The Guardian by Nicholas Sparks

  "So how much were the repairs?" she asked.

  Mike seemed to debate the question as he scratched his chin absently. "Two haircuts should do it."

  "Come on. Let me pay this time. At least for the parts. I do have money, you know."

  In the past year, the Jeep, an older-model CJ7, had been in the shop three times. Mike, however, was somehow able to keep it running smoothly between visits.

  "You are paying," Mike protested. "Even though my hair's getting a little thinner, it does need to be cut now and then."

  "Well, two haircuts doesn't sound like a fair trade."

  "It didn't take all that long to fix. And the parts weren't that much. The guy owed me a favor."

  Julie raised her chin slightly. "Does Henry know you're doing this?"

  Mike spread his arms, looking innocent. "Of course he knows. I'm his partner. And besides, it was his idea."

  Sure it was, she thought.

  "Well, thanks," she finally said. "I appreciate it."

  "My pleasure." Mike paused. Wanting to talk a little longer but not knowing exactly what to say, he glanced toward Singer. Singer was watching him closely, his head tilted to the side, as if urging: Well, get on with it, Romeo. Both of us know the real reason you're talking to her. Mike swallowed.

  "So how'd it go with . . . um . . ." He tried to sound as casual as he could.

  "Richard?"

  "Yeah. Richard."

  "It was nice."

  "Oh."

  Mike nodded, feeling beads of perspiration forming on his brow. He wondered how it could possibly be so hot this early in the morning.

  "So . . . um . . . where'd you go?" he asked.

  "The Slocum House."

  "Pretty fancy for a first date," he offered.

  "It was either that or Pizza Hut. He let me pick."

  Mike shifted from one foot to the other, waiting to see if she would add anything else. She didn't.

  Not good, he thought. Richard was definitely different from Bob, the romantic number cruncher. Or Ross, the sex maniac. Or Adam from the bowels of Swansboro. With guys like that as the competition, Mike thought he stood a chance. But Richard? The Slocum House? It was nice?

  "So . . . you had a good time?" he asked.

  "Yeah. We had fun."

  Fun? How much fun? This, he thought, was not good at all.

  "I'm glad," he lied, doing his best to fake enthusiasm.

  Julie reached for his arm. "Don't worry, Mike. You know I'll always love you the most, right?"

  Mike pushed his hands in his pockets. "That's just because I fix your car," he said.

  "Don't sell yourself short," she said. "You helped patch my roof, too."

  "And repaired your washing machine."

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then gave his arm a squeeze.

  "What can I say, Mike? You're just a good guy."

  Julie could feel Mike's eyes on her as she walked to the salon, though unlike the way she felt about some men's attention, she wasn't bothered at all. He was a good friend, she thought, then quickly changed her mind. No, Mike was a really good friend, someone she wouldn't hesitate to call in an emergency; the kind of friend who made life in Swansboro a whole lot easier simply because she knew he'd always be there for her. Friends like him were rare, and that's why she felt bad for keeping some of the more private aspects of her life-like her most recent date-off-limits.

  She didn't have the heart to go into detail about it, because Mike . . . well, Mike wasn't exactly Mr. Mysterious when it came to how he felt about her, and she didn't want to hurt his feelings. What was she supposed to have said? Compared to my other dates, Richard was great! Sure, I'd go out with him again! She knew Mike wanted to date her; she'd known that for a couple of years now. But her feelings for Mike-aside from regarding him as her best friend-were complicated. How could they not be? Jim and Mike had been best friends growing up, Mike had been best man at their wedding, and Mike had been the one she'd turned to for comfort after Jim had died. He was more like a brother, and it wasn't as if she could flip a switch and suddenly change the way she felt.

  But it was more than just that. Because Jim and Mike were so close, because Mike had been part of both their lives, even imagining a date with him always left her with a vague feeling of betrayal. If she agreed to go out with him, did that mean that deep down, she'd always wanted to? What would Jim think about it? And would she ever be able to look at Mike without thinking of Jim and those times in the past that they were all together? She didn't know. And what would happen if they did go out, but for whatever reason it didn't work out? Things would change between them, and she couldn't bear losing him as a friend. It was easier if things just stayed the way they were.

  She suspected that Mike knew all of this and it was probably the reason he'd never so much as asked her out, despite the fact that it was obvious he wanted to.

  Sometimes, though-like when they were on the boat last summer waterskiing with Henry and Emma-she got the feeling that he was working up the nerve to do it, and Mike was a little comical when those moods seemed to strike him. Instead of being Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky-the first to laugh at jokes, even those made at his expense, the guy you'd ask to go pick up some more beer from the convenience store because everyone knew he wouldn't mind-Mike would suddenly get quiet, as if he suspected his whole problem with Julie arose from the fact that she didn't think he was being quite cool enough. Instead of laughing at what the others were saying, he'd wink or roll his eyes or study his fingernails, and when he'd grinned at her on the boat that time, it had looked as if he were trying to say, Hey, baby, how about we blow this joint and have some real fun? His older brother, Henry, was ruthless when Mike got in those moods. Spotting his brother's sudden attitude shift, Henry had asked Mike if he'd had too many beans for lunch because he didn't look all that well.

  Mike's ego had deflated right there.

  She smiled, thinking back on it. Poor Mike.

  The next day he was back to his old self. And Julie liked that version of Mike a whole lot better anyway. Guys who thought that any woman was lucky to have them, guys who acted tough and cool or picked fights in bars to show the world that they couldn't be pushed around, bored her. On the other hand, guys like Mike were pretty much a catch, no matter how she looked at it. He was both good-hearted and nice looking; she liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and she adored his dimples. She had come to treasure the way bad news seemed to slide off him with a simple shrug. She liked guys who laughed, and Mike laughed a lot.

  And she really, really liked the sound of his laugh.

  As always, though, when she began thinking along these lines, she heard a voice inside her immediately pipe up, Don't go there. Mike's your friend, your best friend, and you don't want to ruin things, do you?

  As she mulled this over, Singer nudged against her, freeing her from her thoughts. He looked up at her.

  "Yeah-go on, you big mooch," she said.

  Singer trotted ahead, past the bakery, then turned at the propped-open door of Mabel's salon. Mabel had a biscuit for him every day.

  "So how'd her date go?" Henry leaned against the door frame next to the coffeemaker, talking over the rim of a Styrofoam cup.

  "I didn't ask her about that," Mike answered, his tone implying the very thought was ridiculous. He stepped into his coveralls and pulled them up over his jeans.

  "Why didn't you ask?"

  "I didn't think about it."

  "Mmm," Henry said.

  At thirty-eight, Henry was four years older than Mike and in many ways Mike's alter, more mature, ego. Henry was taller and heavier and coasting into middle age with a waistline that expanded at the same rate his hair was receding; with a twelve-year marriage to Emma and three young girls and a house instead of an apartment, he had a bit more stability in his life. Unlike Mike, he'd never had artistic dreams of any sort. In college, Henry had majored in business finance. And like most older brothers, he couldn't
escape the feeling that he had to watch out for his younger sibling, to make sure he was okay, that he wasn't doing things he'd later regret. That his brotherly support included teasing, insults, and the occasional zinger to bring Mike back down to earth might have struck some as heartless, but how else was he supposed to do it? Henry smiled. Somebody had to watch out for Mike.

  Mike had worked the grease-stained coveralls up to his waist.

  "I just wanted to tell her that her car was finished."

  "Already? I thought you said it had an oil leak."

  "It did."

  "And it's already done?"

  "It only took a few hours."

  "Mmm . . ." Henry nodded, thinking, If you were any more whipped, little brother, they'd serve you on ice cream.

  Instead of saying that, Henry cleared his throat. "So that's what you did this weekend? Worked on her car?"

  "Not the whole time. I also played at the Clipper, but I guess you forgot about that, huh?"

  Henry raised his hands in defense. "You know I'm more of a Garth Brooks and Tim McGraw fan. I don't like that new stuff. And besides, Emma's parents came by for dinner."

  "They could have come, too."

  Henry laughed, nearly spilling his coffee. "Yeah, right. Can you imagine me bringing those two to the Clipper? They think the stuff you hear in elevators is too loud and that rock music is Satan's form of mind control. They'd bleed from their ears if they went to the Clipper."

  "I'll tell Emma you said that."

  "She'd agree with me," he said. "Those were her words, not mine. So how'd it go? At the Clipper, I mean?"

  "Okay."

  Henry nodded, understanding completely. "Sorry to hear that."

  Mike shrugged as he zipped up the coveralls.

  "So what did you charge Julie for her car this time? Three pencils and a sandwich?"

  "No."

  "A shiny rock?"

  "Ha, ha."

  "Seriously. I'm just curious."

  "The usual."

  Henry whistled. "It's a good thing I run the books around here."

  Mike tossed him an impatient glance. "You know you would have given her a deal, too."

  "I know that."

  "So why are you bringing it up?"

  "Because I want to know how her date went."

  "How does what I charge her to fix her car have to do with her date?"

  Henry smiled. "I'm not sure, little brother. What do you think?"

  "I think you had too much coffee this morning and you're not thinking straight."

  Henry finished his cup. "You know, you're probably right. I'm sure you don't care at all about Julie's date."

  "Exactly."

  Henry reached for the coffeepot and poured another cup. "Then you probably don't care what Mabel thinks, either."

  Mike looked up. "Mabel?"

  Henry nonchalantly added cream and sugar. "Yeah, Mabel. She saw them out on Saturday night."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I talked to her after church yesterday and she told me about it."

  "She did?"

  Henry turned his back to Mike and headed for the office, breaking into a grin. "But like you said, you don't care, so I'll just drop it."

  Henry knew from experience that Mike was still standing outside the door, frozen in place, long after he'd taken his seat at the desk.

  Three

  Though Andrea Radley had earned her cosmetology license a year ago and had been working for Mabel for nine months, she wasn't the best of employees. Not only did she have a tendency to take "personal days" without warning-usually without bothering to call-but on the days she did manage to arrive at work, she was rarely punctual. Nor was she particularly adept at styling and cutting hair, at least according to the directions her customers gave her. It didn't make a difference if her customers brought in a picture or explained slowly and clearly exactly what they wanted; Andrea cut everyone's hair exactly the same way. Not that it mattered. Andrea already had nearly the same number of clients that Julie did, though not surprisingly, every one of them was a man.

  Andrea was twenty-three, a long-legged blonde with a perpetual tan who looked as if she'd come straight from the beaches of California rather than the small mountain town of Boone, North Carolina, where she'd been raised. She did her best to dress the part, too-no matter how cold the weather, she wore miniskirts to the salon. In the summer, she augmented that with skimpy halter tops; in the winter, tall leather boots. She called every client "sugar," batted her long, mascara-enhanced lashes, and chewed gum incessantly. Julie and Mabel used to giggle at the dreamy looks men gave Andrea as they stared at her reflection in the mirror. Andrea, they thought, could have accidentally shaved a client's head and still kept him coming back for more.

  Despite her outward appearance, Andrea was a bit naive about men. Oh, she thought she knew what men wanted, and for the most part she was right about that. What Andrea didn't understand was how to keep a man afterward. It never occurred to her that her appearance might attract a certain type of man at the expense of another. Andrea had no trouble getting dates with tattooed men who drove Harleys, or drunks who hung out at the Clipper, or guys on parole, but she was never able to get a date with men who had steady jobs. At least that's what she told herself when she was in one of her self-pitying moods. In reality, Andrea did get asked out regularly by reliable workingmen, but she seemed to lose interest in them quickly, then promptly forget they'd even asked.

  In the past three months, she'd been out with seven different men, thirty-one tattoos, six Harleys, two parole violations, and zero jobs, and right now she was feeling a little sorry for herself. On Saturday, she'd had to pay for dinner and the movie because her date didn't have any money, but had he called this morning? No. Of course not. He wouldn't think of calling her today. Her dates never called, unless they needed money or were "feeling a little lonely," as so many of them liked to put it.

  But Richard had called the shop this morning, asking for Julie.

  Even worse, Julie probably didn't have to buy him dinner to get him to do it. Why, she wondered, did Julie get all the good guys? It wasn't as if she dressed well. Half the time she looked downright plain, what with her jeans and baggy sweaters and-let's be frank here-ugly shoes. She didn't exactly go out of the way to flatter her figure, her nails weren't manicured, and she wasn't tan at all, except in the summer, and anyone could do that. So why had Richard been so taken with Julie? They had both been here when Richard walked into the salon for a haircut last week, they both had a break in their appointments, and they both looked up and said hi at the same time. But Richard had asked Julie to cut his hair instead of her, and somehow that had led to a date. Andrea frowned just thinking about it.

  "Ouch!"

  Brought back to the present by the yelp, Andrea glanced at her customer's reflection in the mirror. He was a lawyer, in his early thirties. He was also rubbing his head. Andrea pulled her hands back.

  "What happened, sugar?"

  "You jabbed my head with the scissors."

  "I did?"

  "Yeah. It hurt."

  Andrea's lashes fluttered. "I'm sorry, sugar. I didn't mean to hurt you. You're not mad at me, are you?"

  "No . . . not really," he said finally, pulling his hand away. Looking in the mirror again, he studied the job she was doing. "Don't you think my hair looks a little lopsided?"

  "Where?"

  "Here." He pointed with his finger. "You cut this sideburn way too short."

  Andrea blinked twice, then slowly tilted her head from one side to the other. "I think the mirror's crooked."

  "The mirror?" he repeated.

  She put one hand on his shoulder and smiled. "Well, I think you look handsome, sugar."

  "You do?"

  Across the room, near the window, Mabel looked up from her magazine. The man, she noticed, was practically melting into the chair. She shook her head as Andrea started cutting again. After a moment, feeling reassured, the man sat
up a little straighter.

  "Listen, I've got tickets to see Faith Hill in Raleigh in a couple of weeks," he said. "I was just wondering if you'd like to go."

  Unfortunately, Andrea's mind was back on Richard and Julie again. Mabel had told her that they'd gone to the Slocum House. The Slocum House! She knew, though she'd never been there before, that the Slocum House was a fancy restaurant, the kind of place where there were candles on the table. And they hung your coat for you, if you needed it, in its own special room. And there were cloth tablecloths, not those cheap plastic ones with the red-and-white checkerboard pattern. Her dates had never taken her to a place like that. They probably couldn't even find places like that.

  "I'm sorry, but I can't," she answered automatically.

  Knowing Richard (though, of course, she didn't know Richard at all), he'd probably send flowers, too. Maybe even roses. Red roses! In her mind, she could see it clearly. Why did Julie get all the good ones?

  "Oh," the man said.

  The way he said it brought Andrea back again. "Excuse me?" she asked.

  "Nothing. I just said, oh."

  Andrea had no idea what he was talking about. When in doubt, she thought, smile. And she did. After a moment, the man began melting again.

  In the corner, Mabel stifled a laugh.

  Mabel saw Julie come through the door a minute after Singer had entered. She was about to say hello when Andrea spoke up.

  "Richard called," Andrea said, not bothering to hide her disgust. She was filing her perfectly manicured nails with vigor, as if trying to scrape a bug off the tips.

  "He did?" Julie asked. "What did he want?"

  "I didn't bother asking," Andrea snapped. "I'm not your secretary, you know."

  Mabel shook her head, as if telling Julie not to worry about it.

  At sixty-three, Mabel was one of Julie's closest friends-that she had been Jim's aunt was almost beside the fact. Mabel had given Julie a job and a place to stay eleven years earlier and Julie would never forget that, but eleven years was long enough for Julie to know she would have enjoyed Mabel's company had none of those things happened.

  It didn't matter to Julie that Mabel was a little eccentric, to put it mildly. In her time here, Julie had learned that practically everyone in town had rather colorful aspects to their personality. But Mabel put the capital E in eccentric, especially in this small, conservative southern town, and it wasn't simply because she had a couple of harmless quirks. Mabel was different compared to others in town, and she, along with everyone else, knew it. Despite three proposals she'd never been married, and this alone disqualified her from the various clubs and groups of people her own age. But even if you ignored her other idiosyncrasies-the fact that she drove a moped to the salon unless it was raining, favored clothing with polka dots, and viewed her Elvis collectibles as "fine art"-Mabel would still be regarded as positively odd for something she'd done over a quarter century ago. When she was thirty-six, after living in Swansboro her entire life, she moved away without telling anyone where she was going or even that she was leaving at all. For the next eight years, she sent postcards to her family from around the world; Ayers Rock in Australia, Mt. Kilimanjaro in Africa, the fjords in Norway, Hong Kong Harbor, the Wawel in Poland. When she finally returned to Swansboro-showing up as unexpectedly as she'd left in the first place-she took up right where she'd left off, moving back into the same house and going to work in the salon again. No one knew why she did it or where she got the money to travel or buy the shop a year later, nor did she ever answer questions about it when asked. "It's a mystery," she'd say with a wink, and this only added to the whispered speculations of the townspeople not only that Mabel's past was a bit unsavory, but that she had more than a couple of broken cups in the china cabinet.