Читать книгу Texan for the Holidays - Victoria Chancellor - Страница 5

Saturday, December 1, 2007

“California, here I come,” Scarlett shouted out the window of her aging Benz into the Texas prairie. No one was around to hear, but that was okay. Before long, lots of people would know Scarlett, hairstylist to the stars. She rolled up the window, feeling refreshed from the brisk, cool air.

She was making good time, despite the wrong turn she’d taken back in Dallas. And she’d missed Interstate 35W because she’d been surrounded by huge gravel-hauler trucks. Instead of backtracking, Scarlet had continued on. Eventually, Texas Highway 114 would intersect westbound Interstate 40, somewhere in Oklahoma.

Over an hour after missing the interstate, she passed a city sign that said Loving and noted the town had just a few small buildings. “I’m not loving Texas right now,” she said out loud, and laughed at her joke. She turned up the radio and sang along with U2.

Her smile faded when she looked into the rearview mirror to check on an old truck she’d just passed. It was weaving under the weight of about a thousand chicken crates that looked as if they might fall over at any minute.

But the old truck wasn’t the only vehicle with a problem. Black smoke billowed in fat inky spirals from her engine—that noisy diesel combustion thing. She knew just enough about cars to add oil, water and of course, fuel, intermittently. Black smoke could not be good. Not good at all…

She checked the gauges and discovered her engine was red-hot. And her oil gauge needle was not where it was supposed to be. When had that happened?

“Darn it,” she murmured as she slowed the Benz and looked for a place to pull off. Up ahead, she spotted a wide, rocky patch of dry brown grass and prickly pear cactus. She’d let the car cool off, add some water and oil from the stash she never left home without, and get to the next service station.

She shut off the engine, then opened her door. The cold air coming out of the north nearly took her breath away. Just then the old truck chugged by. It slowed, and Scarlett felt a moment of panic. Was it safe to be alone out here? She hadn’t been afraid traveling by herself all the way from Atlanta, and it was broad daylight.

“Need any help?” a raspy voice called to her. A man leaned out the window and Scarlett could see a leathery, stubbled cheek and some missing teeth.

“No, I’m okay.” I hope. Maybe I should pray….

“If you need a ride, I can take you to Brody’s Crossing.”

“Thanks, but my car just needs a rest. I’m adding some oil and we’ll be on our way soon.”

“Could be blown.”

What could be blown? She didn’t even want to think about that statement! “Um…”

“Well, ride’s up to you.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m prepared for this type of situation.” Not that this exact scenario had ever happened before.

“Good luck to you, little gal.”

Scarlett stifled her surprise. Little gal? “Is there a service station in Brody’s Crossing?” So far, she’d only seen modern convenience stores-slash-filling stations.

“McCaskie’s. It’s on the main street. Can’t miss it.”

“Well, thanks again.”

“Sure ’nuff,” he said, before spitting between his missing teeth. “’Course, Claude may not work on these fur-in cars.” Then he put his truck in gear and slowly inched away, crates swaying and chickens squawking.

Fur-in? Oh, he meant foreign. How…quaint. She hoped McCaskie’s wasn’t as predisposed to American-made.

Scarlett let out a sigh. She was all alone with a broken down fur-in car. Oh, well. Worse things could happen.

At least she still had all her teeth.

MCCASKIE’S SERVICE STATION was closed for the afternoon. And things had definitely gotten worse.

Oh, she still had her teeth. And she hadn’t sprouted any facial hair. But her car sat dying beside the road a little more than halfway to Graham, which she’d learned during her ride to town—in a drafty pickup loaded with Christmas trees—was the county seat and the largest town in the area. She huddled out of the wind next to two old-fashioned pumps, wondering what to do now.

Today was Saturday afternoon. Didn’t these people need to drive around, buy gas? The sign on the fingerprint-smudged glass door of McCaskie’s simply indicated the place was closed for the afternoon, and advised people to “have fun.” What the heck?

Brody’s Crossing looked as if it had been designed as a movie set for Holiday Hometown, America, complete with tinsel garlands and peppermint canes swaying from streetlights in the brisk wind. A few temporary traffic barricades stood on the sidewalk.

She hoisted her backpack-style purse onto her shoulder, zipped up her hooded sweatshirt and set off for the central business district, which she figured was maybe two blocks long. Three at the most. She’d seen small towns similar to this when her mother had dragged her around Georgia, antiquing.

Scarlett hated antiquing almost as much as she hated being stranded in a town where service stations closed on Saturday afternoons and sidewalks were barricaded.

In just a minute or two she arrived at Clarissa’s House of Style, an old-fashioned “beauty shop” in a brick-and-frame narrow, long building that might have been a house years ago. A big picture window lined with multicolored lights and silver tinsel gave the shop a cheery glow on the blustery day.

Since she only felt at home when she was in a salon, Scarlett couldn’t wait to enter. The smells of shampoo, conditioner, styling products and even perms. The sight of dramatic hairstyle posters and fashion magazines to stimulate creativity. The subtle chatter of clients and stylists, the intense concentration of manicurists, and even the gentle splash of water in the big basins. She loved it all.

As Scarlett stepped into the House of Style, everyone in the place stopped talking to stare. She focused on the person closest to the door, whose name tag read Clarissa.

“What can I do for you, hon?” The older lady smiled as she lifted her penciled brows. Clarissa was slightly over-weight, well-endowed and middle-aged. Her hair was blond, teased and sprayed into submission. Her most defining characteristic, though, was the traditional pink smock worn by many small-town hairdressers.

Scarlett felt as if she’d walked into every proprietor-owned salon she’d ever seen—and some where she’d worked—in Georgia. Then her smile faded. She didn’t want to revisit her early years. She wanted to go to California, where stylists wouldn’t be caught dead in pink smocks.

“Hi, I’m Scarlett. My car broke down about ten miles away, and I got a ride into town. The service station is closed and I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“Why, today is the Christmas parade, that’s what!” Clarissa answered with a chuckle. “It’s just about the biggest event this side of the prom or…homecoming. We’re fixing hair for all the holiday princesses!”

For the first time, Scarlett really looked at each person in the salon. Sure enough, although there seemed to be only two stylists, all four chairs were filled, with teenage girls. They looked like little clones. Blond or blondish, with updos and tendrils right out of the 1990s.

Yep, she’d stepped into a time warp. “I see.” She sighed and hoped she could talk McCaskie, or someone who knew car repairs, into looking at her Benz, despite the apparent importance of the parade. “I’m not from around here.”

“Oh, we figured that one out right away!” the other stylist said with a chuckle.

Scarlett gave her an insincere smile instead of a snappy comment, and turned back to Clarissa. “Is there another garage where someone might look at my car?”

“No, hon, I’m sorry, but Claude McCaskie is about the only one around. He’s got a tow truck, but he’s using it now over at the high school parking lot. He always pulls the holiday princess float, doesn’t he, Venetia?”

“You bet. Every year,” the other stylist answered.

“Maybe I could go over to the school and see if he could take some time off to tow my car.”

“I’ve never known Claude to miss the Christmas parade. He takes real pride in helping out. He used to be Santa, you see, but lost weight once he was diagnosed with sugar diabetes and started eating that glycemic index food.”

No, Scarlett didn’t see, but she needed loyal Claude and his tow truck. “Is the high school very far?” Maybe she could walk over and talk to him.

“Just about half a mile south on the farm-to-market road. But really, hon, I don’t think he’s going to give up his afternoon. He sure enjoys a good parade.”

“I understand, but my car is sitting out there beside the road, and I don’t have a lot of options.”

Clarissa sighed. “Let me get finished with Shawna’s hair and I’ll make a phone call out to the school. I might get lucky and find someone who could talk to Claude.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“Have a seat,” Clarissa said as she finished Shawna’s updo. The girl’s face was too small and thin to pull off that style. She needed something simple, preferably short, with just enough volume to frame her eyes.

Please, God, do not let her near blue, sparkly eye shadow, Scarlett silently prayed.

“If I can’t get my car repaired, is there a motel or hotel where I can get a room?”

“Well, that’s the thing about small towns, hon. They don’t always have a Holiday Inn. The Sweet Dreams Motel closed about the time the first George Bush became president, and no one’s opened another place since then. Mostly, folks stay with relatives or down in Graham.”

“Oh.” That was bad. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Let me think while I finish up with Shawna.” Clarissa grabbed a can of fine mist spray and applied it liberally to poor Shawna’s old-fashioned, too-mature-for-her updo. Shaking her head at her critical thoughts, Scarlett dug in her backpack for her wallet.

As soon as Clarissa put down the spray, Scarlet handed her her Georgia hairdresser’s license. “I didn’t mention it earlier, but I’m a stylist also. I’m just passing through on my way to California.”

“Why, look at that. So you are.” Clarissa smiled and handed the paper back to Scarlett. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for a job, are you, Sa—?”

“Scarlett. I don’t go by that other name,” she said just above a whisper. “No, I’m only passing through.”

“Well, hon, if you wanted to help with some styling this afternoon, I could trade you a place to stay this weekend. Believe me, Claude McCaskie isn’t going to get your car fixed until Monday at the earliest.”

Scarlett looked around the shop and wondered if she’d be forced to create any atrocious updos on other unsuspecting teens. But if she could get a place to stay, it might be worth it.

“I’d offer you my guest bedroom, but I live out in the country, and since you don’t have a car, that wouldn’t be practical. At the salon, you’d be almost across the street from Claude’s garage. This building had an apartment in the back many years ago, so there’s a full bathroom, and we have a sofa sleeper in the back room. There’s a café and a burger place nearby.”

“Sounds good. Do you have more appointments this afternoon?”

“Hon, we’ve got four more coming in and I’m about dead on my feet. Venetia is probably worn to a nub, too, aren’t you, Venetia? We had a part-time stylist, but she up and moved to Dallas with her boyfriend. We could use some help.”

“If you’ll try to get in touch with Mr. McCaskie, I’ll be glad to help out. If on the off chance he can get my car fixed, I’ll head out later. Either way, I should be able to handle at least two clients.”

“That’s real good news.” Clarissa swept the vinyl cape off the teen. “You’re all finished. I’ll ring you up, Shawna, and then I’ll make the call out to the school.”

Scarlett smiled. “That would be great. Thank you, Clarissa.” She was glad to trade a few shampoos, sets and styles for a place to stay—if she got stuck in Brody’s Crossing for a couple of nights.

Come Monday, though, she was having her car repaired and getting back on the road to L.A.—come hell, high water or Christmas parades.

LATER THAT DAY, Scarlett stood on the front steps of Clarissa’s House of Style and watched the Brody’s Crossing Christmas parade pass by. So far she’d seen little girls in red tights and sequined leotards twirling their batons; cute little cowboys leading saddled pinto ponies; the high school marching band belting out a stirring rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”; and a beautiful vintage Thunderbird with the mayor of Brody’s Crossing, a surprisingly young, pretty blonde who waved like a beauty queen. She’d probably been a holiday princess a few years back, Scarlett theorized as she huddled in her hoodie.

And now, the holiday princess float came into view, pulled by a man in a Santa suit driving the McCaskie’s Service Station tow truck. That must be Claude, former Santa and absent mechanic. Darn him for being so civic minded. Her poor car was dead and Claude didn’t care.

Scarlett shook her head to clear the negative thoughts. The float appeared to be a flatbed trailer of some type wrapped in white paper and fluffy imitation snow. Blue snowflakes and hand-painted candies adorned the sides. Above, the princesses waved and smiled to the crowd lining the street, their fake-fur-trimmed white dresses blowing in the breeze. There was even a hint of sparkly blue eyeshadow.

Scarlett smiled and waved at Ashley Desmond, whose hair she’d worked on this afternoon. She looked wonderful in her loosely twisted curls. Ashley smiled back, and Scarlett hugged her arms around herself, pleased that although she was stranded in middle America, she’d made a small difference today.

At least Ashley appeared age-appropriate, in a style suited for her face and stature. She had her own “look,” which was just about the most important asset a teenage girl could possess. After all, not everyone was the same, inside and out.

Scarlett wished her parents and siblings understood her point of view, but they thought everyone should be satisfied to model their virtues—namely, success, stability and respectability.

Well, she didn’t want to be a banker or a doctor or a lawyer, then marry well, produce two or three children on a timetable, and live in the suburbs. She wanted to see the world, meet interesting individuals and be appreciated for her talent with hair.

As the holiday princess float moved slowly down the street, Scarlett hoped the teenager would pursue her own dreams, wherever they led her. Even if you sometimes landed halfway to where you were going.

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, after Scarlett had slept as long as possible on the slightly lumpy sofa bed in the back room of the salon, Clarissa surprised her. The cheerful blonde bustled into the shop, bringing some cold wind and a whiff of the season. Someone must be cutting evergreen branches, Scarlett thought, as Clarissa placed her purse on the counter.

“I’m going to the drugstore down in Graham, so I thought I’d see if you wanted to get out.”

“I might need some things, depending on how long I’m going to be here.”

“I imagine it’s going to be a few days, and I don’t mind saying, I’m glad. I’m really happy for your help, Scarlett.”

A feeling of warmth flowed through her, but then reality hit. Scarlett didn’t want to feel wanted here in Texas. That was the whole point of leaving Georgia—she needed to get to L.A. She’d come to the realization that even if Claude towed her car later today, it wouldn’t be fixed immediately.

“Let me get my shoes on and fluff my hair, and I’ll be ready to go.”

Clarissa drove them to Graham, where they shopped at a chain drugstore. Graham was quite a bit larger than Brody’s Crossing.

“Why don’t you come to the community center with me?” Clarissa asked as they drove back to town. “We’re putting together some gift bags for the children’s Christmas party next Saturday.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“We’d love the help.”

Scarlett didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the trade-off of the free room and even the trip to the store, but she didn’t want to get pulled into the activities of the town, even if the idea of spending time with other people was far more appealing than sitting alone. Today it would be gift baskets, then tomorrow something else, until she was committed to serving as Santa’s elf on Christmas Eve!

“I really appreciate it, Clarissa, but I’ll pass. I…I won’t be here long enough to get involved.”

Clarissa seemed surprised, glancing away from the road just a moment. Then she said, “Well, if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I just thought you might rather be over there than all by yourself.”

“I’ll catch up on my reading. And if you need anything done at the shop—inventory, cleaning, stocking—just let me know.”

“Oh, we’re fine. If you change your mind, the community center is just two blocks away. Ask anyone for directions.”

“Sure.” But Scarlett knew she wasn’t going to the center on Sunday afternoon. Doing hair was one thing, but packing gift baskets was way too friendly for someone just passing through.

“I WANT TO SUE THAT NEW hairdresser at Clarissa’s House of Style,” the voice coming from the reception area insisted. “That red-haired, young, weird-looking one that just got into town.” The rather unpleasant, strident tones were directed at James’s mother, who worked part-time as his receptionist.

“What happened, Delores? I didn’t know Clarissa had hired a new hairdresser,” James heard his mother ask.

“She’s a menace! This was the first time Ashley was a holiday princess, and her parade was ruined!”

“Ruined? That’s just terrible.”

Don’t encourage her, Mom, James thought as he pushed away from his desk and walked toward the reception area. His mother was too sympathetic to be a good screener, but she had a big heart and people did trust her. The problem was that a few of the citizens of Brody’s Crossing had become a bit lawsuit crazy since he’d moved his practice back home last year.

Especially whenever one of the television network “in-depth” reports featured some evil-doing, money-hungry, corporate giant who was out to get the little guy. Last week Myra Hammer had wanted to sue the grocery for selling her bruised bananas. The week before, Sam Gibson had insisted that he should sue the used car dealer in Graham because the pickup he’d just bought had a blowout, so obviously the tire was defective.

The citizens of Brody’s Crossing did not need encouragement in the lawsuit department.

“Hello, Mrs. Desmond.” Demanding Desmond. That’s what everyone called her behind her back. Not him, but he’d heard waitresses, clerks and other workers complain. So far, though, no one had tried to sue her for unreasonable demands or poor tips. “What’s the problem?”

“As I was telling your mother, that new red-haired hairdresser at Clarissa’s ruined my daughter’s hair for the holiday princess float and lunch at the community center.”

“When you say ruined, do you mean permanently?”

“No! But you know how important the parade is. All the girls wear upsweeps with those little rhinestone clips, and they do their makeup to match. Why, they all look so pretty up there on the float.”

James sighed. He remembered how his high school girlfriend, Jennifer Hopkins, had been a holiday princess. She was married now with two children and he…wasn’t. “Do you have photos or any other proof?”

“I certainly do! They’re all right here, in that disposable digital camera I bought at the CVS in Graham.”

“Why don’t we wait until you get those photos developed, then we can talk?”

“Just look at them in the little window. You can see clear as day that Ashley’s hair is not only inappropriate for a princess float, but is just too trendy for us. Why, it looks like something out of one of those Hollywood Grammys or Oscars or some such nonsense. You know how strange those actresses look.”

James repressed a sigh and accepted the camera Mrs. Desmond thrust into his hand. “Turn it on right here,” she advised him, and he looked at photo after photo of dear Ashley wearing a fake-fur-trimmed gown. Her hair had been fluffed up and back, in some kind of curls, a style that did stand out among the other girls. Ashley’s hair appeared a bit softer around her small face.

“It’s different.” And maybe better, James thought, but didn’t add his editorial comment. He was no expert on current teenage hairstyles. Or teenage girl anything.

“So different that I’m sure everyone was laughing behind her back.”

“Did anyone make a comment to you or to her?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t thinking it!”

“Did you speak to Clarissa or the new stylist?”

“No, I did not! I didn’t see Ashley’s hair until I went to the parade, and by then, the damage was already done. I thought I should talk to you first, to see what my legal options are.” Demanding Desmond leaned closer and narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t want to do or say anything that might influence my legal rights.”

James repressed another sigh. “You can’t sue because you didn’t like the hairstyle. You need actual damages.”

“How about the damage to my daughter’s image? She won’t even talk about it. That’s how upset she is.”

“James, why don’t you talk to that new hairdresser? Maybe she just doesn’t understand what’s expected of her.”

“Mother, don’t you think that’s Clarissa’s job?”

“Well, maybe…”

“Excellent idea!” Mrs. Desmond said. “You go talk to Clarissa and you’ll see what I mean.”

“I don’t think—”

“Yes, that sounds reasonable,” his mother interrupted.

He glared at his mom, then said, “Mrs. Desmond, with all due respect, I don’t have a dog in this fight.”

“Dogs? Who’s talking about dogs? This is about hairstyles!”

His point exactly, which apparently he wasn’t going to be allowed to make between his mother’s inherent sympathy and her hopes for a potential client.

“I was just going to lunch.”

“Fine. Then you can stop by Clarissa’s on your way over to the Burger Barn.”

“Mrs. Desmond, I’m not agreeing to take your case.”

“Okay, but once you see this new hairdresser, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Her hair is as red as the volunteer fire department’s new truck! She’s not one of us. I don’t know where she’s from, but it’s not around here, that’s for sure.”

Which made James wonder what a fire-engine-red-haired, innovative stylist was doing in Brody’s Crossing, Texas.

A few minutes later, with Mrs. Desmond gone and his mother nibbling on a tuna salad sandwich at her desk, James grabbed his jacket and headed for the Burger Barn, which was across the street from Clarissa’s House of Style. Eat first, ask questions later. He would not be lured into the beauty shop out of curiosity. That type of behavior could get him in trouble—with himself, if not anyone else.

But when he walked by Clarissa’s, he glanced into the big picture window. Just to see if they were open and working. He squinted against the bright December sunlight, wondering if his eyes could be trusted.

He stopped on the uneven concrete sidewalk and stared as the petite hairdresser brushed and used a blow dryer on someone older—he couldn’t tell who from this angle.

Wow. The newcomer’s hair really was as red as the fire truck. Her bright green sweater ended just shy of her belly button, which twinkled with a tiny bit of silver or gold. Her jeans were tight in all the right places. Several long strands of beads swung as she wielded the blow dryer. Overall, she looked as if she were a Christmas elf making mischief inside Clarissa’s shop.

He approached the door, all thoughts of burgers gone.