Between Sisters - Kristin Hannah [120]
Meghann, perhaps even more so than the Roloffs' forgiveness, had brought Joe back to life. He couldn't turn away from her now.
It was because of her that he dared—at last—to go to town. On his lunch break, he strode down Main Street, head down, face partially obscured by a baseball cap. He walked past the two old men sitting outside the Loose Screw Hardware Shop, past a woman dragging two small children out of the ice-cream store. He was aware of people pointing at him and whispering. He kept moving.
Finally, he ducked into the old barber shop and climbed up into the empty chair. “I could use a haircut,” he said, not making eye contact with Frank Hill, who'd first cut Joe's hair for the fourth-grade class photo.
“You sure could.” Frank finished sweeping the floor, then grabbed a comb and some scissors. After pinning a bib in place, he started combing Joe's hair. “Head up.”
Joe slowly lifted his head. Across the room a mirror held his reflection. He saw the imprint of the last few years. Sadness and guilt had left their mark in the lines around his eyes and the silver in his hair. He sat still for the next thirty minutes, his stomach clenched, his hands fisted, waiting for Frank to recognize him.
When it was over and he'd paid Frank for the haircut, he headed for the door. He'd just opened it when Frank said, “You come on back and see me anytime, Joe. You still have friends in this town.”
That welcome gave Joe the courage to walk down to Swain's Mercantile, where he bought new clothes. Several old acquaintances smiled at him.
He made it back to the garage by 1:00 and worked for the rest of the day.
“That's about the tenth time you've looked at that clock in the past half an hour,” Smitty said at 4:30. He was at the workbench, putting together a skateboard for his grandson's birthday.
“I've . . . uh . . . got someplace to be,” Joe said.
Smitty reached for a wrench. “No kidding.”
Joe slammed the truck's hood down. “I thought maybe I'd leave a couple of minutes early.”
“Wouldn't hurt my feelings none.”
“Thanks.” Joe looked down at his hands; they were black with grease. He couldn't see touching Meghann with these hands, though the grease under his fingernails certainly hadn't bothered her in the past. It was one of the things he liked about her. The women he'd known in his previous life looked down on men like the one he'd become.
“Whatcha got going on—if you don't mind me asking,” Smitty asked, moving toward him.
“A friend is coming over for dinner.”
“This friend drive a Porsche?”
“Yeah.”
Smitty smiled. “Maybe you want to borrow the barbecue. Cut a few flowers from Helga's garden?”
“I didn't know how to ask.”
“Hell, Joe, you just do. Open your mouth and say please. That's part of being neighbors and coworkers.”
“Thank you.”
“Helga made a cheesecake last night. I'll bet she has a few extra pieces.”
“My friend is bringing dessert.”
“Ah. Sort of a potluck, huh? That isn't how we did it in my day. 'Course in my day, us men never cooked a thing.” He winked. “Not on the stove, anyway. Have a nice night, Joe.” Humming a jaunty tune, he headed back to the workbench.
Joe shoved the oily rag in his back pocket and left the shop. On his way to his cabin, he stopped by Smitty's house, talked to Helga for a few minutes, and left carrying a small hibachi. He set up the barbecue on the front porch, filling the black hole with briquettes that he'd bought that morning at Swain's.
Inside the house, he looked around, making a mental list of things to be done.
Oil, wrap, and stab the potatoes.
Shuck the corn.
Season the steaks.
Arrange the flowers in the water pitcher.
Set the table.
He looked at the clock.
She'd be there in ninety minutes.
He showered and shaved, then dressed in his new clothes and headed for the kitchen.
For the next hour, he moved from one chore to the next, until the potatoes were