Something About Sophie by Mary Kay McComas Page B

that eliminates your facial features like an egghead mannequin if you wear black, white, or pastels—a distinction that even imposter redheads know is more about skin tone than hair color. Most folks saw her hair before they looked at her face and were often reminded of redheads they’d known in the past—she was guilty of the same thing with men who have red bulbous noses because her alcoholic uncle Leo had one. It didn’t automatically make the men alcoholics or even mean that they looked like her uncle Leo, only that the nose reminded her of him.
    No doubt this man was having the same sort of reaction, so she continued to smile pleasantly until he recovered. However, he seemed only to become increasingly agitated, and when a young girl in a blue smock caught his eye, he snapped at her: “It’s about time. Come handle this. I have things to do.”
    And with that, he sent Sophie one last glare and hurried off. His previous redhead must have been a real doozy, she surmised, offering her smile to the girl instead. She reciprocated and said, “Hi. Did you find everything you wanted?”
    â€œI did. Thank you.”
    But the man had given her the creeps—so should she need more toothpaste, she’d be going to the Rite Aid.
    Her original impression that Clearfield was a nice town was re-reinforced by the rest of the residents, however, who were amicable and helpful. She went into several stores with summer fashions in the window displays, found cheap stretchy bicycle shorts and a sport bra in one and might have passed over Betty’s Boutique based solely on the unfair rationale that Beverly’s Boutique in Marion leaned toward drab fashions for older ladies—until she saw the most wonderful fern green sundress draped oh-so carefully over a small tufted chair in the shop window. She chirped a sigh, went in, and emerged twenty minutes later with the dress, a muted tan-brown shrug, and a pair of light, breezy sandals.
    She might have skipped back to her car, she was so happy, but for the peculiar notion that someone was watching her. Like at night, when she scooted faster than necessary from the trash cans to the back door with goose bumps on her arms, sensing the boogeyman who lived in the mind of her inner six-year-old. She always felt foolish and chided herself, but she couldn’t stop it. And truth be told, she much preferred being hyperaware of her surroundings than to be walking around like an oblivious airhead.
    So she gave herself permission to look back, just a couple of times, and saw no one.
    It wasn’t until she reached her car that she felt it again. Only this time she had no doubt. After stowing her treasures on the backseat, she got behind the wheel, put her purse on the passenger seat, buckled in, and looked up in time to catch a big blue pickup truck stop at the end of the block, kitty-corner to the hospital parking lot. All she could see of the man inside were his aviator glasses and a thick and jowly face under a green baseball cap. He turned off his truck but didn’t get out. Instead, he sat, boldly assessing her. It wasn’t another red-hair thing—it was too deliberate, too constant, too composed. Menacing even, but that made no sense at all. She hadn’t been in town a week and yet . . .
    Suddenly, he seemed to realize that she was inspecting him as closely as he was her. He started his engine, made an illegal U-turn in the street that crossed the front of the hospital, and sped off.
    Sophie sat motionless, confused. Certainly, compared to the other odd events she’d witnessed lately, this one was pretty tame. Typical, too, for someone to be curious about the new—and now infamous—girl in town. As far as she could see she had two choices: sit in the car wondering until she was old and gray or shrug it off as one of those peculiar things that happen sometimes.
    She chose the latter.

Chapter Five
    â€œO h. It’s