My Stubborn Heart by Becky Wade Page B

television shows had changed each time around. This time he had the volume at max for a cable offering of The Rockford Files .
    Her mind drifted in circles of bored contemplation. She was thinking how glad she was that she hadn’t pursued a degree in cosmetology when something caught her attention. She straightened and stared.
    A section of Morty’s hair actually looked . . . gray.
    Gray!
    She checked her watch. Time to shampoo. She shepherded him into the kitchen. He bent over the sink without being asked, well familiar with the routine by now, and she started to wash his hair.
    Yes. It truly was gray. A beautiful gun-metal color, slightly darker near the temples, slightly lighter in a streak over his right eye.
    â€œMorty!” She rinsed the suds out, practically bouncing on the footstool with excitement. “It worked!”
    â€œIt did?”
    â€œIt did!”
    And then, before he’d even had a chance to see it, or form his own opinion about it, he asked, “Do you think Velma will like it?”
    â€œOh, Morty,” Kate replied. “She better.”

    Feeling like a CIA operative, Kate covertly tailed Velma to the bathroom. It was Friday again. Poker night. She waited in the shadows of the hallway.
    A few minutes later, Velma exited the bathroom, spotted Kate waiting, and frowned. “Is this going to become a regular thing? Me using the ladies’ and coming out to find you here? Because I don’t exactly like the idea of somebody listening to me pee.”
    â€œCompletely understood.”
    â€œFrom now on if you want to talk to me, just tell me you want to talk to me.”
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œGood.” Velma sniffed, then crossed her arms over an orange turtleneck and a black vest decorated with iron-on Halloween characters. Ghosts, pumpkins, witches, and black cats gazed at Kate with surprised eyes. “You wanting to talk to me about Morty?”
    â€œI am.” Kate smiled hopefully. “Doesn’t his hair look great?”
    â€œHis hair looks . . . nice.” Velma inclined her head like a queen granting a serf a concession.
    â€œSo? Will you go on a date with him?”
    â€œNo.”
    Kate furrowed her brow. No? No!
    â€œHis hair’s better,” Velma said, “but his clothes are still a problem.”
    Kate just stared.
    â€œYou know, the white T-shirts and the jeans and the penny loafers. I married my sorry husband when I was twenty years old and that’s exactly how he dressed back then. Lord knows, that man was a disappointment.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t cotton to Morty reminding me of Herb every time he walks into a room.”
    â€œO-kay,” Kate replied slowly. She wanted to shout, Do you know how many hours it took to remove that hair dye? Instead, she marshaled her thoughts and managed to ask in a level voice, “What kind of men’s clothing do you like?”
    â€œI like a man to look stylish, you know. Maybe some of that Italian fashion.”
    A mental image of the mobsters from The Sopranos popped into Kate’s head. She grimaced. “Ah . . .”
    â€œI also like those shirts, those . . .”—Velma waved fingers painted with her trademark pearl polish—“Tommy Bermuda’s shirts.”
    â€œTommy Bahama?”
    â€œYes, Tommy Bahama. I think they sell them in Philadelphia.”
    Great. Philadelphia. A mere two-hour drive round trip.
    â€œI like slacks,” Velma said. “And boots with a nice heel on them. And a spiffy looking burgundy leather jacket would be nice.”
    Velma had been giving this some thought, Kate noticed, and tried to take that as a promising sign. “So . . . if Morty buys some new clothes, will you agree to a date?”
    â€œI’ll think about it.”
    â€œI’m going to need a firmer commitment,” Kate replied. “If he spends money on new clothes just