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Beauty Shop Tales
Nancy Robards Thompson


Avril Carson had to try.Because the hairdresser-turned-actress (turned hairdresser) had left little Sago Beach, Florida, with her whole life in front of her and the man she'd loved by her side. Now she'd come back, with his ashes in an urn, and not even the chance of a child in her future. But she had a sneaking suspicion there was one in her late husband's not too-distant past…And as for romance– well, those days were behind her. Or were they? For Max Wright was pursuing her with a vengeance that made her feel things she thought she'd never feel again. Maybe it was time to practice some beauty shop magic on herself…









Beauty Shop Tales

Nancy Robards Thompson







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to the midwives of this story—

Kathleen O’Brien, Ann Bair, Lori Harris,

Terry Backhus and Teresa Elliott Brown.

And to Larri Mattison, who kept nudging me

to write a book set in a salon.

Special thanks to Tammy Strickland and Pam and

Bill LaBud for educating me on leukemia.

Love and appreciation to my critique partners

Catherine Kean and Elizabeth Grainger.

As always, Michael and Jen—Je vous aime beaucoup.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

EPILOGUE




CHAPTER 1


The Garden of Proserpine

Here, where the world is quiet,

Here, where all trouble seems

Dead winds and spent waves riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams;

I watch the green field growing

For reaping folk and sowing,

For harvest-time and mowing,

A sleepy world of streams.

—Algernon Charles Swinburne

Today, as I fly out of LAX, probably for the last time, the souvenirs I’m taking with me are two truths I gleaned doing hair in the Hollywood movie industry: 1) appearance is everything; and 2) reality, that eternal shape-shifter, is the biggest illusion of all.

Reality is 99.9 percent perception. It morphs into whatever form best moves ahead the perceiver.

As I, Avril Carson, thirty-five-year-old widow of Chet, and former aspiring-starlet-turned-Hollywood-stylist, wipe my clammy palms on my Dolce & Gabbanas—which I bought gently worn at a consignment shop for a fraction of the retail price…but no one needs to know that—and prepare to speed into the wild blue yonder into the next chapter of my life, witness Hollywood truths one and two play out in real life.

It goes like this: Even though I loathe flying, I’ve convinced myself that I must fly across country because the alternative is to come rolling back home into Sago Beach, Florida, in a Greyhound bus.

No can do. Ride the bus, that is.

Not when these jeans retail for nearly three times the cost of a bus ticket.

Not when I’d have to travel twenty-seven hundred miles, stopping at forty-one different stations along the way, to arrive at 3:42 in the morning. Call me vain, but I refuse to go two days, sixteen hours and fifteen minutes without a shower. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it and the mélange of aromas simmering in that busload of unwashed strangers.

If personal hygiene is too selfish to justify bus snobbery, think of my mother. She has taken such pleasure in my being the hometown girl who’s made good in Hollywood; I simply can’t let her down by arriving in less than style.

Work with me, here. I mean, come on, I hate to fly. If I were being completely real, I’d keep my feet on the ground and take that bus—body odor be damned—over hurling through the air from one coast to the other.

But it’s not an option. So, I keep reminding myself of the above rationale and that flying is safer than traveling cross-country via ground transportation. Blah, blah, blah—

Full of Dramamine, which has not yet kicked in, I board the plane, settle into my aisle seat and try to center myself.

Oh, God… I’m really doing this.

Chet would’ve been proud of me for venturing so far out of my comfort zone. I press my leg against my carry-on, which holds the box of his ashes, hoping to absorb some of his courage.

Chet Marcus Carson, extreme sports reporter for WKGM Hollywood. Nothing scared him, which is part of the reason he’s dead…nine months now. Parasailing accident.

Chet Marcus Carson, the reason I ended up in Hollywood to pursue my dream. Much to my mother’s hysterical dismay, he yanked me up out of Sago Beach—population 212—and set me firmly on the road to making something of myself. I was going to be an actress. A star. Just like all my favorites in the old black-and-white romances. The ones I used to watch over and over again. The ones that made me dream big and believe in happily ever after.

And Chet, he was going to be a sportscaster. Together we were going to set the world on fire and never look back at the Podunk town of our youth.

God, that sounds so stupid now. So naive.

I suppose I was. And now, Chet Marcus Carson is the reason I’m going home. I tried my best to stick it out on my own, but by the time I lost Chet, the Hurray-For-Hollywood, rose-colored glasses were gone; I wasn’t cut out to be an actress—not in this how-bad-do-you-want-it, bare-it-all day and age.

My dream was over, but Chet’s rose like a turbo-inflated hot air balloon. I resorted to the only things I knew: doing hair and being a strong support system for him. Through his contacts, he got me a few jobs doing hair on the sets of various local productions, but my heart wasn’t in it. Once I got a look behind the curtain and glimpsed the real Hollywood, all I wanted was to ground myself in reality. I wanted to raise a family, to be a good wife—to be normal again.

Then one day it all came crashing down. The only man I’d ever loved was dead. And I was stuck in this soulless town that was just one big reminder that somehow I had to go on without him.

But how?

How in the world could I do that?

Still, today, I’m only supposed to think positive thoughts.

Buckling myself into this Boeing 707, I glance at the woman in the window seat, sitting all snug and relaxed, listening to her iPod, shutting out the rest of the world. Taking a cue from her, I focus on my breathing and try to redirect my thoughts to a happy place, but before I get there, a man pauses in the aisle beside me.

“Excuse me, I think I’m sitting next to you.” He removes a black cowboy hat, glances at his boarding pass and gestures to the vacant middle seat. “Row twenty-five? Seat B?”

The guy is tall—maybe six-four. The manly-man variety that takes up lots of space. The type who sprawls and hogs both armrests.

Great.

My legs feel like overcooked bucatini, but somehow, I manage to stand without whacking my head on the low-flying overhead storage bin.

The cowboy can’t back up because there’s a long line of people behind him. Behind me, an older couple is stashing their belongings. With no other options, the cowboy and I do an awkward dance as he slides past me to the middle seat.

Soon enough, I’m settled and attempting to resume my stream of reassuring thoughts. Let’s see, where was I…?

Aerodynamics. Uhh, sure…that’s as good a place as any to start.

Aerodynamics is a proven reality, not just Hollywood hype. Aerodynamics allow this eight-hundred-and-seventy-thousand-pound tin can, which is comprised of six million parts and one hundred and forty-seven thousand pounds of “high-strength aluminum,” to defy gravity.

Which seems utterly ridiculous if you consider the laws of gravity. Because something this heavy is not supposed to fly. Then the airline fills it full of people and overstuffed luggage and those tiny bottles of booze and—

Oh, God…

I feel as if someone’s slipped a noose around my neck. Perhaps I need that booze to preempt an anxiety attack.

All right. Settle down. Breathe.

Aerodynamics.

I learned those factoids about the makeup of an airplane on the Boeing Web site when I was surfing for comforting facts to quell my fears. I thought if anyone could sing the praises of flight safety, the airline manufacturer would have the shtick down pat.

They did.

Still, knowing myself like I do, I came up with a backup plan. Thus was born my list of the drawbacks of bus travel.

And you thought I was an insufferable snob, didn’t you?

I have one word for you: Self-preservation.

Let’s just get through this. Focus, Avril. Happy thoughts.

At this point, the flight attendants are midway through their pretakeoff spiel.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take note of the emergency exits located throughout the cabin.” They point their manicured fingers toward the sides of the plane and smile like we’re all at Disneyland. “In the unlikely event of an emergency, lights along the floor will direct you to an exit….”

Emergency.

The engines fire up.

Oh, God…The noose tightens.

I am perfectly safe.

People fly every day.

Statistically, I have a better chance of winning the lottery than being killed in a plane crash. Hollywood cannot change that reality.

Oh, God…

As the engines roar, and the plane taxis down the runway, I’m gripped by the third Hollywood truth: When bull-shit fails, backpedal like hell and disassociate yourself from the lie as fast as you can.

I hate to fly. I really, really hate it. I can’t believe I tried to make myself buy into this crap. Forget aerodynamics. Huge, phallic-shaped metal objects that weigh hundreds of thousands of pounds are not supposed to swim weightlessly through the air thirty-five thousand feet above the clouds and the earth.

The words Let me out of this death trap! gurgle up in my throat, but even if I could find my voice, it’s too late. The plane lifts off. The G-forces press me into the seat like invisible hands hell-bent on pinning me down.

I hug myself and squeeze my eyes shut. My breath comes in short, quick gasps.

“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God!”

“Are you okay?” the cowboy asks.

I nod, vigorously, and realize I was probably muttering Oh, God under my breath. I hope I didn’t sound like I was having an orgasm.

Biting the inside of my cheeks to keep other words from flying out, I draw in another deep breath through my nose. Come to think of it, I hate the smell of planes—that blend of humans, jet fuel and airplane food—almost as much as bus odor. Still, the scent, pleasant or not, is a touchstone, an anchor to the here and now, and I latch onto it like a life preserver, hugging myself tighter.

“Takeoff’s my favorite part of the flight.”

Huh?

I open one eye and look at the cowboy. Not only is he taking up both armrests, he’s listing in my direction.

He’s so much bigger than Chet, who was lean and fair and Hollywood fabulous. The cowboy is dark and good-looking if you like a raven-eyed, five-o’clock-shadow, feral-looking, Tim-McGraw sort of man. I shift away from his manliness.

“There’s always so much possibility when a plane takes off.” He has one of those piercing, look-you-in-the-eyes kind of gazes. “It’s so symbolic. New places. New beginnings. New opportunities. What’s your favorite part of the ride?”

My favorite—? Why is he talking to me? “I hate to fly.”

“Really.” The word is a statement laced with a hint of sarcasm. “How can anybody hate to fly? Think of all you’d miss letting fear rule your life.”

Who in the hell does he think he is? Anthony Robbins?

“I’m here, aren’t I? I’m certainly not letting fear rule me. Otherwise I’d have my feet planted firmly on the ground rather than hanging out up here in the clouds, thirty-five thousand feet above—”

The plane dips into an air pocket.

“Oh, God!”

The words are a whimper, and I melt into my seat, too scared to be thoroughly mortified for being such a big baby.

Okay, maybe I’m a little mortified. Because he’s still staring at me.

Oh, leave me alone. I close my eyes again, feeling the first waves of the Dramamine. That foggy, far-off haziness that clouds the head before it closes the eyes is creeping up on me.

“Okay, you get partial credit for being here,” says the wise guy.

Partial credit? Like I care. I swallow a yawn.

“But to get full credit, you have to tell me your favorite part of the flight.”

I’m tempted to tell him where to put his favorite part. To leave me alone so I can go to sleep and wake up when we’re safely back on the ground. But this guy is persistent. It’ll be a long, uncomfortable flight if I piss him off. I revert to Hollywood truth number four: Tell them what they want to hear and they’ll go away.

“My favorite part of the flight?”

He nods.

My mouth is dry, but I manage to say, “When they open the door at the gate. Now leave me alone so I can go to sleep. My Dramamine is kicking in.”

“Come on,” he says. “You can do better than that.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s a cop-out. Opening the door at the gate is not part of the flight. The flight’s over.”

“Well, it’s certainly better than the take off—”

I gesture at the air to indicate the turbulent departure, only to realize we’ve leveled off and are cruising at that smooth, steady pace that’s almost bearable.

He smiles and takes the in-flight magazine out of the seat pocket. “Sleep well.”



MIRACULOUSLY, I do manage to sleep most of the nonstop flight. My eyes flutter open to the sound of the flight attendant’s announcement asking everyone to secure their tray tables and return their seats to the upright position as we prepare to land in Orlando.

I stretch and rub my stiff neck.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” says the cowboy.

“It’s not over yet.”

Vaguely wondering what a guy like him was doing in L.A., I retrieve my purse from under the seat, pull out my Lancôme Dual Finish compact and the red lipstick I got in the free gift when I purchased the powder. Something to distract me while we get this last part of the journey over with.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching me primp.

“Are you visiting Orlando or coming home?”

“Neither.” I blot my lips and check the mirror to make sure my lipstick is on straight. “I’m from a small town over on the east coast.”

“Cocoa Beach?”

I shake my head. “Sago Beach.”

He nods. “It’s pretty over there. Visiting family?”

I snap the compact shut, drop the cosmetics into my purse and look him square in the eyes, ready to give him the polite brush-off. Only then do I realize just how cute this guy is. Nice face. So totally not my type.

For a split second, I hope I didn’t do something repulsive while I slept, like drool, or snort, or sit there with my mouth gaping open.

I could only do things like that around Chet. My foot finds the bag with his ashes, and I blink away the thought. It doesn’t matter how I appeared to the cowboy while I was sleeping. Rubbing the place where my wedding ring should’ve been with my thumb, I say, “I’m moving back.”

“Welcome home.”

“Thank you.”

Home. Hmm. I suppose Sago Beach has always been home, even when I was away.

Hollywood certainly never was.

It was something I had to get out of my system—like a bad boyfriend who treated me unkindly and sent me running back to my mother. Only this bad relationship lasted seventeen years and cost me my husband and my youth. Chet was really the one who wanted to live there because it was good for our careers. But come to find out, I can take my career anywhere. Just like now that I’m bringing it back home to my mother’s salon.

“The name’s Max Wright.” He extends a hand. I shake it. “What’s yours?”

“Avril.”

The plane hits another air pocket. I grope for the armrests. In my panic, I end up grabbing his arm and releasing it as if it burns.

“Sorry.”

He smiles, a little half smile, and I like the way the outer corners of his eyes tilt down. “Just relax, Avril. The worst part is over.”

Hollywood truths one and two kick in and I want to believe him.

Yeah, now that I’m home the worst is just about over.

I believe that for about fifteen minutes—until we deplane and make our way to baggage claim, where my mother and half the population of Sago Beach are standing under a banner that proclaims Welcome home, Avril!! Sago Beach’s very own beauty operator to the stars.




CHAPTER 2


I want to die.

Truly, I do.

Because I hate surprises. My mother knows it. Still, once she gets an idea in that red head of hers, she tends to forget everything outside the scope of her plan.

The surprise banner-flying airport welcoming committee—a collection of at least twenty of Sago Beach’s finest—has my mother’s name written all over it.

The scene unfolds as the escalator carries me from the main terminal down to baggage claim, and I reconcile that, ready or not, this is small-town life. It’s nothing like Hollywood, where you’re invisible unless you’re the It Girl of the Moment.

I have two choices: I can either turn and hightail it back up the escalator, or suck it up and greet them like a decent person. It only takes a split second to decide that despite the embarrassment factor of seeing my name along with the words Sago Beach’s very own beauty operator to the stars, emblazoned in bright letters on a long sheet of brown craft paper, I’m touched that these people would take the time to make a banner, much less come all the way to Orlando—a good hour’s drive from the coast—to make me feel welcome.

Ready or not, I’m home.

“All this is for you?” Max smiles and a dimple winks at me from his left cheek.

I hitch the tote with Chet’s ashes upon my shoulder, feeling oddly sheepish and a little unfaithful that all of them will see a strange man talking to me.

“Beauty operator to the stars, huh?” He whistles. “I didn’t realize I was sitting next to royalty.”

“They’re good people,” I say, suddenly protective of the folks, who, just a moment ago, embarrassed the living daylights out of me.

“I can see that. They’re really glad you’re back.”

The escalator reaches the bottom, delivering us to the baggage claim, and my friends and family surge forward.

“Nice to meet you, princess,” he says.

Princess? Normally, I’d spit out a snappy retort, but with my welcoming committee rallying around me, I don’t want to encourage any further conversation with Max. That would only lead to questions from the fine people of Sago Beach. Especially Mama.

I do the next best thing. I pretend I didn’t hear him as everyone envelopes me.

Mama is at the helm, of course, hugging me first. Her hair is the same rusty-carrot shade that it’s been for as far back as I can remember. It’s long and big, as if Dolly Parton had a run-in with a vat of V8 juice. She’s a beautiful sight, and I feel so safe in her slight arms that I want to cry.

There’s Justine Wittage and Carolyn Hayward, Mama’s longtime customers, Bucky Farley and Tim Dennison, among others in the crowd, who hug and kiss me and say, “Oh, darlin’ ain’t you a sight?”

My old friend Kally is conspicuously absent from the fray. It gives me a little pang that she didn’t come, but we haven’t exactly been on good terms the past five years or so.

“I suppose you’re too good for us now that you’ve been hobnobbing with them movie stars?” Marjorie Cooper, Sago Beach’s token busybody, smiles her wonderful gaptoothed smile.

“Of course not, Margie, I’m still the same girl you’ve always known.”

“I know ya are, hon. I’m just yanking your chain.” She enfolds me in a hug that threatens to squeeze the stuffing out of me. “It’s so good to have you home.”

Finally, after everyone has a chance to say hello, they decide to head for home.

“No sense in you all standing around and waiting for the baggage,” Mama insists. “Y’all go on back home.”

This incites another round of hugs and welcome-homes and I feel a twinge of guilt that they all made the two-hour round-trip for less than five minutes of togetherness.

“We’ll see you soon,” says Bucky Farley, who has lingered behind the rest of them.

“Bucky, you go on now and get out of here. We’ll manage just fine.”

Mama growls the words like a tiger. I wonder what’s got her back up all of a sudden. For a split second, I wonder if she’s going to object to any and all men who show interest in me. Not that I’m interested in dating Bucky. He’s not my type at all—not quite old enough to be my father, more like an uncle.

If there’s one thing I don’t need it’s my mother screening my friends. But she loved Chet. We’d been a couple so long, we were like one person. It would take everyone a while to get used to me being on my own.

Mama links her arm through mine as we move to carousel number four to get my bags. I glance up and see Max standing alone across the way. He smiles and tips his hat.

“Who is that?” Mama blurts.

I shrug nonchalantly, looking everywhere but in his direction. “He sat next to me on the plane.”

“Handsome.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“He certainly noticed you. Look at him staring.” So much for the Bucky Farley theory. “Did you give him your number?”

“Mother.”

“Well, he certainly is nice-looking—”

“Stop it.”

“Avril, honey, I know you loved Chet. We all loved him, but you’re a young woman. There’s no harm in giving a good-looking guy your phone number.”

I haven’t even been home for a full hour and already she’s pushing my buttons.

“He didn’t ask for my number. Okay? Besides, I don’t have to hook up with the first guy who’s nice to me.”

“I didn’t suggest anything of the sort. But you’ve got to start somewhere and well, why not go for one with looks?”

One of my bags pops out of the chute and I retrieve it with hopes this interruption will preempt further discussion about the cowboy. I don’t want to argue with my mother on my first day back. Now that I’m home, I’ll have the rest of my life to do that.

When I turn to haul the big, black bag over to her so she can watch it while I collect the rest of my things, she’s not there. I make a slow circle until I finally spot her on the other side of baggage claim talking to Max, pen and paper in hand.



“IF HE WANTED MY telephone number, he would’ve asked me for it.” I feel murderous as I heft my bags into the trunk of Mama’s pristine 1955, cherry-red T-Bird, which she’s parked catty-corner across two spaces in the airport garage.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her parking like this is begging someone to key the gleaming paint, but when I turn around, she’s standing there watching me with her arms akimbo, one hip jutting out, an undaunted smile on her face.

Vintage Tess Mulligan.

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a wad, baby. Do you really think I’d give your phone number to a total stranger—even if he was a tall hunk of handsome man? Even if the number I’d be giving out is my phone number? Hmm. Maybe I should’ve given him the number.” She mutters this last part under her breath and I want to tell her to go for it, to knock herself out.

I love my mother. We’re close, despite her ability to drive a stuffed elephant up the wall. If I’m completely honest, I suppose the things I do don’t make sense to her. It’s one of those weird codependent relationships.

I can get mad at her, but if anyone else uttered a cross word about her, they’d have to deal with me. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

When I lived in California, the miles between us helped. She flew out to see me about four times a year—and about every two months since I lost Chet—because of my fear of flying. In fact, I haven’t been home in years since she was so good about coming out to visit.

The distance was our friend. When she meddled, I could curtail the phone conversation, and the next time we talked she’d be on to something else.

The staccato honk of someone locking a vehicle echoes in the garage and a car whooshes by belching a plume of exhaust as the driver accelerates.

Mama brandishes a cream-colored business card like a magician making a coin appear from thin air. “I got his number for you. The ball is in your court, missy. You’ve gotta call him.”

“I’m not calling him.” I spit the words like darts over the top of the car, but she ducks and slides into the driver’s seat.

I slam the trunk and fume for a few seconds.

Why did I think she’d give me even a short grace period before she started her antics? It’ll be a small miracle if we don’t kill each other living under the same roof and working in the same salon—even if it’s only for the interim.

Moisture beads on my forehead, my upper lip, the small of my back. It’s warm for February—but that’s Florida for you—and my Dolce & Gabbanas suddenly feel like suffocating plastic wrap.

I don’t need someone collecting business cards for me. I can get my own dates. If and when I’m ready to do so.

Feeling trapped inside the four walls of chez Tess Mulligan—well, her car, anyway—finding a place of my own leaps to the top of my mental priority list.

Mama cranks the engine, and I open the car door and buckle myself in for a bumpy ride.

As she slips the gearshift into Reverse, her nails, the same red as her car, click on the metal shaft. Then she stretches her right arm over the seatback. Her compact little body lists toward me as she looks over her shoulder before cranking the wheel with her left hand and maneuvering the car out of the parking spaces.

In the graying garage light, I see the deep etchings time has sketched on her face. They seem more pronounced, shadowed, in this half light. At this angle, the crepey skin of her throat looks loose and paper-thin. In this quiet moment, I see beneath the bold, brassiness of her facade down to the heart and soul. She looks older, mortal, vulnerable. Funny, how these things go unnoticed during the daily razzmatazz of the Tess Mulligan show—until the camera fades and the lights go down and she’s not performing for an audience.

I swallow the harsh words sizzling in my mouth and wash them down with a little compassion. Even though the zingers stick in my throat, I turn the subject to a more amiable topic.

“How’s Kally?”

Mama’s jaw tightens. She shifts forward on the seat, her posture rod-straight, and shrugs.

Kally and I have known each other since we were in diapers. Once, she was my best friend in the world. Chet’s, too. In fact, she and this guy, Jake Brumly, and Chet and I used to be known as the fearsome foursome in high school.

Then we grew up.

She and Jake broke up. Chet and I got married and moved away. I’d like to say life just got in the way, but it’s not that simple. In fact, it got downright ugly—all because of money.

It’s awful. It really is.

About four or five years ago, Chet told her we’d invest in this business of hers, this artsy—or so I’ve heard, I’ve never seen it—coffee shop called Lady Marmalade’s. As much as we both adored Kally and as much as Chet wanted everyone back home to believe we were living the beautiful life in L.A., we didn’t have that kind of extra cash. I had to be the heavy and say no.

She got mad when we pulled out. Just like that. Can you imagine?

Then she had a kid and our paths sort of forked off in two different directions before we could make amends.

I suppose I didn’t help matters.

I’ll admit it, I was a little jealous when she got pregnant. Okay, I was a lot jealous because she had the one thing I desperately wanted and couldn’t have. A baby.

I would’ve traded all the Hollywood glitz and glam, all the movies I worked on, all the parties and elbow-rubbing with the stars for one precious little baby.

But when you’re infertile, all the bargaining in the world doesn’t make a difference.

And Kally wasn’t even married. Still isn’t as far as I know. If you don’t think that raised a few Sago Beach brows?

Mama is still ticked at Kally. Not because she had a baby out of wedlock. Because come to find out, even after I put my foot down about not lending her the money, Chet went behind my back and funded her business. In the aftermath of his death, I discovered Chet had a checking account I knew nothing about. Through it, I followed a messy paper trail of canceled checks made out to Kally. He was funneling her the money that was supposed to go into our 401K. Four freakin’ years of this. I had no idea the money wasn’t going where it was supposed to go. Chet was the financier of our relationship, paid the bills, set the budget—which is why I was flabbergasted when he suggested we invest in Kally’s business. He knew better than I that we didn’t have the extra cash.

This is not a good thing to uncover just weeks after your husband dies. This secret felt like I’d discovered they were having an affair—thank God for that twenty-seven-hundred-mile chastity belt. Or I might have suspected something, which was stupid because in all the years we’d known each other, never ever did I pick up one iota of a vibe that they might be interested in a little hanky panky.

It was too much to handle all at once, these two disasters. It’s not like I could get answers from Chet, and Kally was pretty tightlipped when I asked her to explain.

Mama went totally ballistic. She called up Kally, read her the riot act and asked her how she could take that money from us? I suppose she felt Kally had betrayed her by virtue of betraying me and took it doubly hard because Kally had always been like another daughter to her. Especially after Kally’s mother, Caro, passed away, gosh…not too long before Chet started giving Kally the money.

Mama went off, insisting Kally give me a stake in Lady Marmalade’s since the money that kept the place afloat should’ve gone to take care of me after my husband’s death.

For the record, I want nothing to do with that coffee shop. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll go five miles out of my way to avoid it, which might not be so hard since she chose to set up shop over in Cocoa Beach.

I’ve had months to make my peace with the situation. And I have, for the most part. Really.

Kally and I haven’t talked. But I’m at peace. Which is a good thing since I’m bound to run in to her now that I’m back.

All I know is if Kally Fuller could take the money and still look at herself in the mirror—Well, I suppose she’s ventured farther down that divergent path than I realized she was capable.

As my mother nears the line of tollbooths, she grabs her purse and roots around in it, alternately looking down at her lap and back at the road.

“Here, Mama, let me pay for this. How much is it?” I unbuckle my purse for my wallet.

She pulls out a twenty and waves me off. “I got it.”

“I wish you’d at least let me pay the toll. You drove all the way over here to get me—”

“I’m your mother. Of course I’d do that. You just hush.” She rolls down her window and hands the toll-taker the money.

I sink into my seat, twelve years old again, my mother running the show.




CHAPTER 3


I’d forgotten how pretty natural Florida is this time of year. When the cycle of afternoon rains cooperate and show up on schedule, everything is lush and green and tropical. Crepe Myrtles, hibiscus and oleanders dot the highway in a kaleidoscope of color.

The scenery washes over me like a soothing bath as the black ribbon of flat Florida highway slices through the landscape, eventually reaching the subtropical marshlands that bridge the city to the coast.

Silent rivers of grass succumb to a watery wilderness of cabbage palms, cypress trees and teardrop-shaped hammock islands, formed of their own decomposing selves gradually accumulating over thousands of years.

In the middle of the slough, a great white heron spreads its wings as an ibis searches the shallows, against a brilliant backdrop of devastatingly blue, late-afternoon sky. If Monet had painted Florida, this could be his canvas.

For some reason the scene reminds me of the story of Persephone. I wasn’t familiar with Greek myth until I moved to Hollywood. I’d never really studied the classics, but I did hair on the movie Persephone; the scenery we’re passing now reminds me of how Hades, the god of the underworld, broke through the earth in his chariot, grabbed Persephone and carried her back to hell.

I imagine the place where Hades entered was similar to this. I half expect him to come crashing through and drag me back to L.A. Funny, in a roundabout, convoluted way, Mama could’ve likened Chet to Hades, swooping me off to Hollywood far away from her.

I glance at my mother, who looks content as she quietly drives me home. She smiles at me and turns on some music. Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” drifts from the CD player and Mama sings the part, “Crazy for feelin’ so blue…” Her rich alto veering into a velvety harmony.

I suppose, like Persephone, the urge to go home has niggled at me for a while. I just had to get over feeling like going home to Sago Beach meant I’d failed. I mean coming home again after all these years without a whole lot to show for myself—my dream of acting didn’t exactly pan out, I’m childless and my husband died.

But that’s not really failure. Not like three strikes and you’re out. Is it? Because I tried. I really tried to do it on my own. Honestly, it’s taken me this long to come to terms with the fact that I’m a widow.

A widow.



DOWNTOWN SAGO BEACH consists of one long, bricked street stretching through the center of the tiny town like a makeshift movie set.

Main Street runs parallel and two roads west of A1A, which fronts the beach. I’ve always liked how downtown is set apart from the beach-going day-trippers. Still, enough of them find their way over to support the Sago Beach businesses, but since there are no hotels and the town rolls up its welcome mat at five-thirty, they all go back over to Cocoa Beach or the other more touristy destinations for the night.

My first glimpse of home hits me like a favorite flick I’d seen over and over in my youth, but had forgotten how much I loved it. Downtowns like this don’t exist anymore. Certainly not in L.A. They’ve been abandoned and torn down to make way for strip malls and Gallerias. But it’s as though someone has waved a magic wand over downtown Sago Beach, and made time stand still—right down to the banner stretched across the road that reads: “Founder’s Day Celebration and Street Dance.”

It’s been years since I’ve been home, but I recognize the banner. It’s the same one they’ve used every year for as far back as I remember. Everything looks exactly as I last remember it—no, better. Fresher. Lovelier, despite the sameness. Much more comforting than anything since I lost Chet.

The street is lined with locally owned businesses and quaint little one-of-a-kind shops. Even the bank looks pretty and inviting, with its unique sign shaped like a palm tree and window boxes of flaming geraniums. When I left Sago Beach, I didn’t realize all this prettiness was out of the ordinary. Coming home, I recognize it for the rare treasure it is, and I marvel at the wide, clean sidewalks and huge ceramic planters full of sunflowers, all turned toward the street, vying for a place in the soft, late afternoon light.

I wonder if they still change the flowers to celebrate the seasons?

Mama slows the car to a crawl and motions a car behind us to pass, to take it all in.

Oh, there’s the toy store full of games and dolls, hand-crafted stick horses and model trains. My heart contracts when I think of how I used to dream of shopping there for toys for the babies Chet and I would have.

As we inch down Main Street, tears well in my eyes. I roll down the window, and breathe in a great gulp of Sago Beach—air hot as a furnace, laced with a humid, lazy brine. The essence of home. It goes straight to my head and fills my heart with eager apprehension. If eager apprehension is an oxymoron, well, that’s exactly how I feel. Like an oxymoron.

Too young to be a widow. Too old to be on my own and back at square one in this town I left so many years ago…Still, I can’t help but fall in love with it all over again. Changed in so many ways, but longing for everything to still be the same.

Oh, there’s The Riviera, a clothing boutique Mama calls “Resort-Mart.” They sell crisp, expensive resort wear in garish shades of magenta, orange, chartreuse and turquoise. All you need is a little sun damage, some baby-blue, cream eye shadow and a tube of frosted coral lipstick and you, too, can look like you belong among the retired resort set.

Across the street is Paula’s Bakery, which makes the world’s very best Parker House rolls. At the crack of dawn on holidays the line to pick up those coveted rolls stretches down the sidewalk. Ah, and there’s the Yum Yum Shop, a real old-fashioned ice-cream parlor where they still make their own ice cream in flavors like mango, chocolate-covered cherry, café latte, and lavender, in addition to the standard chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and cookies and cream, which I swear they invented and everyone else copied. It’s right next door to Joe’s Hardware, with its gleaming white clapboard exterior, which is right next to the Sago Diner, which is next to…I gaze down the street, trying to catch a glimpse of the place I’d been holding my breath waiting to see…. My mother’s beauty shop, Tess’s Tresses, and the small apartment above it, where I grew up.

Right there on the corner—With what looks like white bed sheets drawn across the large plateglass window.

“New drapes?” I ask.

“No.” She keeps her gaze pinned on the road as she accelerates into a left turn.

Okay, I can take a hint. We’re not discussing the sheets or drapes or whatever they are. I’ve haven’t even set foot inside the salon. I’ll hold off redecorating it.

She makes two more quick lefts—the first onto Broad Street, which runs behind the storefronts, then into her driveway.

Home.

“My goodness, it’s nearly six o’clock. You’re probably starving, aren’t you?”

I hadn’t really thought about food because my stomach was a little upset after the flight, but now that she mentions it…“Sure. I could eat.”

“Let’s get your bags in and we’ll grab a bite, but first, I want to show you something real quick in the beauty shop.”

It’s strange walking through this portal to my adolescent sanctuary. My father died when I was five, and my mother never remarried. So it was just us girls all those years, snug in our little apartment above the salon—or beauty shop, as Mama’s always called it. But we were happy, Mama and I.

Stepping inside, I squint in the dim light of the vestibule, and breathe in the familiar scent of permanent solution, fried food and Tess’s perfume. It may not sound very appetizing, but it smells like my childhood.

Five paces straight ahead is the door to the beauty shop; to the left is the narrow staircase that leads up to the apartment. Exactly as always. I follow Mama upstairs safe in this bubble of sameness.

At the top of the steps, on the landing outside the door to our apartment, I stop to gaze out the single aluminum window. Its bent screen and dirty glass looks as though it hasn’t been washed since I left. Still, through the haze, the deep forest leaves of the laurel oak tree that stands next to the driveway wave at me on a gust of wind. I have no idea how old that tree is, but it’s huge, with roots running under the sidewalk and drive, pushing up the concrete as if to prove its dominance. Its arthritic branches stretch all the way to the house, scratching lovingly at the glass as dust motes dance in the muted light.

Beyond it, through the branches, I look down at the orange tree, in all its magnificence. It always yields an abundant crop in the cool months. Then it drops its oranges and a blanket of shade over the side yard. Beyond that, I see the houses on the street with their yard ornaments and hedges and flowerbeds, twilight settling on their rooftops, each house a vessel of continuity and similitude, no matter who lives inside now. Each holding a place in my history and in my heart.

We set my bags inside the door and head back down to the beauty shop. I’m tired and hot and sticky. I long to go in and take a long, hot shower and then go into my room and stretch out on the bed. Mama’s kept it exactly as I left it. But I’m not living by myself anymore and I’ll need to get reacquainted with give and take.

She’s been chomping at the bit to show me something in the beauty shop. I don’t have it in me to ask her to wait until tomorrow.

When we get downstairs, she starts fumbling around in her purse. “You go on in and turn on the lights—you remember where they are, don’t you? I think I left my glasses in the car.”

She’s halfway out the door.

“No, Mama, you set them down on the table just inside the door upstairs. Here, I’ll go up and get them—”

She sidesteps me. “I’ll get them. You go on in there.” And gives me a little push toward the salon door.

Okay. Fine.

The second I open the door, the light switches on, and as if in slow motion, what seems like the entire population of Sago Beach jumps out at me yelling, “Surprise!”

Did I mention how much I hate surprises?




CHAPTER 4


A surprise party.

For me.

As everyone breaks into a rousing chorus of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” I cannot begin to explain the utter mortification I feel standing there with every eye in Sago Beach on me. There must be at least fifty people packed in the room—so that’s one hundred eyes focused on sticky-and-smelly-from-the-flight me. My hair’s uncombed, and I didn’t even have a chance to powder the shine off my greasy nose or put on lipstick—

Oh, for God’s sake, Mother. Twice in one day?

She sidles up and puts an arm around me as if she senses my discomfort.

After they finish singing, she says in her lyrical voice, “I’ll bet the welcoming committee at the airport really threw you off, honey. You weren’t expecting this, huh?”

Everyone laughs their festive laughs as I stand in the middle of my second surprise party for the day, feeling like I’m stuck in a scene from the movie Groundhog Day.

Okay, cool your jets. Just get through this and soon enough you’ll be yesterday’s news.

“Nope.” I plaster a smile on my face. “You really got me, Mama.”

Another wave of laughter.

“Tessie, you keep this up, Avril’s gonna start expecting a party every day!” Bucky Farley hugs me for the second time today and his hands linger a little too long on my shoulders as he pulls away.

As they crowd around me, a country tune blasts from the sound system. So I may not like surprise parties, but now that the initial sting is over, I sink into the warmth of all these familiar faces. All these kind people here to see…me.

This is what I missed in L.A. This connection to real, salt-of-the-earth folks. People who would drive two hours round-trip to welcome you home after all these years of being away. People who have looked after my mother in my absence. People who will welcome me back into the fold.

All those years in L.A., I never made friends like this, who would love you unconditionally. Sure, I had acquaintances, movie contacts and people I worked with in the various salons, but nothing stuck. Not like this. I always brushed it off to getting older. You know, with wisdom of age comes weariness of heart. You just don’t let people in as readily. Right here, right now, it feels good to just be.

I scan the room looking for Kally, but she’s not there. Part of me wishes she would’ve come. That she would’ve been the one to make the first move toward forgiveness. And how would I have reacted?

“Okay, everyone, let’s eat.” Mama motions to a table set up in the reception area piled with everything from cheeses, salads and deviled eggs to fried chicken, turkey and roast beef, all the way down to the scrumptious desserts—every kind imaginable, everything homemade. Well, except if you count the Parker House rolls from Paula’s Bakery. But considering she made them, they’re as good as homemade. “Avril is the guest of honor. Let her go first, and everyone else fall in line after her.”

My mother is a feeder. She thinks every problem in the world can be solved with food. If you’re happy, she’ll feed you. If you’re sad, she’ll feed you. If you’re uncertain about your future, eat and everything will fall into place. So there amidst the cutting stations and the bonnet driers I take my place at the front of the makeshift buffet, feeling like the prodigal daughter returned home.

Once my plate is full, Mama seats me in the place of honor—the center bonnet drier—and assembles a TV tray for my food. If I hadn’t fully regressed to preadolescence, with this I have. Completely.

“Mother, I don’t want a tray.”

She scoots it closer to me. I scoot it back, precariously balancing the paper plate in one hand.

Enough is enough.

I stare her square in the eye to get the message across.

Thank God for Gilda Mathers.

“Tess, stop it. She doesn’t want the tray. Take it away or I will.”

The two women stare each other down, Gilda with her large frame and short, teased, chestnut hair—à la Kathy Bates. Small, wiry Tess with her long, flaming curls. Never have you seen two women so opposite.

But either one would give her arm for the other. Gilda has been my mother’s best friend for as far back as I have cognizant memories; a faithful employee of Tess’s Tresses, all-round confidante and second mother to me. She even came out to California a couple of times with Mama to visit me.

Tess’s gaze wavers first. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Then dutifully folds up the tray and whisks it out of sight. This time Gilda won—thank God in heaven—next time it’ll surely be Tess, in that natural give and take of friendship.

Gilda plops into the red Naugahyde dryer seat next to me, with an umph and a paper plate piled so high, I’m afraid one wrong move will send everything falling to the floor. Lonnie Sue Tobias and Dani Reynolds, who also work in the beauty shop, pull up folding chairs so that the four of us form a square. They leave the dryer seat to my left free. For Mama.

Dani has the remnant yellow-blue shadows of a fading bruise around her eye. My heart clenches. She’s tried to cover it with concealer, but the discoloration shows through under the florescent lights. It looks like she’s had a hard fall or someone’s fist connected with her left eye—

“Okay, start talking, missy,” says Gilda. “Tell us everything starting with the last time I saw you out there in California. How long’s it been now?”

Lonnie Sue scoots forward on her chair. “Must be five years at least. That’s when I came down with appendicitis, when you and Tess were off in California. Land, how time flies. Darlin’, we’re so glad you’re home and so is your mama. She can sure use an extra set of hands in the shop. My tinnitus is acting up again and sometimes I take such a spell I can’t do nothin’ but put a pillow over my head and lay there in the dark with what sounds like the bells of St. Mary’s going off in my head.”

Gilda frowns around the chicken leg she’s biting into. “The Bells of St. Mary’s was a movie. It’s not actually a place where they ring bells.”

Lonnie Sue wrinkles her pert nose and flicks a strand of cropped eggplant-colored hair off her forehead. “I know that, Gilda, I mentioned it because it is a movie. You know, on account of Avril being in the movie business and all.”

Oh, no—

“Well, actually, I only worked on a few movies.”

Lonnie Sue, Gilda and Dani regard me with confused frowns.

“But you did do Julia Roberts’s hair. Right?” demands Gilda.

At the mention of Julia Roberts, the room quiets. Well, it doesn’t exactly fall hear-a-pin-drop silent, but those within earshot stop talking and crowd around.

“Well…” I squirm inwardly and wonder what exactly my mother has told them. Because the truth is, I only assisted the stylist who did Julia Roberts’s hair on one of the movies she made back in the nineties. I didn’t actually have my hands in her hair. And I only got that job because Chet realized how disillusioned I’d become with the whole Hollywood scene and thought if I could get in the middle of the business, I’d be happy. He had his work and loved it, so he called in a favor to get me the assistant’s job hoping I’d find my place among California’s beautiful.

After the Julia Roberts movie, I worked on a few minor projects—the Persephone picture, and a couple others…nothing notable. By then, I’d had it with the industry. If I felt like a fish out of water before Chet dropped me into the great Hollywood shark tank, well, after that I was the fish who wanted to dive out of the aquarium. Working in the movies wasn’t for me. It was too shallow, too many people willing to take off their clothes and sell their firstborn for a taste of fame. Not at all what a naive, wide-eyed, small-town girl thought it would be. I was pretty much at risk for being eaten alive.

At least by doing hair in salons I was able to build relationships with clients, change someone’s outlook by helping them become the best they could be. In the movies, the only reason anyone helped anyone was if it benefited them.

I had nothing in common with these people and it scared me because Chet thrived in this cardboard world. He couldn’t understand why I’d settle for working at a salon when “if you only tried a little harder, you could make your dream come true.”

I didn’t always feel this way about California. Chet and I had had big dreams. I was going to be a star and he was going to be my agent. That was our plan—to take Hollywood by storm.

But when the plan didn’t work out quite like we thought it would, he took a job at WKGM in the mail room and I tried to land another agent. This is where the irony sets in—I couldn’t get work, but they loved him so much that eventually they created the extreme sports segment for him.

For a girl from a small Florida beach town, at first glance Hollywood seemed like Fantasy Land. But it tends to trap people this way. In the beginning, it seduces, whispers sweet nothings—delicious, mouthwatering promises.

I endured one humiliating experience after another—I couldn’t crack the reputable agents because of my lack of experience and, okay, I’ll admit it was probably because of my lack of raw talent. The only agents who were interested in me were the ones who were out to scam or prostitute me. It’s amazing what some people will do for a taste of perceived stardom. I’m no prude, but I have my standards and it soon became apparent that I did not have what it took to conquer Hollywood. In return, Hollywood had nothing to offer me. There I stood with my nose pressed to the glass of this magnificent candy store, but it was closed, the lids set firmly on the jars, all the goodies stored out of my reach.

For a short time before I came to this sad realization, I thought Chet and I could be happy there.

Chet had became somewhat of a minor celebrity around town and was bitten by the bug. People started recognizing him on the street—“Hey! Aren’t you that extreme sports dude on TV? I saw your spot on the ASP Tahiti Surfing Tour. Righteous, dude!”

Fame, minor as it was, was like a drug to him. The more recognition he got, the more he craved. The more remote the location the network sent him to—Fiji, Australia, Hawaii—the more he craved getting away. You know how I feel about flying. So I stayed behind, focusing on how everything would get better once we had a baby.

That was before I knew a baby was out of the question.

“So what’s Julia Roberts like?” A voice from the crowd pulls me back, and I realize I don’t even know who asked the question.

“Umm…she’s very nice. Very down to earth.” This is not a lie. I was in close enough proximity that I could ascertain that she’s quite pleasant. It’s the other people in the industry who weren’t so wonderful.

“So will you fix me up with her?” Bucky Farley guffaws.

Someone utters, “Get a life, Farley.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“Who else did you work on?” asks Lonnie Sue, all wide-eyed.

“You know, actually, I didn’t—”

“Back away, everyone.” My mother shoulders her way through the throng with a plate to rival Gilda’s. “Let her eat her dinner in peace.”

She sits down next to me as if she’s settled into her throne. “Avril’s home to stay, so you’ll have plenty of time to hear all the Hollywood stories. In fact, why don’t y’all book an appointment and get your hair done by our very own beauty operator to the stars and hear about it then?

“In the meantime, grab yourselves some of Maybell Jennings’s chocolate cake. It’s so good on the lips, it’s worth carrying it around on the hips.”

As the knot of people breaks apart, Lonnie Sue eyes Mama’s plate and then bites into a celery stick. “Chocolate cake. Ha. With this thyroid of mine if I even look at cake, I’ll pack on five pounds.” She pats her belly. “I already have years of Maybell’s cakes to contend with.”

Mama smiles, then closes her eyes as she savors her first bite of deviled egg.

“Mmmm…what more could a girl want?” She reaches over and pats my leg. “Good food and my darlin’ girl. I got everything I need right here.”

I glance around the beauty shop, letting its familiarity seep into my bones like a balm. Everything is neat and in its functional place. Mama hasn’t redecorated since she opened the place back in seventy-six. But it’s clean and painted. Nothing looks too worn or in disrepair.

Someone has yanked down the white sheets I saw hanging when we drove by. As it turns out, they weren’t drapes after all, only a temporary prop to curtain off what was brewing inside, so Mama could drive me down Main Street without ruining the surprise. True to form, Tess Mulligan doesn’t miss a thing.

“I really never thought I’d see you back here.” Dani wrinkles her tanned, freckled nose and looks down at her hands. “I mean, I’m glad you’re back, but, well, you know…I guess if I ever got out of here and made it to California I wouldn’t want to come back.”

I shrug and so does she, nervously flipping her long, straight golden-brown hair over her right shoulder. With that too-long fringe of bangs sweeping across her tanned forehead, she still looks like the natural, pretty beach girl she was when we were in high school. Only a little spent and worn around the edges…

I try to look in her blue eyes rather than at the ring of bruise, but it’s hard to keep my gaze from wandering. Mama never says much about Dani. We weren’t very close in school. But I’m surprised she never mentioned Dani coming in with a shiner. I make a mental note to ask her about it. Not simply to gossip, but to see if she needs help.

“Things change,” I say.

I glance at her left hand and see she’s still wearing a ring. “How’s Tommy?”

“Doing good. Still over at the hardware store. He’s the manager now.”

Dani and Tommy quit high school in the beginning of our senior year after Dani got pregnant. They got married—she had the baby, he took a job at the hardware store.

“Tommy’s workin’ late tonight. That’s the reason he’s not here. Had to go on a delivery over to Cocoa. But Renie’s here.”

Renie?

She motions to a beautiful, willowy blond teenager sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the room. All bad posture and awkward, skinny limbs, she looks like the teenage version of Dani I remember, only blonder. She’s listening to an MP3 player with an expression that suggests this party is the last place she wants to be.

When Dani motions her over, she rolls her eyes and drags herself to her feet, looking downright disgusted by the imposition.

The girl presents herself, but doesn’t look up from the iPod she’s holding in her right hand.

“Renie, this is Avril,” Dani says in her quiet voice. “The party’s for her.”

I wonder if the girl can hear her mother because the ear-buds are still planted firmly in her ears. Dani reaches up and touches her daughter’s cheek.

Renie flinches and shoots the look of death at her mother.

“Renie? Remember I was telling you about the girl I used to go to school with who worked in the movies?”

The girl looks me square in the eyes and pulls a so what face. “No.”

Dani flushes the shade of the Naugahyde.

“Sweetie, why don’t you just go on home if you’re gonna act like that? I don’t want you ruining Avril’s party.”

Renie turns and walks toward the door.

“You go straight home now,” Dani calls after her. “Your daddy should be home soon and I’m going to ask him if you were there when he got home.”

Renie doesn’t turn around.

Lonnie Sue puts a hand on my arm. “Avril, hon, so you’re going to start on Monday?”

I’m glad for the diversion so I won’t have to gloss over the awkward Renie moment with Dani.

“I haven’t really talked specifics with Mama, but sure, I can start Monday if that’s what works.”

Gilda stands up stiffly and shoots me a lightning-quick look that suggests she caught the exchange with Renie. Her eyes dart away just as fast, focusing on her paper plate as she folds it in half around the chicken bones like a big white grease-stained taco.

“Actually you’re right between the two of us,” she says. “So we can both keep an eye on you.”

She winks at me. “Well, I don’t have a cranky thyroid. So I’m definitely goin’ to claim me a piece of Maybell’s cake before it’s all gone.”

As she ambles off, Mama corrals Lonnie Sue and Dani into a discussion about the overbooked schedule on the Saturday of the Founder’s Day celebration—which appointments they want to keep and which they want to shift over to me.

I’d wondered how my coming on board would work. The way Mama’s been billing me as the “beauty operator to the stars” and urging people to come in and book an appointment with me, I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes by poaching their clients. Hairdressers can get a little territorial and the last thing I want to do is get off on the wrong foot.

I’m glad Mama broached the subject and decided to let them figure it out. I get up and circulate, thanking people for coming, talking to others about who married whom, who’s divorced and who died—seventeen years worth of gossip to catch up on in one night. Most of it I already know because a leaf couldn’t drop from a tree without Mama calling to tell me.

It’s wonderful to see everyone, but it’s also a little overwhelming. By the end of the party, my head is buzzing. I’m relieved when the last person bids us goodbye, leaving Mama, the girls and me to clean up.

I start gathering used paper plates into a pile.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lonnie Sue stands in front of me with her hands on her hips. “You will not tidy up after your own party. Right, Tess? I’m sure she’s exhausted so tell her to get her skinny self upstairs and stretch out on the bed and let us get this place back in order.”

All four of them make noises about me leaving them to do the cleanup as they bustle around tidying up in a routine that almost seems choreographed.

“I am tired,” I admit. “But I don’t think I can sleep just yet. I’d like to take a walk and get a breath of fresh air.”

“Oh, honey, it’s dark outside,” Mama says. “Dani, you go with her. I mean, I’m sure it’s safe, but, well…you know how it is.” She flutters her long fingers and bends down to retrieve a plastic fork from under one of the chairs.

I’m just opening my mouth to protest, because I really am looking forward to the solitude. What I had in mind was breathing in the fresh night air as I walked down Main Street, reacquainting myself slowly without having to make conversation. But Dani’s already got her purse on her arm.

“I’d love to take a walk with you, Avril.”

We’re mostly silent as we walk the short block up Broad Street toward Main Street.

We turn onto the deserted main drag, pausing in front of the salon’s big plateglass windows to watch the three women make quick work of putting the place back in order. They wave at us. We wave back and start walking again.

The street is lit by old-fashioned wrought-iron gas lamps that illuminate the storefronts, allowing just enough light to see inside. We stop again, this time in front of Paula’s Bakery.

“Are you going to take back Mulligan?”

It takes a moment to realize she’s asking if I’ll take back my maiden name. I want to say “I’m a widow, not a divorcée,” but instead, I shake my head.

“I want to keep Chet’s name. At least it makes me feel like I still have a part of him.”

A balmy breeze blows in and I breathe in deeply, savoring the briny ocean scent. I want to ask her about the bruise, but I don’t know how.

Instead, we start walking again.

As we turn the corner to complete our circle around the block, the glow of the gas lamps on Main Street doesn’t illuminate the small community parking lot that’s adjacent to the hardware store. It’s dark and a little eerie hearing the crash of the waves off in the distance.

“Oh, good, Tommy’s back.” Dani gestures to the shadowy far corner of the lot, and I can just make out the outline of a big, dark pickup. “Renie and I walked to the party since Tommy took the truck. I’ll just ride home with him. But, of course, we’ll both see you back down the block.”

It makes me a bit uneasy thinking that Tommy might have given her that bruise, but it seems worse for her to walk in the dark alone. Of course, one of us could have driven her…

“Let’s go around to the back door,” she says. “He’s probably in the office doing paper work.”

She raises her hand to knock, but the door opens and Tommy stumbles out. His long black hair is mussed. His blue button-down shirt is completely open, showing a pelt of dark chest hair that narrows as it disappears beneath the top of his unfastened jeans. Holding a beer bottle in his left hand, he has his right arm draped around the shoulder of a buxom brunette.




CHAPTER 5


Real life never turns out like the movies.

In real life, Superman doesn’t swoop down and catch the jumper before she hits the pavement; the governor doesn’t call at the last second to grant a stay of execution; and when the husband is discovered rumpled and mussed with a sexy bimbo half his age, you just better accept the fact that the screwing going on in the hardware store had nothing to do with hardware.

Well, not the metallic variety anyway.

Yeah. It pretty much boils down to what you see is what you get, despite all the happy spins the Hollywood script-writers have dreamt up. Because let’s face it, Sago Beach is about as far removed from Hollywood as you can get. Since there aren’t writers lurking behind the sets of our lives to script us off the ledge of emotional suicide, nobody was a bit surprised when Dani called in sick Monday morning.

“Not a problem, hon,” Mama said. “Avril will handle your appointments—on a temporary basis. ’Til you feel strong enough to come back to work…Of course we won’t say anything to anyone…Right…No, now Dani, whatever’s said will come from you. It’s not our place to be tellin’ your private business….”

Never mind that she’d already told Lonnie Sue and Gilda the entire story, justifying it with, “We’re like family here. So y’all need to know what’s going on with Dani.”

I get the sinking feeling word will spread just like in the old Fabergé organic shampoo commercial from the late seventies where everyone tells two friends and they tell two friends and so on and so on….

Poor Dani. Nothing like having the entire town take a front-row seat while the intimate details of your marital problems unfold center stage.

Mama cradles the phone between her ear and her shoulder and opens the register. As she counts money into the drawer, she nods and says things like, “Right,” and “Umhm,” and “You poor dear.”

I wonder how she can count and listen at the same time.

Gilda, Lonnie Sue and I pretend we’re not listening. They’re tiding up their stations. I’m setting up all the things I’ll need to get started, which is not much—scissors, combs, brushes, blow dryers, flat irons and curling irons. Everything that fit into one suitcase.

I sold my supply of bleach, foil, color and other expendables to the owner of the last salon I worked in, figuring I could restock once I got here.

The bulk of my belongings are on a truck making the cross-country pilgrimage to join me. I sold the car and some of the larger pieces of furniture. I suppose getting rid of the hair dye didn’t really lighten the load much, but it seemed the thing to do at the time.

You know, one step closer to making a fresh start. When the furniture gets here, I’ll put it in storage. At least for the time being, until I get a place of my own. But for now it feels kind of nice to travel light.

“You don’t suppose Dani caught Tommy with that King girl, do you?” asks Lonnie Sue.

Both she and Gilda stop what they’re doing and look at me.

The ugly scene of two nights ago replays in my mind and a pang for what Dani must be suffering unfurls inside me. Sometimes I miss Chet so badly it’s a physical ache. But seeing how Dani is suffering, I realize at least I still have the sanctity of our marriage to cling to. I don’t know which is worse, to loose your love to death or to another woman. Suddenly talking about Dani behind her back doesn’t seem right.

As I bend to plug in a curling iron, I say, “I have no idea who that King girl is.” Instead of looking at them, I check to make sure the button is turned to Off. Then I look through my purse for my lipstick.

“That’s Jimmy and Bobbi Nell King’s girl. Oh, what was her name…?” In the mirror, I see Gilda’s lips tighten into a thin line and I gather there’s no love lost there. “I guess you wouldn’t know her, seeing how they only lived here a couple or three years. They moved after Mary West caught her husband in a compromising position with that girl.”

I think Gilda means to lower her voice, but all she manages to do is duck her head and say in a loud stage whisper, “Seems she has a thing for married men. Was this gal with Tommy a short redhead?”

I shake my head, relieved when Mama hangs up the phone and Gilda and Lonnie Sue turn to her expectantly.

“Well, that was Dani. She’s going to take some vacation time.” Mama straightens a stack of appointment cards on the desk as she speaks, her eyes averted. Then she plucks a purple feather duster from a drawer and sweeps it around. A nervous gesture that makes me think Mama doesn’t want to gossip about it, either.

“Well, who can blame her?” says Lonnie Sue. “After this, let’s hope she finally dumps the no good jackass. It’s been a long time coming. When she came in here with that black eye, I almost went after him.”

Still holding the duster, Mama puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “Now look, we need to be respectful of Dani’s situation. I’m sure I don’t have to ask you to be discreet.”

Gilda and Lonnie Sue snort and tsk, pulling faces that suggest Mama has cut them to the quick. I put the cap on my lipstick tube, put it back in my purse. Proud of Mama for doing the right thing.

“All rightie then. Avril, I suppose you heard me tell Dani you’d take her appointments today. It’ll give you a chance to get acclimated.”

She flips the sign on the door to Open and unlocks the dead bolt, admitting Maybell Jennings, who’s wearing a red headscarf tied beneath her chin.

“Mornin’ Ms. Maybell.” Gilda motions her client over and pats the chair.

“Well, howdy-do girls.” Maybell hefts herself into the chair with an oomph and pulls off the scarf, revealing a head full of small gray mesh rollers with pink picks poking out at all angles.

“Just a comb-out today, honey. Hope you got lots of gossip because I’m hungry for it this morning. So dish it up, sweet and juicy.”

Gilda shoots Mama a guilty look. Mama raises her brows at her in a don’t-you-dare warning that I remember so well from when I was growing up. Gilda gives Mama an almost imperceptible nod of understanding before she starts removing the rollers from the older woman’s hair.

Apparently satisfied, Mama walks back to the desk. “Avril, your first client is Marge Shoemaker, but she’s not due in for another hour and she’s always at least a half-hour late—”

The chime on the door sounds. My stomach lurches when I see Max Wright, my cowboy airplane seatmate, standing there with his black hat in his hand.



IT’S SUCH A Catch-22, small-town life. At times like this, I realize I have a love-hate relationship with it. I love being part of the fabric in the patchwork quilt that is a community. Still, I hate the way everyone knows your business—sometimes before you do.

Max stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning sun. Every gaze in the room is fixed on him. Especially Lonnie Sue, whose face lights up as she locks in on him like a homing device on a target.

Man at eleven o’clock. BeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeep.

Target locked.

“Well, Avril, look who’s here to see you,” Mama says before Lonnie Sue can launch herself. “It’s Max, isn’t it?”

All heads swivel from him to me. I stand there like a dolt, not knowing what to say other than, “What are you doing here?”

It sounds wrong. Snippy. I want to explain to him that it’s not that I’m unhappy seeing him standing there. In my mother’s salon. Knowing he’s come all this way. I suppose surprised is a better way to put it. I’m surprised. And a little uncomfortable. Embarrassed by the palpable waves of glee radiating off my mother. But before I can utter a word, Gilda says, “I don’t suppose you’re here for a haircut, are you, darlin’? If so, Avril can take you now. Can’t ya, hon?”

A grin tugs at Max’s lips. He runs his free hand through his hair. I force myself to hold his gaze.

“Actually, I’ve come to see if Avril would like to have a cup of coffee with me sometime.”

“She’s free right now.” Lonnie Sue shoves me toward Max. I stumble and whack my hip on the chair at my station.

I don’t even have to glance in the mirror to know my face is flushed.

I may have fleetingly forgotten the perils of small-town life, might have been momentarily drawn in by the hunger to be part of that patchwork quilt, but Lonnie Sue’s shove jolts me back to reality.

Even though I really don’t want to have coffee with Max—or any man who isn’t Chet—I’d better get him out of the salon before the girls graduate to the next step which is dragging out my baby photos and old home movies.

“I suppose I’ll take a break now.”

I brush past him, motioning for him to follow me outside.

He does.

Once the door is closed securely behind me, I say, “Well, this is a surprise. What brings you to the ’hood?”

He looks at me for a few beats, and I want to squirm.

“I had to see for myself where Sago Beach’s very own beauty operator to the stars holds court.”

I shake my head and do my best to suppress a smile.

“Okay then, I understand there’s a place nearby that serves the best cup of coffee this side of—” He glances down the street toward the big Founder’s Day Celebration banner. “This side of Main Street. Or is that just an urban legend?”

I snort and I’m not even embarrassed.

“Definitely urban legend. Despite the beauty and old-fashioned feel of downtown Sago Beach, there’s one thing it lacks.”

I arch a brow at him, challenging him to venture a guess.

“A place where you can get a decent cup of joe?”

I nod.

“Uh-oh.” He grimaces.

“Oh, wait, it gets worse. Do you know there’s not even a place within walking distance where you can get a cup of coffee to go? Totally foreign concept ’round these parts. If you want someone to serve you coffee, you sit down in a booth, drink it out of a sturdy white mug and you don’t pay an arm and a leg for it. The folks at the Sago Diner wouldn’t dream of asking you to shell out nearly five dollars for a cup of frou-frou that doesn’t include all the free refills you care to sit there and drink.”

He laughs. “It’s a nasty urban legend then.”

“Yep, and too bad because if there’s one thing the fine people of Sago Beach definitely need, it’s a good, strong infusion of caffeine.”

His back is to the shop’s large picture window, which my mother is now cleaning with a wad of paper towels and a bottle of Windex. She catches my eye.

Suddenly I wish I could take back everything I’d just said.

Who am I to judge?

So snarky.

So superior.

I didn’t mean to be so harsh. Even though that wasn’t always the case. Before I left seventeen years ago, it seemed to me as if all the locals were walking in their sleep. Sometimes I wanted to give them all a good hard shake and yell, Wake up! Don’t you see that there’s so much more to life than this?

Now, here I am back with the best of them. I didn’t exactly set the world ablaze. I guess some might say the laugh’s on me.

Mama motions across the street, and mouths Go! She points to her watch.

One word comes to mind: fishbowl. Again, guilt tugs at me as I weigh the pros and cons of coming home.

“But I suppose good coffee is judged by the buds of the taster,” I say.

He nods, puts on his hat. “Well then, why don’t we go to the Sago Diner and I’ll decide for myself?”

As we wait for a car to pass before we cross the street I ask, “Are you in town on business?”

“Nope, just came over to see you.” He jerks a thumb toward the banner. “To ask you to that Founder’s Day dance they’re advertising. That is if you don’t already have a date.”

Oh. This makes me squirm. It makes me feel strange, as if I’m being unfaithful to Chet.

“Well, that’s a long way off.”

He nods, but doesn’t look convinced.

I’m not ready for a man to commute to see me.

I’m not ready to date anyone. Period.

Even if he lives next door.

We cross the street in silence because suddenly I can’t think of a thing to say.

I’m glad he doesn’t push the dance, but I also have this horror-flash that we’re in for a round of bad coffee and stilted conversation because I feel clumsy and tongue-tied.

Harry Philby walks out of the bakery and stops, blatantly eyeing Max up and down. We pass Jillian Lamb and Karen Foster on the sidewalk on the way to the diner. I mumble a quick hello and keep walking because I don’t want to be forced to introduce Max.

In the split second as we pass them, I’m sure I see them look at each other, registering: Avril’s taken up with a stranger. Husband’s been dead less than a year. How disrespectful to Chet.

Tanya Adams comes out of the coffee shop as we start to enter. Max holds open the door. Her bulky frame blocks the way, so we have no choice but to stop and talk.

“Well, howdy-do, Avril. Good to see you, sweetie. I’m sorry I couldn’t make the party the other night. Hal was home with the creeping crud. Men. They’re such babies when they get sick.”

She eyes Max as if he’s the special of the day at Howard Tilly’s butcher shop. “And who might we have here?”

She virtually licks her lips.

I stand there frozen because, for the life of me, I can’t remember Max’s last name.

“Max Wright.” He holds out his hand and smiles.

She grips his fingers and titters, her double chin wobbling like a turkey waddle.

“Did you come home from California with Avril?”

“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.”

I flinch. “Well, not exactly with me. I met Mr. Wright on the plane.”

This time I cringe.

Mr. Wright sounds like Mr. Right. Oh, for the love of—

“Well, is that so? How romantic! Some girls wait their entire lives and never meet Mr. Right. You’re lucky enough to have had two Mr. Rights. You lead a charmed life, ladybug.”

“No, that’s not what I—”

“Now, don’t you worry what anyone might say about it being too soon to jump back into that dating pool. This is not the Victorian age. Chet would’ve wanted this for you.”

“Tanya, Max and I are not—”

“Baby doll, you don’t have to explain to me or anyone else. It’s none of nobody’s business what you two are doing. You’re both consenting adults.” She jabs a chubby finger at Max. “You just be sure you treat her right if you know what’s good for you. She’s been through too much heartbreak already. There’s a lot of people around here who’ll skin you alive if you hurt our Avril.”

He crosses his arms and flashes a smile.

“Oh, my intentions are perfectly honorable. Don’t you worry about that.”

I’m absolutely immobilized by the scene unfolding in front of me. Immobilized and horrified. I want to say something. I know I should say something.

For that matter, why doesn’t Mr. Right-Wright set her straight instead of egging her on?

“Oh, would you look at the time,” says Tanya. “I have to run.” She cocks her head to the side and flashes a coy grin. “Mr. Right. Oh, it’s so romantic. You kids restore my faith in love. Toodles.”




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