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“Can’t wait,” Hamish replies, opening his eyes to wink at me.
I smile. I have a feeling he’d enjoy anything if he got to do it with Margaret.
She and Hamish have been together for a while, and they’re as cute a couple as anything. Hamish is a burly gentleman who loves his Harley only a smidge less than he loves Margaret, and he’s been my client for years.
“How’s the new dating app going, honey?” Margaret asks.
I glance over my shoulder and scowl at her. She laughs.
“These men give you any trouble?” Hamish’s voice is deep and, even though he’s been in the States for decades, still carries a hint of a Scottish burl. “The internet is dangerous, Mia. You send these guys to me before you meet any of them. Come to the Grove for your dates, and I’ll make sure you’re all right.”
The Cedar Grove is Hamish’s third love: his bar.
I grin. “I haven’t gotten that far, Hamish. I’m not sure I’ll be dating anyone.”
“No luck?” Margaret asks, flipping through one of the old magazines I keep for customers. She’s wearing a pale blue pantsuit with a silk top, her neck adorned with pearls. Her hair is elegantly styled in a French twist, and I hope to one day look one-tenth as classy as she does when she rolls out of bed in the morning.
“Dating as a forty-year-old single mother is nothing short of bleak,” I admit. I could tell them about the dozen or so men I’ve talked to on the Blind Date app. Most of them moved way,waytoo fast from a bland “Hey” to explicit sex talk.
Maybe I’m old fashioned, but if I don’t even know a man’s name, let alone what he looks like, I don’t exactly want to talk about explicit acts with them on some new dating app.
“I put this emoji at the bottom of my profile,” I admit. “And I wrote to send me a message that contained the emoji if they’d read that far down. Not a single person has used the emoji. I thought the whole premise of this type of app was to get to know each other without being shallow, but it seems like these guys aren’t even taking the time to read my profile to the end.”
And once I push back on the disgusting sex talk and tell them I’m a single mother, I get ghosted. Fine by me, but it doesn’t give me much hope of finding my One True Love, if such a thing even exists.
“I think I’ll just delete the profile. Maybe I missed my chance at love,” I say, almost to myself.
“Oh, please,” Hamish responds, his eyes still closed as I take the hot towel off his face and check my work. “You’re beautiful and clever, Mia. You must have men lining up to date you.”
Ha. Right. I grab some tweezers and pluck a few stray eyebrow hairs while he winces and screeches like I’m torturing him on purpose. Which I’m not, I swear.
“You big baby,” Margaret chides affectionately, smiling at her lover.
Hamish scowls at her, but there’s a softness in his face that wasn’t there before he met her. The two of them met unexpectedly when Margaret went to The Cedar Grove with the women from Four Cups. It gives me a bit of hope to see the two of them so in love, a reminder that it’s never too late.
“I’ll just focus on the business for now,” I say. “With the rent increase coming in next week, I need to make sure I can take care of myself and my daughter. I don’t have time to waste on dates.”
As if my talking about the rent increase and my money struggles wished him into existence, the barbershop door opens and Desmond Thomas strides in like he owns the place.
Which, technically, I suppose he does. But still.
Scowling, I sweep the gown off Hamish’s shoulders and give him a bright smile. I can feel Desmond’s eyes on me like a heavy weight, which I ignore. “All done!” I smile at the old man and squeeze his shoulder. “Happy?”
Hamish inspects his beard, which is tidied up and trimmed, then runs his fingers through his hair. Finally, the older man smiles at me. “Wonderful job as usual. Thank you, Mia.” He stands, plants a kiss on my cheek, then pays—and gives me a fifty percent tip.
Margaret winks at me, then walks outside and hops on the back of her man’s Harley.
Finally, when they’ve driven off, I turn to the hulking shadow looming by the door. “Desmond,” I say, voice frigid.
“Ms. Abbott.” He nods, dark eyes meeting mine.
“May I help you with something? Did you come by to shake me down for more money? Perhaps you’re here to break my legs?”
His lids drop to half mast, and a ghost of a smile tugs briefly at his lips. “The leg breaking happens when you miss a payment after the new lease comes into effect,” he informs me. “You still have a couple of days.”
I stiffen, my temper clawing to come out. This man has no compassion. No empathy. He doesn’t care that he just raised my rent by fifty percent, and according to the Legal Aid office I consulted, is completely entitled to do so, since my previous lease never explicitly mentioned the two-bedroom apartment. They told me that in fact, he was being generous.
Generous!
