Page 46 of Noble Neighbor
He placed a finger across her mouth. “My turn will come, sweetheart. I can wait.”
Sunny smoothed a hand across his chest, patting over the medallion resting against his heart. He’d told her about it just this morning when she noticed it, having pulled free of his running vest. She’d slid her hand beneath it, lifting the silver disk, frowning at the medallion in the shape of a shield.
Oliver had exhaled a shallow breath. “St. Michael. Saint of protection.”
She’d lifted her eyes to meet his. “A gift from Christie?” she’d asked.
“Yeah. So I’d be safe on the job,” he’d replied.
And now, Sunny’s heart hurt anew for the noble manbefore her. He’d loved his wife deeply. Losing her, especiallyin such a brutal manner, was tragic.
Just another reason they had no future.
She had to put a stop to this madness.
13
Peeling back a layer
Sunny placed the box of brown hair color on the bathroom counter beside the scissors and timer and set abouther monthly task — trim and dye. She clipped the towel around her shoulders, slipped the gloves on, and resolutely mixed the contents.
Shaking the formula, Sunny caught her reflection in the mirror and exhaled sharply.
Over the last years, she never spent a lot of time looking at herself in the mirror and hardly gave her image thought.
But sometimes, like now, she still got a start seeing the almost stranger staring back at her.
She ran her fingers through her hair and tugged hard on the curls brushing her shoulder. Not quite corkscrew tight, but more than a gentle wave. Growing up, she’d disparaged them, the flat iron her best friend.
“Who are you?” she whispered into the empty bathroom and gave her body a critical once over.
Tall. Still the same. Not much one could do about that.
Body. An extra fifty, maybe sixty pounds hung on her frame. But that was a guess as she no longer owned a scale.
Hair. Short and curly. And brown. The dullest, most ordinary brown.
Face. Not even her own mother would recognize her.
With a sob, Sunny placed the plastic bottle down and turned from the mirror. She plodded to the window and pushed it open, inhaling the fresh country air. Before her lay her land. Her sanctuary. Insects buzzed, birds warbled, the hens — she hadhens— clucked.
“Our ever home,” she said, softy repeating Molly’s words from their arrival.
It was safe here. She was Sunny Jones now.
Nobody would even come close to suspecting what she hid deep behind layers and layers of change.
But maybe she could peel back one layer?
Before she could talk herself out of it, Sunny picked up her cell and called Bella for the number of her stylist.
*
It took a couple of days to get an appointment, and Sunny had a few moments of panic before resolutely stepping through Carol’s Creative Cuts just off Main Street and tumbled back in time to when she’d accompanied her mama as a child to the local hairdressers. The smell of chemicals, the drone of hairdryers, the pink vinyl chairs, the row of washbasins, all familiar.
She suppressed a sigh. Her persistent melancholy was becoming tiresome.
Before she could dwell too much on what had been and how small-town hair salons were all the same, a neat and slender woman with a pink apron greeted her.
