Firefighter Graham glanced out at the truck. “Go ahead and change. I’ll have to seal the house until the inspector walks the scene and says the place is safe.” She must have looked stricken, because the young woman was quick to reassure her. “Won’t take long. Probably first thing tomorrow.” One corner of her mouth crooked up. “Things are usually quiet around here. He’ll be excited to have something to do.”
Exhaling her impatience, Hope reached for the suitcase. “Oh. Good. I suppose I’ll need to call an electrician to check the wiring.”
At this, Ms. Graham shifted, looking mildly uncomfortable. Hope looked down at the suitcase. She hadn’t even opened the case, so her unmentionables weren’t showing. Puzzled, she looked at the young woman. “What?”
“My dad’s an electrician. Master electrician,” she corrected, as if repeating the distinction had been drilled into her. “I can give you his number, if you want.”
Hope blinked. Then realization struck her. This was what Bobby meant with the dig about drumming up business. “Oh.”
“He’s booked up most of the time,” the young woman continued, “but he has my two cousins working with him now. All certified. They could at least take a look and give you an estimate.”
Hope smiled as she opened the suitcase and pulled out the first pants and shirt she found. “A reference would be lovely.” Tired, dripping, and far too weary to try to come up with a pen and paper, Hope plucked the mobile phone from her bag and handed it to the girl as she rose, the dry clothes clutched in her hand. “Enter his phone number and the company name.”
The petite young woman in the big, bad firefighter clothes smiled like a girl crowned with a tiara. “Thanks. I know Dad can get you fixed up.”
Hope carefully avoided the mirror over the powder room sink. She didn’t need to see the ravages to know the result was bad. Leaving the sodden jersey and her panties in a twisted heap on the floor, she used the hand towel to dry off before dressing in black palazzo pants and a gauzy peach top meant to go with an equally frothy skirt. She dismissed the mismatched outfit without a second glance. Let the fashion police come after her. This time she was at least armed with her identification and a hairbrush.
She squeezed her eyes shut as she attempted the first pass with the brush. Her normally smooth bob was twisted into tight coils. She was halfway to a new look involving dreadlocks. Working the bristles through the snarled ends first, she managed to free the knots, and eventually made her way to her crown. At last, she screwed up her courage and chanced a look in the mirror.
Big mistake.
The wee small hours of the morning had stopped being kind to her years before. Now she was firmly in the “nothing good happens after midnight” phase of her life, and those hours were even crueler. Even in the funky light and shadows created by the flashlight perched on the vanity, her skin was sallow. The vertical lines between her brows appeared deep as trenches. Her hair, a mixture of the pewter and platinum, hung limp and straggly. Worse, when lit from below, her sleek-cut bob looked to be a plain, old gunmetal gray.
In France, going gray in her thirties made her feel chic and daring. But Americans didn’t celebrate life and love the way Europeans did. They had no appreciation for a woman of a certain age, and even less for one who had the temerity to show their age. She hadn’t been in her sister’s house for ten minutes when Diana had offered to set up an appointment with her colorist.
Once upon a time, their hair color had been nearly identical. Burnt russet, a painter friend once proclaimed. She was sure Diana’s colorist called the color something more along the lines of red number three-sixty-seven. Hope scowled at her reflection, then forced the wide, bright smile she used to paste on to entice hapless American tourists into hiring her for the day.
Di’s hair was the exact shade of vivid auburn it had been the last time Hope had seen her. And the time before. If her baby sister had her way, she would have frozen time back in 1984. The days when Madonna was starting to make her mark and the world was ga-ga about another girl named Diana. To hear her sister tell tales, the days before Hope had run away, were nothing short of idyllic. To Di, they most likely were. But for Hope, they’d been stifling.
And now she was back. Under this roof. Feeling every one of her parents’ rules pressing down on her. Their expectations.
Lowering the brush, she took a moment to pull one long silver hair from the bristles. It glinted in the beam from the flashlight. As much as she missed the vibrancy of her red head, she loved the gleam of her hair now. Yes, her gray marked the years, but the silvery strands were also a symbol of her personal liberation. She’d be damned if she let anyone put her in a box, or change her with their promises of magic in a bottle.
Besides, she never lived up to her family’s expectations before, and she didn’t see much point in trying now. Attempting to rewrite history would only lead to frustration for everyone. She was who she was, and Diana and the good people of North Shore would have to deal with her for a short time.
There was a not-so-gentle knock on the door. “Ms. Elliot? Ma’am?”
Hope grimaced and dropped the hair into the empty wastepaper basket beside the sink. Tossing the towel toward the pile of wet clothes on the floor, she wrenched open the powder room door with more force than was strictly necessary.
“Mrs. Elliot,” she announced.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Elliot.” Firefighter Graham held her mobile phone out for her to take. “I entered my father’s contact information. Mick McInnes.”
Hope blinked, then a giddy laugh bubbled out of her. “Your father happens to be a master electrician named Mick McInnes? I guess I am back in Chicago after all, Toto.”
The younger woman had the good grace to chuckle as well. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be a native if I didn’t know a guy who knows a guy, right?”
Hope stooped to place her hairbrush and other essentials back into her bag, then pulled out the comfortable Tod’s moccasins packed for traveling. Smiling, she zipped the case shut and extended the handle as she rose. “I appreciate your help, Ms. Graham.” She paused a moment as she wriggled her bandaged feet into the shoes. “But you’re not a McInnes. Perhaps I should call you missus?”
The other woman grinned, then gestured toward the door. “I was missus for about five minutes. I’m a mizz now, but I kept the Graham part for my son’s sake.”
“Either way, I do appreciate your service.” Hope closed and locked the door behind her. “You have my mobile number for the inspector?”
“Yes. He’ll be in touch to arrange a walk-through. As soon as he clears the property, you can contact whoever you’d like to look at the wiring. I wouldn’t advise throwing the main switch until someone does, though.”
Hope chuckled and looked up at the night sky. She hadn’t the first idea where the main switch for the electrical service might be, or how one would even go about “throwing” one. Clouds hung overhead, but they were lighter and thinner than before. To the west, polka-dot patches of stars played peek-a-boo with the cloud-hazed moon. Pulling the bag behind her, she dug the key to the rental car from the pocket of her purse and clicked the fob to unlock the doors. She then shoved her suitcase unceremoniously into the back seat.
With one last wave to the firefighters in the truck, she climbed behind the wheel. The beams of her headlights caught the slap-dash X of caution tape Ms. Graham started stringing the moment she turned the deadbolt. She waited for the young woman to climb into her seat in the truck, the engine idling and the heater blowing full-blast.
Behind the wheel of the fire engine, Bobby executed an impressively nimble turn. Seconds later, her rescue unit roared off into the now-quiet night. Sighing, Hope pulled her mobile from her bag and stared down at the display. The absolute last