He shrank from the shirt. “Purple’s a girl color.”
“Hmmph.”
Twenty minutes later, he found himself at the entrance to the fitting room area with an armload of clothes. Only one pair of pants—plain old denim jeans—had he chosen himself. The rest were Hannie’s doing.
He eyed the pile nervously. “It would take me months to wear this many clothes.”
She gave him a gentle push in the right direction. “Try them on and see what happens.”
There was nothing for it. He had once milked thirteen cows in a row by hand when the power went out and the generator ran out of gas. His hands and arms had been sore for weeks. Surely he could try on a couple of shirts.
He shuffled down the long hall to the first available stall. Was this how the cows felt stepping into the parlor?
Well, moo.
Inside the stall, he carefully locked the door and hung the shirts on hooks. He set the pants—and who needed more than one pair of pants?—on a stool in the corner. A full-length mirror caught every movement. He turned his back on it. He didn’t know who that sour-looking old man was, but he had other things to worry about.
He took a deep breath.
Taking off his pants resulted in banging his elbow hard against the wall. Removing his shirt left his thinning hair sticking straight up from static. He tugged a polo shirt—a gray one, not the purple one—from its hanger and quickly pulled it on. There. He smoothed his hands over the front. That wasn’t so bad. He buttoned the three buttons with stiff fingers.
Why not? He turned to look.
He started. He hadn’t seen legs that white since they’d taken the kids to see the polar bears at the zoo when they were little. Grabbing the pants from the stool, he stuck his feet in them, one after the other.
Yank.
Yank.
He checked the size on the tag. Seemed about right, yet these jeans weren’t like the ones at Bill’s. Somewhere between his knees and upper thighs, the pants came to a grinding halt. Maybe Mark from Room F could handle pants this tight, but Gerrit Laninga was not about to squeeze his ham hocks into fabric this unforgiving.
He pushed down. The pants wouldn’t give. He made some adjustments and tried again with more force.
“Aargh!” He couldn’t keep the exclamation from coming out as blinding pain stabbed at his lower back.
“Gerrit?” Hannie’s voice floated through the air to his stall with a note of concern. “Everything okay in there?”
He grimaced, forcing the words out through clenched teeth as fresh pain washed over him. “I’m fine.”
The pants would have to wait. He carefully straightened, breathing heavily, and concentrated on relaxing his back muscles. Yes, that was better. Reaching up didn’t cause him nearly the trouble reaching down did. Maybe he should focus on the shirts for now.
And to think women did this kind of thing for fun.
With cautious movements, he took hold of the bottom of the gray polo and lifted the shirt. The pain was minimal. He could do this. His arms rose to chest height, then shoulder height. Easy now.
When his arms reached the point where they were level with his head, he let out another brief cry of distress. He had forgotten to undo the buttons.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Her voice came from directly outside his door this time.
Sweat broke out on his forehead. “Fine.”
His voice was muffled by the shirt covering his face. The best course of action would be to pull the shirt back down and take care of the buttons, but one of his elbows was caught. When he tried to pull it free, a back spasm jolted his body.
“Oooh,” he groaned.
His body jerked, and he stumbled because of the awkward position his pants had put him in. Unable to see, he ran headfirst into an empty hook.
“Yow.” His nose smarted.
“That’s it.” Hannie knocked on the door. “Open up.”
He panicked. “Just a minute.”
Bumbling blindly, he shuffled toward what he thought was the corner with the stool. If he could ease himself onto it, maybe he could work his elbow out of the shirt without tipping over. But he miscalculated.
Thud.
The door handle jabbed him in the hip, and the latch released under his weight. Hannie seized the opportunity and pushed against the door. She gasped as he stumbled backward. He could imagine her face. He couldn’t see it, but he could imagine.
“Gerrit, my goodness.”
If he hadn’t been so flustered, he would’ve been mortified. “Help.”
Calm, cool fingers prodded his chin where the shirt was wedged tight against his face. “Hold still.”
It sounded like she was smiling.
He held still. She worked her fingers under the fabric and got ahold of a button.
“You’re hopeless, you know that?”
She was definitely smiling.
Once she got the button free, the shirt slid easily over his head with her assistance. He breathed a sigh of relief as he shook it off his arms. But his relief turned to chagrin when he saw Hannie’s face.
“I . . . um . . .”
She started to laugh. A whole-body, lyrical laugh that filled the tiny dressing room and rushed over him like a waterfall of delight, leaving tingles on his skin.
He blinked. “Thanks for your help.”
She covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes dancing. He chuckled at first, then a full-on laugh worked its way up from his bare-naked belly to his mouth and burst out like a long-forgotten song. Hannie shrieked and slapped her other hand over her mouth as well, trying to contain her amusement.
For a moment, as face muscles he hadn’t used since who-knew-when were brought back to life and Hannie’s face shone like a bride on her wedding day, he almost forgot he was only half wearing pants.
She poked him in the ribs with a wicked grin. “Looks like you need new underwear, too.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Gerrit pulled into the Greenville Community Church parking lot at 2:51 wearing his old worn-out jeans and a brand-new polo
