Читать книгу Beauty Shop Tales - Nancy Thompson Robards - Страница 9

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.”