by Fiona West
“Including color?”
“Of course,” Willow sniffed. “I can’t have my roots showing, even if my mind is going.” It was the first joke Martina had heard Willow make about her diagnosis, and she took it as a positive sign. As she’d requested, Farrah turned Willow’s chair so that she wasn’t pointed at the mirror, so that Martina could sit in Willow’s line of sight in a hard plastic chair. She picked up a magazine and pretended to read as the women around her chatted and gossiped.
When Farrah and Willow came back from getting Willow’s hair washed, she looked so relaxed, Martina was tempted to ask Carter to invest in one of those sinks for the estate. It was a cool, cloudy day outside, but the salon was warm and bright.
“How are your boys?” Farrah asked lightly, combing out Willow’s long tresses.
“Oh,” sighed Willow, “about the same. Carter’s around, but I never see the other two. They’re all so busy with their own lives. How are yours? Plus Maggie?”
“Oh, the boys are okay, but Maggie . . .” Farrah gave a deep sigh. “Don’t get me started on Maggie.”
“What’s she up to now?” Willow asked, dutifully tipping her head down, and Martina noticed several women seemed to be listening in as well.
“Oh, nothing in particular, she’s just so secretive about everything. She entered a contest for her art, and then she didn’t even tell us when she won! The only reason Evan even found out is that she was trying to get her brothers to cash her winnings for her, since she didn’t have a checking account, and Kyle ratted her out.”
“Let me guess: she didn’t tell him it was a secret,” Willow smiled knowingly. Martina felt the richness of the many years of conversations they’d had together, and she reminded herself to try to find out who else Willow had been close to. There was no reason they should be lost.
“You got it in one,” Farrah laughed. “I just wish she felt like she could confide in me like the boys do. She talks to Evan, she talks to Daniel and Philip and Kyle, even to Winnie, but not to me. She’s even started a sibling night, but Evan and I aren’t invited.”
“I think that’s quite normal, though,” Willow said. “I used to feel a bit hurt when the boys did things without us, but whenever I felt left out, I just told myself that it was a blessing to have children who got along so well. They’ll still be friends long after I’m gone.” That hit Martina right in the chest for two reasons: first, she knew that would likely be earlier than Willow had originally planned, and that sucked; second, she used to have that kind of relationship with her older sisters. But when they married, something had fundamentally shifted for them. It wasn’t just that they had kids now and she didn’t; they still hung out, but it was harder to confide in them now. She felt self-conscious talking about her single girl problems when those were so firmly in the past for them.
“You’re probably right. Still hurts, though,” Farrah admitted.
“For what it’s worth,” Hattie offered, “my kids did the same thing. I expected them to form secret clubs when they were kids, not when they were grown-up.”
“Exactly,” Farrah said, pointing with the scissors. “And she still has no idea what she’s going to do after graduation.” Martina couldn’t relate to that at all; she’d always wanted to be a nurse. “I can’t even get her to look at the promotional literature for any of the nearby schools. When I try to talk to her about it, she just goes into her room and shuts the door.”
“Does she have a computer in there?”
“No, but she has her art supplies, and that’s better than the internet, as far as she’s concerned.” She sighed. “And she has zero interest in her looks. I thought we could at least bond over that, now that she’s older. But all she wants to do is read Terry Pratchett, paint, and be alone. She’s never even gone on a date.”
“Carter used to, but now he just stays home all the time. I don’t know if he’s depressed or what.” Willow didn’t seem to realize the irony behind her words, that her mental decline might be responsible for both his depression and his staying home, but thankfully, no one pointed it out to her.
“Are you organizing the bachelor auction this year, Willow?” Hattie asked as her stylist ruffled her hair and tried to even out the layers. Martina frowned slightly; did Hattie not know about Willow’s diagnosis? Had Harrison not told anyone at work? Some things were private, yes, but surely he’d at least told the board. How else was he explaining his absences for her appointments?
“No, I wasn’t available this year,” she said, somewhat vacantly, and Martina wondered if she even knew it was a lie.
“I heard Tina Gross was organizing it,” Farrah said, and Willow huffed.
“She couldn’t organize her way out of an Hermes bag,” she quipped, and several of the other women laughed.
“You put on such a wonderful event last year,” Hattie said. “Highest donations in five years. Of course, having your youngest in the line-up didn’t hurt . . .”
Martina put her gaze back on the magazine. She didn’t want to think about women clamoring for a shot with Carter.
“He’s a keeper, that’s for sure,” Willow said softly, and something in her tone made Martina look up. The older woman was staring at her, her gaze almost wistful, intimate, like they were sharing a secret. Martina painted a smile onto her face, then ducked her head again.
Color took an hour, and then Farrah insisted on drying Willow’s hair, so it was lunchtime by the time they were done. Farrah seemed unconcerned by the time, and as Willow got hugs goodbye, Martina breathed a sigh of relief that it had all gone so well. She opened the car door for Willow and made sure she got her seatbelt buckled. When she straightened to go to the driver’s side, she jumped. Hattie was standing next to her, looking concerned.
“Do you have a moment, Martina?”
“Of course,” she said, tossing her hair. She smiled. “What’s up?”
“I assume you’re working for the Carpenters; is that correct?”
“For Carter, yes.”
Hattie nodded slowly. “Do you mind if I ask why Willow needs your services?”
“I’d prefer you talk to Harrison or Carter about it,” she said. “Privacy and all that.”
She nodded again. “Understandable. Just please know that she is always welcome at town functions. We will accommodate her however she needs us to. Every one of those women today has missed her and was genuinely glad to see her. I hope you’ll bring her around more often, even if her hair doesn’t really need a trim.”
Oh dear. That had Martina tearing up a little, and she blinked the tears away. “Thank you, Mrs. Myers-Bigsby.”
“Please, call me Hattie.” She smiled. “I’ll see you around town.”
“Okay.”
CHAPTER NINE
MARTINA GOT UP EARLY to get ready for her hangout with Greg on Saturday: she blow-dried her hair and straightened it instead of just slapping it up into a wet ponytail. She didn't want the ends to wave. She kept her makeup light but intentional, and she put on her black fleece-lined leggings (the best invention ever) with a checkered black-and-white collared shirt (for a bit of flair) and a tan cable-knit sweater (because it was warm) over the top. Her nude heeled boots completed the ensemble. She knew she'd probably have to take them off the moment she got inside, but she never got to wear them to work, and she didn't want them to feel neglected. Plus, it made for a heck of an impression at the front door. She wasn't a short girl, and the added height put her close to eye-level with Greg. There was something sexy about eye contact.
When she looked up the address online, she blinked. She knew that place; that was Mildred and Dennis Wilson's house. Millie was in the quilt guild with her mother, and she often quilted large projects on the long-arm machine she owned as a side business. She wasn't sure what Mr. Wilson used to do; he was retired now. A teacher, maybe? She couldn't remember. He was outside watering his roses when she pulled into the driveway a little while later, and he waved at her. She waved back and gave him a big smile. Not that
she ever tried to be rude, but it didn't hurt to be extra friendly with old people; they were her future clients, after all.
“Hola, Martina!” he called as she stepped out. Oh yes, she remembered now: he was the old Spanish teacher at the high school, before she'd been there.
“Good morning,” she called back in Spanish. “I'm just here to see Greg.” Her heels wobbled on the gravel, and she paused to make sure she didn't turn an ankle.
He gestured with his free hand to the garage. “Yes, their apartment is just up there.” She paused, confused. Was he conjugating wrong, or was there more than one person living here?
“Their?”
“Oh yes, it's just the two of them. Greg and Tharushi.” Oh? How had she not known that Dr. Udawatte lived here, too? It made sense; they were in the same residency group with Daniel, and there wasn't a lot of high-density housing around Timber Falls. She was lucky to have her own apartment; she'd inherited the lease from her sister Augustina when she married Stephen.
“Oh, sure. Thanks. Have a nice weekend.”
“Careful on the steps in those fancy shoes!” he called, and she smiled. You're just jealous. I bet Millie never wore heels this awesome in her life. Martina mounted the wooden stairway to the upper-level apartment over the garage and despite her annoyance, she did use the handrail. She was stylish, not stupid. She checked her hair and makeup with her phone camera, snapped a selfie for good measure, then knocked quietly at the door. Greg opened it almost immediately; in his black polo shirt and khaki pants, they looked like they'd planned it. Too bad they weren't going out; she wouldn't mind being seen as part of a couple who has it together.
“Hey, Martina. You look great!”
“Oh, thanks,” she said, stepping inside and unzipping her boots. “So do you. We look like we planned it.”
“Yeah. Weird coincidence, eh?” Was he Canadian? She didn't think so. Maybe his parents were. She took a moment to look around the place; it was sparsely furnished, but it looked comfortably lived-in. The kitchen was clean. That mattered. Time would tell on the bathroom, but men's apartments weren't known for cleanliness that arena. At least he didn't have a male roommate; that lowered the odds considerably. “Thanks for coming over. I was flattered that you offered.”
“You're such a sweetheart,” she said, taking a spot on the couch. “I'm happy to help.”
“Can I get you anything? We might have some orange juice or something.” He mumbled the last bit as he stuck his head in the fridge. Most commercially-produced juices had little nutritional value; she'd already purged the Carpenters' fridge, much to Carter's dismay. She grinned a little as she remembered his annoyed face when he discovered her “improvements.” Pastor Kellan had been glad to get all that junk for the food pantry at the church. Then she noticed Greg was watching, his head cocked. Oh right, a drink.
“I'll take some water. Thanks.” She picked up the textbook next to her on the couch. “Addiction, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said, handing her a glass of water. “Dr. Baker wants us boning up on it. Been seeing more opioid cases lately.”
“Ooh. That's not good.” She opened the book. “Do you want me to quiz you or just read to you?” She'd done that with Daniel, too, in her down time at the hospital, once he'd told her about his dyslexia.
“Quiz me.”
“You got it.”
The front door opened and Tharushi came in wearing black nylon tights and a black jacket and running shoes, looking at her phone, her dark hair in a high ponytail, her chest damp and heaving. She froze for a moment, then removed her wireless Bluetooth headphones slowly. “Hi.”
“Hey.” Martina waved. “How are you?”
“I'm fine.” Her voice was flat. “How are you?”
“Oh, I'm great, thanks. Just helping your roomie study.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I won't keep you, then.”
“Why don't you join us?” Greg offered. “You know, after your shower?”
She looked at both of them, her gaze narrowed, assessing something Martina couldn't begin to imagine. “No, I don't want to intrude. Thank you, though.” She strolled through the living room and through the kitchen to the bedroom on the far side of the apartment and shut the door.
Martina looked at Greg; he was blushing so hard, his ears were like strawberries. “I-I'm sorry,” he stammered, staring after his roommate. “She's not usually so rude. She's a very warm person once you get to know her.” Martina's BS detector was going off loudly, not because of Tharushi's slightly odd interactions with them, but because of Greg's response to them. But she didn't really know him well enough to press him, especially about another woman. Especially since she needed him to be interested in her. Martina put a hand over his, and his head snapped back to her.
“Don't worry about it,” she purred. “I'm just happy to be here with you. Let's get back on track.” He smiled gratefully, and she picked the book back up. They studied for another hour before they paused for lunch; Tharushi still hadn't re-appeared. Did she have her own bathroom? Was she just going to sit in there all sweaty because Martina was here? That didn't make much sense. Someone else might've felt guilty, but Martina had always been of the opinion that people were free to share their grievances like adults. If Tharushi didn't want her here, that wasn't her problem, especially if she left it unexpressed. It was Greg’s home, too. Greg apologetically brought her a ham and cheese sandwich with a dill pickle on the side.
“Sorry, I don't have much in the way of lunch food. I usually just hit the cafeteria at work.”
“Why wouldn't you?” Martina asked, nibbling on the pickle. “It's so convenient. Especially when you're single.”
“Exactly,” he said, and he seemed relieved that she understood. It was impressive that she noticed, because she was distracted by this pickle. She was something of a connoisseur of fermented foods, and this pickle was excellent; it was definitely not your run-of-the-mill grocery store pickle.
“Can I ask who made this pickle? It's very good.” It was crunchy, bright, and not overly salty or soggy like so many. She favored carrots for that reason, but she'd consider trying cucumber pickles again if they could come out like this.
Greg grinned. “My mom, actually. She keeps sending me things she canned from her garden. I appreciate the pickles, but I could do without the stewed tomatoes and the roasted beets.”
“Oooh, you have beets, too? I'll take them off your hands, if you want. I'll bring back the jars.” Lies. If they were nice jars, she was totally keeping them. Good jars were hard to find, and there were so many ferments she still wanted to try. She already had kefir and a sourdough starter that kept going moldy in the damp environment of her kitchen, but she wanted to try a pear and ginger sauce that sounded like it would be amazing over coconut milk ice cream. And as soon as summer hit, she was going to convince someone to give her fresh tomatoes for a fermented garden salsa.
She must've sounded too eager, because Greg made a face. “Really? You're welcome to them. She thinks I'm not eating enough vegetables.”
“I think most mothers have that opinion.” Except hers. That'd never been a problem for her; her mom was a great cook, and she loved vegetables of almost every variety. Her pocket dinged. “Speaking of mothers . . .” She glanced at the TV, cued up with the show she'd picked for them to watch. “Go ahead, I can listen and text at the same time.” Greg pressed play and took a huge bite of his sandwich.
Mom: Your dad is missing you lately. Would you come home for dinner sometime this week?
Martina: Sure. What night?
Mom: Well, we have the town meeting on Friday, bunco on Wednesday, and your dad has his Elks meeting on Thursday.
Martina rolled her eyes. Her mom had a habit of offering information without actually making a decision.
Martina: So . . . what day?
Mom: Whatever day works for you. We can make anything work.
Martina: Monday?
Mom: Great, Monday it is!
When
she re-pocketed her phone, she subtly scooched herself closer to Greg, close enough for their arms to touch. He did not seem to notice, his eyes trained on the screen. Martina ate her sandwich and watched the show, her mind elsewhere. Did she need to be more direct with him? How could she arrange to see him again? She needed to lock this down ASAP. When she finished her sandwich, she put her plate on the coffee table and scootched closer still, letting her whole right side rest against his body. Still no response. She didn’t know what hackles were, but hers were up. What was it going to take to get this guy interested? They sat snuggled until the show ended, and then she stood up. “Can I use your restroom before I leave?”
“Oh. Yes. It's through that door.” He pointed to the right corner of the kitchen. She peered into the small room. No laundry. That sucked. All the plumbing seemed to be on this side of the building. It was an odd layout, as afterthought dwellings often were. She looked into the medicine cabinet without guilt; he seemed all squeaky clean, but you couldn't be too careful. Drug addicts were definitely not her thing, but they were usually better about hiding it. The medicine cabinet looked very normal except for . . . was that an epi pen? Interesting. She wondered whose it was and what their allergy might be, but there was nothing else that gave any clue. She closed the cabinet quietly and flushed the toilet without using it, then washed her hands for real. There was another door in the bathroom, so that confirmed it: Tharushi must have used the bathroom and gone back to her room without coming back to the living room.
Martina got her purse and Greg walked her to the door.
“Thanks for coming over,” he said, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.
“Thanks for having me,” she said with a wink, and he chuckled, looking down at his feet. “Let's do it again this week.”
“I'd like that,” he said, giving her his green gaze again. “We'll go to Annie's this time.”
“Sounds great,” she said. And quickly pressing another chaste kiss to his cheek, she turned to precariously work her way back down the wooden steps outside. At least she'd gotten a real date set up. That was enough.