Marrying The Single Dad. Melinda Curtis

Brit swallowed her pride and lifted her voice. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for the front grille.”

      His jaw worked. He half glanced at the boy and then back to her. “Do you have the cash on you?”

      Knowing the answer, Reggie headed toward Brit’s small beat-up gray truck.

      Brit barely had fifty dollars in her bank account, which was one reason she’d moved to Harmony Valley in the first place. Creating upcycle art wasn’t cheap. Nor was living in San Francisco. “Well...”

      “Then it’s not for sale.” Joe closed the distance between them and slammed the hood. His gaze drifted to the BMW’s interior and the frost in his icy eyes thawed a smidge. He may have high hopes for the cars in this field, but he’d learn soon enough that building castles in the clouds would be easier than fixing anything here for resale.

      Brit loaded her tools into her toolbox and followed Reggie.

      She’d wait a week, let reality set in and make Joe a second offer.

      Maybe then he’d take twenty-five.

      * * *

      “GRANDPA PHIL IS a simple man. Cold cuts and white bread. Bills paid by check and sent via the post office.” Reggie was in glass-half-empty mode now. “He’s going to fire you for this.”

      Her sister didn’t have to sound so gleeful.

      “Technically, he can’t fire me if I’m renting a station from him. But if he does—” Brit unlocked the door to her grandfather’s barbershop and propped it open “—you can say I told you so.”

      “Hurry up, then. I’d rather be in and out before he gets here.” Reggie picked up the back of the rust-speckled antique bicycle and the metal mermaid rider Brit had welded to its frame. “What did you think of Joe?”

      Brit hefted the heavy end of her sculpture and backed into the shop. “I think he’ll give me that grille for five dollars by Memorial Day.” In her dreams, maybe. But she always dreamed big. At least she had until Dad died.

      “I meant...” Reggie waddled in with her end. The rear wheel spun between Reggie’s legs and the green aluminum mermaid tail swam over her shoulder. “What did you think of tall, dark and frowning?”

      “He could use a haircut.” Just a trim. A crisp cut would imply he’d been tamed. Who tamed a raging storm? “Set it down here.” When the bike rims rested on the ground, Brit soaked in the familiar ambience of the place. It may only be a two-person barbershop, but it had the stations and the shampoo sink of a salon, much like the places Mom had once worked in.

      Brit eyed the large framed mirror hanging over the chairs in the waiting area. A beer brand was stenciled in block letters in the middle of the glass, rendering it useless in a beauty shop. Looking at it made her feel uninspired to do hair or art. “I can’t work with that hanging behind me all day.”

      “Don’t change the subject. You thought Joe was cute, too.” Reggie smoothed her hair using her limited reflection in the mirror. “Admit it.”

      “That man is not cute.” Snowflakes were cute. Kittens were cute. Snow tigers were lethal. “Focus, Reggie. Mirror down. Mermaid bicycle up.” Brit tried not to look in the mirror. She really did, but it was impossible not to. Not to look, not to compare.

      Two women. Sisters. Anyone could see they were cut from the same cloth. Long, dark brown hair. Mahogany eyes. Wide smiles beneath pert noses—granted, Brit’s wasn’t as pert and she could mention more differences than similarities. For years, Brit hadn’t realized she was any different from Reggie. Not when they were five and enrolled in Miss Deborah’s School of Dance, where Reggie was placed front row, center stage, and Brit was relegated to the back row with the other gigglers. Not when they were eight and they’d sung in the school’s holiday choir, where Reggie sang front and center, while Brit was assigned to the end of the middle riser next to Olivia Paige, who blew the biggest gum bubbles Brit had ever seen.

      No. It wasn’t until they were twelve that Brit’s averageness relative to Reggie’s beauty sank in. That year, they’d been allowed to wear make-up when they’d gone to the sixth-grade Promotion Dance. Reggie had put on war paint like a professional model, while Brit had declined. Reggie had danced to every song, each one with a different boy. And Brit? She’d sat on a bench against the wall with Margaret Hilden, whose leg was in a cast. Brit had held back her tears until they’d returned home. And then she’d cried on Mom’s shoulder, on Dad’s shoulder, even on Reggie’s shoulder.

      Later, she’d fought the hiccups while Mom tucked her in bed. She’d kissed Brit’s forehead and whispered, “You have an inner beauty, honey. You’ll always look better and be more popular if you wear makeup and cute clothes.”

      Even at twelve Brit had understood what her mother was telling her: you’re the ugly duckling who’ll never be a swan.

      Mom loved her, but Mom was in the beauty business, which was all about appearances.

      Brit and Reggie had shared the same womb. The same bedroom. The same beat-up pickup their father used to drive. But they weren’t identical. Reggie had won more points in the gene pool. Reggie looked like she hadn’t ingested a carb in years, while Brit looked like she and carbs were on a first-name basis. And from the day of the Promotion Dance, they’d begun to go their separate ways. Reggie ascended to the throne of mama’s girl, while Brit became Dad’s sidekick. He was a metalworker and liked to tinker on cars.

      The summer after the Promotion Dance, the neighbors had met to discuss turning their street into Christmas Tree Lane with lots of lights and decorations. Mom proclaimed they had to do it, but since she was always busy working or being a dance mom, and Dad hated yard duty—he’d taken out their front garden years ago and replaced it with rock and cacti—he had decided to create a metal forest for Santa.

      He brought home his welding equipment, along with scraps from the metal fabrication company where he worked. Brit watched him lay out sheets of metal on the garage floor like mismatched puzzle pieces. But when he welded them together, they created the most amazing seven-foot-tall trees. At her suggestion, they took old car parts and a muffler he hadn’t yet hauled to the salvage yard and welded them into woodland animals—birds, bunnies, reindeer. Having learned nail art from Mom, Brit painted each creation, adding to the impression of whimsy and movement. They’d highlighted everything with lights. The lawn was unique and beautiful. Brit was hooked.

      She quit Miss Deborah’s dance studio, much to Reggie and their mother’s dismay. She quit spending so much time on what she wore, although she still didn’t go anywhere without makeup. She quit worrying so much about things that she couldn’t control, like whether or not a boy liked her.

      Despite this split, the twins remained close. But they went to different colleges—Reggie to study business, Brit to study art. In a reversal of Mom’s expectations, Reggie had supported herself by working in a hotel, while Brit had supported herself by working in a beauty salon. Did Brit miss sparkly costumes, fancy hair and dance recitals? Sometimes. Did she miss propping up the wall at all those school dances she refused to go to? Not at all.

      What she did miss was her dad. He’d died last year of heart disease after a series of heart attacks and surgeries that robbed him of his strength and spirit. It was a painful and scary end to a man she’d once thought would live forever. And his absence left a chasm between Brit’s artistic dreams and her ability to create art. In a word, she was blocked. She hoped this move was a new beginning.

      “She’s beautiful, Brit.” Reggie touched a spun, floating aluminum tress of red mermaid hair and then met Brit’s gaze in the beer mirror, a gentle smile on her face. “And so are you.”

      Brit’s throat crowded with love for her sister.

      “And don’t give me any of that ugly-duckling crap. Joe thought you were beautiful, too.” Reggie’s smile turned wicked. “He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

      Heat rushed to Brit’s cheeks. “From his perspective,