A Cut Above Read Free

clothes, and then head for the shower. The spigots squeak as I adjust them so the water reaches the right steaming temperature, and then I let the hot water splatter against me.
    As I shampoo my short-short hair—short, thanks to the fire—I let the image of Max replace the nerve-wracking thoughts of last night, danger, and murder. I have to be mature about this, about him. I have to face the reality that I’m going to have to make myself vulnerable, to let Max get close. I also have to face the possibility of heartbreak in the end.
    What’s most frightening is that this time, it won’t be a matter of post-adolescent infatuation, as my college romance was. This time, I suspect, I’m going to have to give a hundred percent. I know Max. He won’t expect anything less.
    Neither will God.
    “Lord?” I murmur, confident the shower will hide the sound of any confession I make from curious elderly ears. “I’m scared. This could be the real deal, and you know I don’t know how to react when face-to-face with . . . well, the real deal. I know you’ll be there to pick up the pieces afterward, but I don’t want to wind up as a bunch of pieces for you to pick up.”
    I automatically reach for the squirt pump on the conditioner bottle, but then consider the minuscule scraps of red locks left on my head. There’s not enough up there to benefit from the liberal application of emollients and bodifiers and who-knows-what-else they put into those bottles.
    With a twist, I turn off the water, slide the shower curtain aside, and reach for the towel. The fluffy cotton is a comfort against my face.
    “It’s all about trust, isn’t it?” As usual, God doesn’t answer me, but I know the answer already. “Okay. I’m going to take your promises as seriously as I always promise to do. But it’s up to you to help me hang in there.” My stomach lurches. “Help me with my weak knees here. I want to remember all the time how you’ve told me you’ll never leave me nor forsake me.”
    God never promised you an unbroken heart, my conscience says.
    I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. What you really promise is to be there for me, no matter what comes. And all you ask is that I walk with you, no matter where I go. Just give me some smarts about this, okay?”
    Not so sure about my romantic smarts but certain of God’s faithfulness, I dress and head down to the kitchen. Where I find Aunt Weeby impatiently checking her watch.
    “Well, it’s about time, sugarplum. We have us places to go, houses to see. Come on, come on. Let’s go. Davina’s outside waiting for us.”
    Davina is the S.T.U.D.’s limousine chauffeur, a quiet, intensely loyal, former racecar driver who tops the measuring tape at a lofty six foot one. I never know what she’s thinking, but I hesitate to get on her bad side. She could take me down in a blink, should she so desire.
    Truth be told, she strikes me as someone you’d see in a James Bond flick.
    “Did you really have to rope her into this scavenger hunt of yours?” I ask my aunt as I snag a granola bar from the basket on Miss Mona’s gleaming granite kitchen counter. I doubt I’ll see food again until Aunt Weeby’s inner Energizer Bunny winds down.
    Aunt Weeby’s blue eyes twinkle with mischief. Uh-oh.
    “Davina’s a smart girl,” she says. “She knows we’re going to have us some fun today.”
    I roll my eyes. “Sure, she’ll have fun. At my expense. Da-vina’s not dumb.”
    A chuckle comes from the far corner of the kitchen. I glance over my shoulder. There, on the ever-so-comfy, down-stuffed loveseat Miss Mona keeps by the walk-in–size hearth, I find the S.T.U.D.’s smirking chauffeur. Hmm . . . now I think of it, would the correct term, since she’s female, be chauffeuse ? Weird.
    “Morning, Andie,” the taller-than-tall driver says.
    I know when I’m beat. “All right, all right. Let’s get this over with. What time do we have to be at Evie’s office?”
    “Oh, no, no,