2)

The woman looked up from the mound of coal black hair she was teasing and let out a throaty gargle. “Bobby Tom, you good-looking sonovabitch, it’s about time you came by to see me.”

He planted a kiss on a cheek covered with a garish rouge circle. She slapped his butt with her free hand. “You still got the best one in the state.”

“Coming from a connoisseur like yourself, I consider that a compliment of the highest order.” He smiled at the other operator and her customer, then greeted the two women peeking out from under the helmets of their hair dryers. “Velma. Mrs. Carison. How you ladies doin’ today?”

They giggled and tittered. Bobby Tom looped his arm around Gracie’ s shoulders and drew her forward. “Everybody, this is Gracie Snow.”

Shirley regarded her with open curiosity. “We’ve heard all about you. So you’re the future Mrs. Bobby Tom.”

He took a hasty step forward. “Gracie’s sort of a feminist, Shirley, and she doesn’t like it when people call her that. To be honest, we might be dealing with a hyphen situation here.”

“For real?”

Bobby Tom shrugged, palms extended, the last sane man in a crazy world.

Shirley turned on Gracie, and her painted eyebrows arched into her forehead. “Don’t do it, honey. Gracie Snow-Denton sounds just plain peculiar. Like you should live in a castle in England somewhere.”

“Or show up on a weather map,” Bobby Tom offered. Gracie opened her mouth to explain that she had no intention of hyphenating her last name, but then snapped it shut as she saw the trap he’d laid for her. Silvery devil-lights danced in his eyes, and she firmly repressed a smile. Was she the only person on earth who saw through him?

Shirley resumed her work on the head of hair in front of her while she studied Gracie in the mirror at the same time. “I heard you wouldn’t let her fix herself up, Bobby Tom, but I never figured you’d let it get this far. Whatcha want me to do with her?”

“I’m going to leave it in your hands. Gracie’s pretty much a wildcat, though, so don’t get too conservative.”

Gracie was appalled. Bobby Tom had just told a beautician with a blond beehive and Ringling Brothers makeup not to be too conservative when she worked on her hair! She started to offer a sharp rebuttal, but he distracted her with a quick peck at the lips.

“I’ve got some errands to run, sweetheart. Mom’s going to pick you up and take you clothes shopping so you can get a head start on that trousseau you’re so set on. Now that I’m lettin’ you get gorgeous again, don’t you change your mind about marryin’ me.”

All the women burst into laughter at the absurdity of the idea that any woman would back away from the opportunity to marry Bobby Tom Denton. He tipped his hat at them and headed out the door. Despite her annoyance, she wondered if she was the only one who felt as if the sunlight had gone with him.

Six pairs of curious eyes locked in on her. She smiled weakly. “I’m not really a—uh—wildcat.” She cleared her throat. “He sometime exaggerates and . . .”

“Take a seat, Gracie. I’ll be with you in a minute. There’s a new People magazine you can look at.”

Thoroughly intimidated by this person who held the future of her hair in her hands, Gracie dropped into a chair and grabbed the magazine. One of the women under the dryers peered at her through the clear plastic frames of her eyeglasses, and Gracie braced herself for the inevitable.

“How did you and Bobby Tom meet?”

“How long have you known each other?”

“When did you pass the quiz?”

The interrogation was swift and relentless, and it didn’t stop when Shirley call

ed her over to her chair and began work. Since Gracie didn’t believe in telling lies, she had to concentrate so hard on circumnavigating the truth without actually uttering a falsehood that she couldn’t supervise the damage being inflicted on her hair. Not that she could have seen it, anyway, since Shirley kept the chair turned away from the mirror.

“You’ve got a good perm here, Gracie, but you have an awful lot of hair. You need some layers. I like layers.” Shirley’s scissors clicked away and wet, coppery hair flew everywhere.

Gracie dodged a question about the regularity of her menstrual cycle while she worried about what was happening to her hair. If Shirley cut it too short, she’d never be able to get it into her french twist, which, even if it hadn’t been exactly flattering, was at least neat and familiar.

A heavy lock, nearly three inches long, fell into her lap, and her anxiety escalated. “Shirley, I—”

“Janine’s gonna do your makeup.” Shirley nodded her head toward the other operator. “She just started to sell Mary Kay this week, and she’s looking for customers.

Bobby Tom said he wanted to buy you a fresh supply of cosmetics to replace all the stuff you lost in that South American earthquake when you were guarding the vice president.”

Gracie nearly choked, and then fought against laughter. He was maddening, but entertaining.

Shirley switched on the hair dryer and spun the chair to the mirror. Gracie gave a gasp of dismay. She looked like a wet rat.

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