Husband For Hire. Susan Wiggs
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His idea of a great time was a round of golf at Pebble Beach.
“Twyla McCabe,” she said, falling in step with him. “And don’t call me ma’am. I’m too young to be a ma’am.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“I call you ma’am when I’m in trouble,” Brian pointed out.
“Does that mean I’m not in trouble?” Rob asked.
“Guess not.”
“Hot dog.”
Brian laughed, clearly intrigued. “Not yet, anyway.”
“I’ll mind my manners.” He was taller than he’d appeared in the brochure, with the long, lanky build of a college basketball player. And Lord, so obscenely good-looking she had to force herself not to stare. The haircut alone would run about a hundred dollars in the city. His cologne was probably something she couldn’t pronounce or afford. It was like being in the presence of an alien life-form.
“Twyla,” he said, trying out her name. “I’ve never met anyone called Twyla before.”
“My granddad named her,” Brian explained helpfully. Though he’d never known his grandfather, Gwen told him family stories each night as she stitched her quilts in her little sitting room. The stories always depicted a dreamer—and they always ended happily. Brian was too young for the truth.
Robert Carter, M.D., had a dazzling smile on his face as he looked down at her. “You don’t say.”
“I just said so!” Brian objected.
“A figure of speech.” Carter’s laugh was smooth, gentle, infectious.
Yet Twyla didn’t feel like laughing. He made her conscious that her truck’s air conditioner hadn’t worked in three years, that her cotton sundress was plastered to her back by sweat, and that she hadn’t bothered with perfume after her shower today.
Intimidating, that’s what he was. And too…everything. Too handsome, too smoothly friendly, too glib, too perfectly put-together, too male.
A pavilion had been set up for the barbecue. The smoky smells of sizzling ribs, chicken and beef filled the air. A PA system blared a sentimental country-and-western song. The young residents of Lost Springs raced around, playing chase with the visiting children.
“Hey, there’s Sammy,” Brian exclaimed, pointing at a dark-haired kid climbing a tree in the playground. “Can I go, Mom? Can I?”
She nodded. “I’ll come find you when it’s time for the picnic supper.”
“See ya,” Carter said as Brian handed him the raffle box and sped away.
“We can set these down here,” Twyla said, indicating the spreading shade tree by the rodeo arena. Another volunteer had strung up the hospital guild banner: Converse County Hospital—35 Years Of Sharing And Caring.
“You work at a hospital?” Carter asked her, laying the table down and prying up each metal leg.
“Just as a volunteer once a week.” She considered offering him an opening to tell her what a big, important city doctor he was, but decided against it. He was too perfect as it was. He certainly didn’t need any prompting from her. “I do hair for a living,” she said, almost defiantly.
He set the table on its legs and jimmied it back and forth until it stopped wobbling. Then he looked up at her, hands braced on the table, the nodding boughs of the tree framing his broad shoulders. “Twyla’s Tweezers,” he said softly. “Now I remember where I’ve seen that name before.”
“It’s the Tease ’n’ Tweeze,” she corrected him.
“Why the Tease ’n’ Tweeze?”
“Because that’s pretty much what we do.”
“And people pay you for this?”
“That’s right.” A flush stung her cheeks. Just for a moment, she wished she could say, “I sculpt male nudes for a living,” or “I’m a district attorney,” but the truth was she was a hairdresser and Brian’s mom, and she could do a lot worse than that.
He made no comment, but she thought perhaps his smile got a little hard around the edges. Probably so. Men generally didn’t find much in common with hairdressers.
“Thanks for your help,” she said, unwrapping the quilt.
“No problem.” With a casual wave of his hand, Robert Carter, M.D., walked toward the pavilion, putting on a pair of aviator shades.
She taped the raffle ticket sign to the edge of the table. Then she unfolded the quilt and took out some clothes-pins, stepping back and eyeing one of the tree branches.
She should have asked him to help her hang the quilt. His height would have been a convenience, but now she’d have to reach the branch without him. Standing on tiptoe on the metal raffle box, she pegged a corner of the quilt around the branch.
The second corner was more of a challenge. She reached out, stretching, and too late felt the metal box tip. “Whoa,” she said, grabbing the tree limb as the box tumbled away. Dangling absurdly from the branch, she wished she hadn’t worn her high-heeled sandals today. Dropping even the short distance to the ground would probably sprain her ankle. Just what she needed—a fat doctor’s bill and time away from work.
Grumbling under her breath, she hoped no one could see her predicament. She had her back to the crowd, so she couldn’t tell. She was about to let go of the branch, bracing herself in case her ankle snapped like kindling, when a pair of hands grasped her from behind and lifted her down.
“She teases, she tweezes, she swings through trees with the greatest of ease,” said Robert Carter, M.D., affecting a newsreader’s voice.
“Very funny.” Twyla pulled her dress back into place.
“Much as I liked the view,” he said, “I wasn’t too sure about watching you fall out of a tree.”
Twyla leaned her forehead against the rough tree trunk. “This is pretty much the most humiliating thing that’s happened to me since Mrs. Spinelli’s hair turned out lime green.”
“Yeah?” That easy laugh again. He picked up a clothespin and pegged the quilt in place. “I guess that must’ve been pretty embarrassing.”
“You have no idea.” She glanced ruefully at the toppled metal box. “Actually, now you probably do.”
He handed her a sweating plastic cup of iced lemonade from the table. “I thought you might be thirsty, so I went and got this.”
“Bless you.” She took a gulp and sent him a grateful smile. “This is awfully good of you.”
“You say that with some surprise.”
“Do I?”
“Uh-huh. Does it surprise you when a strange man does something nice?”
She laughed. “It surprises me when any man does something nice.”
He took off his sunglasses. “I hope you’re kidding.”
“Beauty parlor humor,” she confessed with a wry smile, and finished her lemonade.
Carter studied the quilt for a minute. “So this is what you’re selling?”
“Raffle tickets. This is what the winner gets.” She fingered the edge of it. “The ladies who make these do wonderful work.” She truly loved quilts. Each one was a small, homey miracle in its own unique way. “I think it’s amazing how old, tattered pieces of hand-me-down fabric can be stitched together into something so beautiful.” She ran her hand over a square. “This could have been some old man’s work shirt. This flowered one looks like a grandmother’s apron, probably full of holes or burn marks from the oven. Each one on its own was a rag, not worth keeping. But when you