The Angel Tasted Temptation

by Shirley Jump

  As Kenny had said, all she wanted from him was a little quo. And he'd be a fool if he didn't exact some quid while he was at it.

  Maria's Time-for-a-Change Seafood Lasagna

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  1 small onion, diced

  1 clove garlic, minced

  1/2 cup fresh mushrooms, sliced

  2 14-1/2 ounce cans stewed tomatoes, cut up

  1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

  1 tablespoon tomato paste

  Dash salt and pepper

  1/2 cup peeled, cooked shrimp

  8 ounces crabmeat

  1/2 pound scallops, sliced

  3 tablespoons butter

  3 tablespoons flour

  1-3/4 cups milk

  1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese

  1/4 cup dry white wine

  8 ounces lasagna noodles, cooked and drained

  1/4 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano

  I know, it looks lot of ingredients, but trust me, the results are worth it. Besides, when did you ever meet a lasagna you didn't like? Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and get ready to cook.

  The dish, not the man. Not yet. Save him for later.

  Sauté the onion and garlic in the olive oil, then add the mushrooms. Cook until everything is as weak as your resolve to be a good girl. Add the tomatoes, spices and paste. Simmer for twenty minutes, then stir in the seafood and remove from the heat.

  Mmm ... bet you can taste the blend of flavors already. That's pretty much what you're doing with your life and new look, isn't it? Blending something new with something old, hoping for a result he'll find irresistible?

  In another saucepan (don't worry, that's what a good-looking man is for, to get sudsy with you and help with the dishes), melt the butter, then add the flour. Stir in the milk a little at a time with a whisk, cooking until it's as thick and bubbly as your desire for more. Add the mozzarella and stir until it's melted. Finally, add the wine.

  Oh, yeah. It looks good enough to eat as it is, doesn't it? Trust me. Layer one sauce, then the other on the lasagna noodles, repeating one more time. Top with the Parmigiano. Then bake it uncovered (doesn't everything look better naked?) for a half an hour.

  It says this recipe serves six to eight. But honestly, I've never been able to stretch it past two. And with a good-looking man sitting across the table to indulge with, why the hell would you want to invite anyone else over anyway?

  Chapter Six

  Meredith sat in the waiting area of an upscale hair salon in Harvard Square during her lunch hour and instead of eating the Subway wrap in the bag beside her, she chewed on a big regret.

  That she'd answered her cell phone. Again.

  "Are you eating your vegetables, dear?"

  Meredith knew no matter how bad her mother got, she was still her mother. And she did this all out of love—a love that sometimes suffocated her like a two-ton comforter, but still, love. "Yes, I am."

  "Because if you don't, you'll get constipated and when you get your plumbing backed up—"

  "Momma, this is not the time."

  "I'm just saying a girl's gotta keep her plumbing in good condition. Don't want those pipes freezing when you're a married woman."

  "I'm not getting married."

  "That's not what Caleb says," her mother sing-songed over the phone. "A little birdie told me he has plans."

  "We had plans. We're no longer engaged. It's over."

  "Oh, pshaw. Temporarily. When you start eating more fiber, you'll come to your senses again."

  "My diet has nothing to do with how I feel about Caleb."

  Martha harrumphed. "It's all that smog. I tell you, it isn't good for your brain. Why I can practically hear your brain cells dying from here." On the other end, her mother started the water for the dishes. It was nine-fifteen in the morning. If there was one thing Martha Shordon excelled at, it was sticking to a schedule. Breakfast dishes soaked until nine-thirty, then they were washed, dried and back in the cabinet before ten.

  "All my brain cells are intact," Meredith said, then wondered for a moment if they were. Was this idea completely insane? It would be so easy to go back home, to settle back into the complacency of Heavendale that had surrounded her with the thickness of one of her grandmother's wedding-ring pattern quilts. "I'm doing great," she said as much to reassure herself as her mother.

  "Your voice sounds a little hoarse. Are you catching a cold?" Her mother didn't wait for an answer. "Chicken soup. That's what you need."

  Next it would be an onion poultice. Meredith had some particularly ugly memories of onions and childhood. "I'm fine," she repeated.

  "Don't forget to take your vitamins, either. You get too low on your Bs and before you know it—"

  "I will. Give Dad a kiss for me. I have to go now."

  A pause, then a sigh. "Meredith, what should I tell Caleb?"

  Undoubtedly, telling her mother not to say anything would backfire. 'Tell him I've moved on. And I'm happy now."

  "You don't sound happy. It must be a cold," Momma insisted. "You're not acting like yourself at all. I'll send you some Campbell's. I'll put that on my list for the Kroger store."

  Meredith bit back her first response. As well as her second. "Thanks, Momma. That would be great."

  "I knew you'd come around. You always were my good girl." Back in the sunflower-yellow kitchen in Heavendale, her mother turned off the water and let the egg-coated plates soak. "Once you're back home where you belong, everything will be back to normal. You'll see."

  Meredith hung up her phone and knew one thing for sure. Soup or not, it was going to be a long while before she went back—if ever—to who she was before.

  Across the waiting room of the Hair and Gone Salon, a slim, redheaded guy waved Meredith over to a booth. "Your turn. You're with Elona," he said, gesturing toward a black chair on a rotating pedestal. "I'll warn you. She's a little quirky, but she works a miracle with a pair of shears." Then he was gone, tending to the appointment book and phones.

  A miracle. Hopefully she'd find one of those here. And be able to afford it.

  Meredith took a seat in the chair and pulled out her ponytail, releasing her long blond hair and letting it swing against her shoulders. Now or never, she told herself. City women didn't run around with straight blond hair that had all the shape of a burlap sack. They styled their hair, used products that cost twelve times the value of the ingredients list and added colors until they forgot what shade they'd been born with.

  That was a hairstyle. What she had on her head right now was glorified straw.

  This haircut would, she hoped, trim off that cornfed look and add some pizzazz to her look. Help her become someone besides Meredith Shordon, the girl everyone could predict with the accuracy of a ticking second hand.

  It hadn't helped that she'd lived with practically every resident in the town in her back pocket, like overstuffed tenement housing in Siberia. Mrs. Billings, who had little to do but look out the windows of her small ranch on the corner of Elm and Grave Streets, could give an FBI deposition on Meredith's birthdate, her first day of school and the time Sheriff Coultrey caught Meredith and Caleb making out in the parking lot at Petey's.

  A new haircut wouldn't quite get rid of all that, but it was a start.

  Elona hurried into the booth, spouting a greeting and an apology in one quick, long sentence. A tall spike of a woman with short black hair, black high heels and a shimmery turquoise dress that looked almost plastic, Elona started by draping a neon tie-dyed cape over Meredith's khaki capris and pale blue T-shirt. Then she laid her palms on either side of Meredith's shoulders and peered at her in the mirror. Elona had even tinted her eyelashes in a bright mascara to match her dress.

  Meredith had asked for someone who could give her an adventurous look. Clearly, she thought, taking another glance at her wild-child stylist, that had been a mistake.

  "So, honey, what can I do for you today?" Elona asked.

  Meredith inhaled the scent of citrus s
hampoo and the too-sweet smell of a perm from the booth next door, then closed her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap. The stone in the opal ring her grandmother had given her pressed against her palm, a reminder of the persona she was leaving behind, the girl who looked about as sexy as a mule in a miniskirt. "However you want. Just make me look sophisticated."

  "Did you hear that girls?" Elona squealed. "She's letting me be in charge. When was the last time that happened?"

  "Can we keep this between us?" Meredith asked. "I just want a cut that makes me look like ..."

  "Yourself?"

  "No! The complete opposite."

  "The complete opposite?" Elona spun the chair around so that she was now facing Meredith. "Now, honey, why would you want to do a thing like that?"

  "Because I look like—" Meredith didn't finish the sentence. The dishwater hair and lack of style spoke for themselves. She pointed at the pictures ringing the walls of the salon. "I'm from Indiana. And I look nothing like those women."

  Elona studied Meredith for a long second, tipping her head right, then left. "The girls think you're perfect as you are. Of course, you could use a trim here," Elona reached forward and touched the ends of Meredith's hair, "and a bit of bangs and—"

  "No! I want more. I want..." Meredith pointed again at the wall, at a photograph of a slim blonde with a pixie cut that framed her face in a slash of angles. To Meredith, she looked like the personification of Boston. "That."

  "Oh no. No. No. That's all wrong for you," Elona said. "Girls, we have a tough case here." The salon hummed with activity around her, but as far as Meredith could tell, there was no answering voice to the African-American hairdresser. Who the heck was she talking to? Who were these girls? The ones in the booths on either side? And where did they get off, discussing her as a "tough case"?

  Meredith jerked her head around. "Listen, this is my first real style and it's a pretty traumatic thing. I'd appreciate it if we could keep this event between us."

  "Oh, I'm not talking to anyone outside of here," Elona said, her spiky black hair standing out around her head like a halo on the Grim Reaper. Meredith felt a flash of panic at being stuck with a stylist who looked like she'd been sent through a shredder. "I'm talking to my girls." She held up a pair of brass scissors and a matching comb. "Meet Bella and Luna."

  "You named your styling tools?"

  "Hey, the Marines do it with their guns. And I make beauty, not war with these. Ain't that right, girls?" She smiled at the duo.

  Oh God. I've put the fate of my head into the hands of a full-blown Loony Tune.

  "Okay, now let me look at you one more time," Elona said. She spun the chair around, cupped Meredith's chin and tipped her face right and left. "Nice heart-shaped structure. Deep blue eyes. A natural blonde, not something I see every day. Not too fine, not too thick. Hmmm ..." Elona closed her eyes and continued her "hmmm," turning the thoughtful sound into more of a low-pitched hum.

  Oh no. Humming was a bad sign, particularly with closed eyes. Meredith wanted to bolt from the chair but the hairdresser had a dang good grip on her chin. "Uh, Elona?"

  "Shh ... don't interrupt. I'm waiting for Brigitte to tell me what she thinks."

  "Brigitte? What is that, your hairspray?"

  "No, silly. Brigitte Bardot, one of the goddesses of hair."

  "B-B-But she's like living on the other side of the world or something, isn’t she?"

  "Good thing, too. I wouldn't have been able to consult with her in person. Do you know how hard it is to get one on one time with celebrities? Take a number and get in line, lady, Miss Bardot is too busy for the likes of you," she said, affecting the voice of what Meredith envisioned as a burly guy in a tank top. Clearly one of Sybil's—i.e., Elona's—many personalities. Elona raised the cutting implements over Meredith's hair. "Now. Let's give you your new look."

  Meredith put up a hand. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

  Elona laughed. "Of course I do. And even if I didn't, Brigitte is here, in a way, to guide my hand."

  Panic flashed in Meredith's gut. She glanced around, at the mounted posters of happy clients with stunning haircuts. From his station at the front desk, the redhead sent her a thumbs-up and a grin. Maybe Brigitte had been channeling her energies into this place from wherever Miss Bardot was right now.

  What if Elona was wrong today, though? And standing on the other side of her psychic door wasn't Brigitte ... but Cyndi Lauper?

  "I'm not so sure I want to do this." Meredith started to rise out of the chair.

  Elona put a firm hand on her shoulder. "Trust me, honey. We're going to take the country right on out of you."

  Elona had spoken the magic words. Meredith still wasn't so sure she wanted the spirit of a distant Hollywood celebrity having any input on her hairstyle, but if that's what it took to make her look like anything but herself, then she was willing to take a chance.

  After all, wasn't that what she'd vowed on her trip to Boston? To take more risks? To stop being as scared of risk as a cat around a weedwacker?

  She inhaled and closed her eyes again. "My head is yours."

  "Hear that, girls? She's going to let us cut. Now do your best."

  And with that, the first snip was made, sending tendrils of the old Meredith fluttering to the floor. Somewhere above her head, Meredith was sure she heard Bella and Luna laughing with glee.

  Elona's Appearance-Is-Everything Crab Soufflé

  4 tablespoons butter, separated

  3 tablespoons flour

  3/4 teaspoon salt

  7 tablespoons milk

  2/3 cup whipping cream

  4 eggs, separated

  2 6-1/2-ounce cans white crab meat, drained

  1/2 cup dry bread crumbs

  1/2 teaspoon onion powder

  1/4 teaspoon paprika

  Now, honey, you know if you make something that looks good, it's gonna take all the attention away from anything else in your life that's going wrong. Start by preheating your oven to 350 degrees. Then take one tablespoon of the butter and use it to grease a 1-1/2-quart soufflé dish.

  Melt the rest of the butter in a pan, add the flour and salt and mix well. Can't you just hear Julia Child talking to you? Now I know she passed already to the other side, but I tell you, she's there, over your shoulder, helping you get this just right Add the milk gradually, stirring constantly, then bring it up to a boil and cook until it's as thick as a good shampoo.

  Beat the egg yolks in a separate bowl. Don't be dumping them all in at once with the hot stuff; you'll get scrambled eggs instead of crab soufflé. Add a little of the sauce mix at a time, mixing it slow. Then add the bread crumbs, crab meat, onion powder and paprika.

  In a whole other bowl (I know, but ask Julia, if you want to be a great chef, you have to dirty a few bowls), beat the egg whites until they've got stiff but not dry peaks. It's an art, just like cutting hair. Fold a little bit into the crab mixture to slacken it, as Julia would say, then fold in the rest. Gentle now, honey, don't want your peaks to fall.

  Spoon it into the soufflé dish, pop it into the oven and bake for 45 to 50 minutes or until you can slip a knife into the center and it comes out looking as clean as a brand-new perm rod.

  Don't wait to eat. Your new life is waiting for you and if you're pokey, you risk your soufflé deflating and your dreams escaping. Just ask Julia; she'll tell you the God's honest truth (because right now, she's got His ear).

  Chapter Seven

  Meredith's life had been ruined by a mullet.

  Elona had pronounced her hair "outstanding" and apparently Bella, Luna and Brigitte had concurred. But all Meredith saw staring back at her from the wall mirror had been a fluffy, longer version of the 80's mullet, with layers on the top of her head and straight lengths of hair running along the sides.

  Her life was over.

  "Oh, don't you love it? Brigitte thought it would bring out your eyes." Elona eyes beamed with pride at her handiwork.

  "It's ...
it's ..." And then Meredith couldn't get out another word. She buried her face in her hands and started to sob.

  "You don't like it?"

  Meredith shook her head.

  "But... but it's perfect for you."

  "It's perfect for Duran Duran," Meredith cried between her fingers. She planned on never leaving this seat, never facing the world again. Or at least until her hair had grown out and resembled the look she'd had an hour ago.

  In other words, she was staying here until the old Meredith grew back.

  "Oh, honey, it's not so bad. Wait till you get home and play with it. Make it your own." Elona gave her a pat on the shoulder. "It's a big change. A lot to get used to."

  "I look horrible." The words, muffled by her tears and her hands, came out more like "I wook how-wibba."

  Elona came around to the front of the chair and gently peeled back Meredith's hands from her face. "No, honey, you don't. The girls agree with me. You'll see. Just get used to it."

  Get used to it? Maybe in eight weeks, when her hair had grown out and she'd gone from a mullet to a shag. All her life, she'd had the same style—long, straight and plain. It may have been boring but at least she hadn't looked like an extra member of REO Speedwagon.

  "Here, dry your eyes," Elona said, handing her a tissue. "And look again. It's not as bad as you think."

  Meredith did as Elona said. She lifted one end of her hair, then the other. The haircut still looked like an overgrown mullet but it had ... possibilities.

  "It's a big change," Elona repeated. "You'll love it soon, trust me. Brigitte is never wrong."

  Meredith wasn't so sure the input of a star who wasn’t even in the same country, never mind the same room, should be trusted, but she paid Elona anyway, because the guilt at not paying would have plagued her for the rest of the day, bad haircut or not.

  And besides, Meredith had to admit that Elona was the expert and maybe the fact that she'd just had her first haircut in a decade had sent her spiraling into some weird crazy feelings of regret. Maybe tomorrow she'd wake up and miraculously find herself with Cameron Diaz's hair.