Return of the Song

by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  “And the caterers—I’ve spent more time with them than I have my family the last two weeks. But I think they finally have it clear. I’ll never have it said that anyone goes away from this wedding hungry. Of course, half of the folks around here won’t even know what they’re eating and couldn’t pronounce it if they did. But I’ll know, and it’s all going to set this town on its heels.

  “Now, Caroline, here’s the music and the list of all to be escorted in. And don’t forget the three flower girls. I think it’ll take three to cover that satin aisle in white and pale pink rose petals. You need to know the photographer will have them stop for a photograph as they come through the arch. So now your job is to make sure the string quartet has music enough for everybody to get to the stage.

  “Then you’ll need to run down to the dance floor to the keyboard and play some kind of trumpet fanfare. Can’t you make that thing sound like a trumpet? You may remember my nephew played the trumpet fanfare for Rebecca’s wedding, but he can’t come this time. Then you’ll need to run back to the patio and make sure the string quartet plays the bridal march for Rachel and her daddy to come down the aisle.

  “I’m hoping it’ll all be over by nine thirty or ten. And you’ll probably need a break in there somewhere since I figure you’ll start playing about five o’clock. Ray said he’d have a boom box to play while you take a break.”

  Caroline sat in amazement. She could be replaced by a boom box. She vowed silently to join the rest of the club ladies in town in their fervent prayers for rain on Saturday. Nearby farmers needed a good shower, so it wouldn’t be entirely selfish. She hadn’t spent her years of training and practice to play dance tunes on some pseudo-piano on a parquet floor where her shoes might stick because the glue wasn’t dry.

  But Caroline was committed and could not back out now. So she kept her mouth shut. Still, she couldn’t recall looking forward to late Saturday evening so much in a long time.

  Gracie snapped the plastic cape around Caroline’s neck and spun the chair around to look at Caroline face-to-face. “Why, Caroline Carlyle, you’re living proof that wonders never cease! You want to change your hairstyle? I’ve been trimming the ends of your hair every two months for the last six years, and now you want something different?”

  “Not too different, just a bit different. What do you think?”

  Gracie was in her early fifties and owned her salon. She’d bought the Weatherlys’ filling station two years ago. She replaced the gas pumps with wooden barrels filled with petunias, hung out her Cuttin’ Loose sign, and did a bit of refurbishing to make it look more like a salon than a gas station—although in an edgier style she hoped her male customers would like. The old gumball machine and the black-and-white tile flooring had stayed. They matched the black bowls she’d purchased for washing hair. She’d then covered all the chair seats with leopard or zebra print, added some African-themed throw pillows, and put artificial palms around to hide the 1940 radiators too costly to remove. The white wicker room dividers had been spray painted a dark green. When the blue-haired matrons who liked a bit more privacy when their hair was wet complained about passersby looking in the windows, Gracie found zebra-print fabric on sale down at Mr. Sumner’s Emporium, made drapes to cover the windows, and tied them back with raffia.

  Gracie had decided it was high time for Cuttin’ Loose to become the place in town for all beauty needs, so she’d added two more operators who could do hair and facials, a masseuse, and a nail technician. Now the ladies in town could avoid the drive to Mill Valley to get their nails done or to get a massage.

  Gracie herself was a good-natured people person who never tired of her work. A plump woman whose hair was forever changing color and styles, she’d spent her childhood fixing dolls’ hair and her adulthood dolling up women. She knew more about what was going on in town than any of the pastors, the policemen, or the politicians. She knew whose marriage was on the skids, who was sleeping with the city manager, who was diagnosed with what, who was mad with the preacher or upset with a teacher, and who was traveling where.

  She looked Caroline straight in the face. “Now, Caroline, this new ’do wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain man from Kentucky, would it?”

  “A man from Kentucky? You must be kidding.”

  “Yeah, the man from Kentucky who had Polly’s knickers in a twist trying to get the biggest bouquet of irises she could gather delivered to your recital all in a matter of fifteen minutes. Of course, Polly said he really made it worth her time.”

  “Oh, did she say that?” Caroline grew uncomfortable realizing the whole town knew by now about the flower delivery.

  “Yeah, said he called and wanted to know if she knew you and what your favorite flowers were. Polly told him you just loved irises and that she had fresh ones from the wholesaler that she got for Tandy Yarbrough’s daughter’s tea. He paid her double to deliver them all to you. So she called the wholesaler for another delivery before Rebecca’s tea.” Gracie never stopped combing through Caroline’s hair. “Now, what are we going to do with this mane?”

  Caroline was almost to the point of hyperventilating. Her hair issue paled in comparison to being Moss Point’s latest gossip fodder. “You know, Gracie, the more I think about it, maybe just a trim will do. I’m in a hurry.”

  “Let me think here a minute. You don’t need color on that shiny dark hair. You don’t need highlights; they’d just turn to red streaks. You don’t need a perm ’cause you got curls already. I don’t think you’d be happy going with a short cut. You like your ponytail. Maybe I could layer it a bit or texturize it so it wouldn’t be so heavy.”

  Caroline was sweating underneath the plastic cape. “I don’t think I’m ready for that change. Let’s just trim the ends again.”

  “Oh, why didn’t I think of this already? I could cut you some bangs.”

  “Now, that’s really an idea, Gracie, and I tried bangs once. Could you just trim the ends?”

  “All righty, but Miss Angel’s not going to be so happy about this.”

  “She’s not?”

  “Nope. She told me last week you were coming in for a new ’do, and she seemed all excited about it.”

  “I guess I’ll just have to give her something else to get excited about, won’t I?” Caroline was getting antsy and just wanted to get out of there. Wicker room dividers were far from soundproof.

  “Well, let’s see . . . If you don’t want it layered and you don’t want bangs, I could teach you how to pull it up and do something different than that ponytail.”

  “That’ll be fine, Gracie. Just give me a trim and then do what you just said.” Maybe this would halt this conversation and satisfy Angel at the same time. “I guess you’ll be busy Friday and Saturday doing hair for the Yarbrough wedding.” She attempted to change the subject.

  “Oh, honey, Tandy’s booked the salon for the entire day on Friday for manicures, pedicures, massages, facials, and hair for all the bridesmaids and grandmothers. Now, wouldn’t you like to tell Juanita Dalton you’re rescheduling her appointment? She’s had a standing nine o’clock Friday morning appointment for about three hundred years.”

  “Bet she wasn’t happy.”

  “Nope. Tandy came in yesterday to make sure I had the new terry cloth robes she wanted for all the girls. Can you believe it? She expected me to order robes for the girls to wear while they’re getting their massages, facials, and nails done. Fourteen white bathrobes that I don’t need.”

  “Sounds like they’re having the female version of a bachelor’s party.”

  “Yep, a hen party right here while the roosters are out strutting. All I can say is that Tandy’s giving the rest of the hens in town plenty to cackle about.”

  Gracie was snipping and pulling a wide-toothed comb through Caroline’s long ebony hair. “Maybe we’ll be doing something like that for you before long.”

  “Doing something like what?”

  “Like a wedding party. A man that’ll pay twi
ce what he should for flowers has more money than brains. Or maybe he’s just trying to impress a certain young lady.”

  Caroline wanted to run. “Now, Gracie, don’t get any ideas. The gentleman owns a piano that is of great interest to me, and I’ll be playing a recital on that piano in a few weeks. He is the one making the arrangements.” She hoped this would satisfy the stylist and maybe throttle the rumor mill.

  “Oh! Arrangements? Yeah, men seem to do that when they’re up to something—flower arrangements, dinner arrangements, ar-range-ments.”

  Gracie pulled Caroline’s hair loosely on top of her head. “Now watch this, Caroline. Pull out a small section, put your comb about here, and tease slightly. Then take the tail of your comb and your fingers and swirl the hair around like this. You just secure the strands like this and spray the dickens out of ’em. Just keep doing that same thing till all the hair has been teased, curled, pinned, and sprayed.”

  Caroline imagined she’d look like a cross between Shirley Temple and a 1960s beauty queen contestant, but it was too late to stop Gracie. “Well, I’m certain I won’t be able to do it like you, Gracie. But I’ll give it a try.” This was a trial run, she reasoned to herself. At least her hair would have a few weeks to recover before her trip.

  “Women and their hair. Most of ’em pay me seventy-five dollars to curl it. You wear yours long to get rid of the curl. Blondes want to be brunettes, redheads want to be blondes, and brunettes want to be redheads.” Gracie was still pinning and spraying.

  “I guess it says something about our nature, doesn’t it? We just don’t seem to be satisfied with the way God made us.”

  “Well, I guess if we were, then I wouldn’t have a job, would I?” Gracie laid the comb and hair spray down, stepped back to look, and then twirled the chair around so Caroline could see herself in the mirror. “Well, now, how’s this for perfection?”

  As Caroline tried to stifle her gasp, GiGi Nelson walked through the shop with strands of flaming red hair falling out from under the towel wrapped around her head. Her arms and fingers were outstretched to avoid marring her freshly painted, nearly purple claws. GiGi looked at Caroline and stopped moving. “My God, Gracie, you been sniffing hair spray again? What did you do to Caroline? Oh, how stupid of me. I’ll bet this has something to do with those flowers from that Kentucky gentleman.” Gigi sashayed through to get her hair rinsed.

  “That woman! She’s a hundred-and-fifty-pound busybody stuffed into a size-six pair of stretch pants. Why, I hope her hair turns green and falls out and her forehead down to her eyebrows is covered in big red warts,” Gracie said when GiGi was safely out of hearing range.

  Caroline smiled at the thought as she followed Gracie to the cash register. She bought a rain bonnet and assured Gracie it was to protect her new ’do from the wind until she could get home. Caroline’s father had taught her not to lie, but there were circumstances. And this was one of them.

  Having happily avoided anybody on the trip home, she entered the studio and removed the rain bonnet, just catching the beep of her answering machine. Two calls. The first from Gretchen saying she’d try to call again tomorrow, and the second from Roderick Adair saying he was sorry he’d missed her and that he was leaving the country and would call when he returned.

  Caroline remembered that in spite of multiple chats with Roderick since the recital, she had never acknowledged his flowers.

  A Heart That’s Free

   Caroline telephoned Angel. “Hi, Angel. Got supper going?”

  “It’s Tuesday. Sam’s picking up barbecue chicken plates from the Eastern Star. They’re raising money for something again. Want one?”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll stick to my fruit salad this evening. Want to see the new ’do?”

  “Oh, that’s right, you went to see Gracie this afternoon. Sure, I want to see it.”

  “Shall I put on the teakettle?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t feel too much like a stroll through the garden this afternoon. What about coming up here, and I’ll put on the kettle?”

  “Give me a few minutes.”

  “We’ll be here. No place to go, and getting there fast.”

  Caroline carried her clippers along the path to cut a few roses for Angel. Over the years, Angel had immortalized the roses on her canvases. She held on to their beauty if not their fragrance when they had long ceased to bloom.

  Angel met Caroline at the back door. “Come on in.”

  Like a six-year-old with her freshly picked bouquet, Caroline stepped through the door with both of her hands behind her back and surprised Angel with the blossoms. She noted the stunned look on Angel’s face and hoped it was from the roses and not the sight of her hair.

  “Oh, roses. Remember, fragrance clings to the hands of the one who brings roses.” Angel led her to the kitchen, where Sam was standing at the sink.

  “I married a woman with a poet’s pen and an artist’s eye.” Sam slipped his arm around his wife and kissed her on the cheek. “And I’m glad I did.” He turned to Caroline, and his eyes immediately widened. “What in the world happened to you?”

  “Not what, but who. Gracie happened to my hair. What do you think, Angel?”

  Angel took Caroline’s arm and walked around her to see the catastrophe from all sides. “Well, it’s, ah . . . ah . . . it’s . . .”

  “It’s awful. That’s what it is!” Sam didn’t waste words or time. “Why in the world did you let Gracie do that to you? Must have been painful.”

  “Sa-am!” Pause. Angel looked at Caroline. “Sam’s right; it’s awful.” She stepped back, lifted her hands and fingers to frame Caroline’s face, and then squinted her eyes. “Turn to the side.”

  Caroline turned.

  “Stop, right there. Yep, just what I thought. Your silhouette looks like a basket of cotton bolls just landed right there.” Angel smooshed the curls.

  The three of them had a good laugh. “It does feel like I’m walking around with a basket on my head.”

  “A cyclone would have done a better job. And you paid money to look like that?” Sam shook his head.

  “Yes. Gracie earned it, but I’m guessing the hair spray ate up her profits. Angel, I may need your help to get all these pins out.”

  “I’ll get the brush if you want me to do it right now.”

  “If you have time, that would be great! I’ll check the teakettle.”

  Angel went for the brush, and Sam took his regular seat at the breakfast table. Caroline got out the cups and tea bags. “Sam, watch the kettle. I forgot the new praline bars I made. We’ll have them with our tea.”

  Caroline ran out the porch door holding her hair to keep it from toppling as she sprinted to the studio. Nearing the door, she heard the phone ringing. As she entered, she heard Roderick Adair’s voice. “Goodbye, Caroline.”

  She rushed to pick up the phone, but it was too late. She replayed the tape. “Hello, Caroline, it’s Roderick Adair again. I’m at the airport and thought I would try to reach you once more before I boarded the plane for London. Plans for your visit are developing, and should you need anything in my absence, please call Liz. I’m really looking forward to hearing this piano played by one who knows it well. I wish you joy. Goodbye, Caroline.”

  She put a few praline bars on a plate and headed back up the path.

  He had called twice.

  The teakettle whistled as she climbed the steps to the porch. She was in the kitchen in time to grab it. She set the plate of cookies on the table and poured the water in the teacups.

  “Ooh, thanks, sweetie. These look good. New recipe?” Angel took the first bite without waiting for her tea to brew and passed the plate to Sam.

  “Old recipe, but first time I tried it. Does that make it new?”

  “Well, Miss Caroline No-Middle-Name Carlyle, it doesn’t matter. They good.”

  “You never have gotten over the fact I don’t have a middle name, Sam.”

  “Never heard of a person who d
oesn’t have a middle name. You’re a rare one, girl.”

  “My parents actually couldn’t decide on one, so Dad decided ‘Caroline’ was enough.”

  “You answered that question. By the way, I got answers to a few more questions about your Kentucky gentleman.”

  “My Kentucky gentleman? He’s just a Kentucky gentleman.”

  “Then I guess what I’ve learned about a Kentucky gentleman is of no interest to you?”

  Caroline blushed slightly.

  Angel got up and went around behind Caroline’s chair to start removing hairpins. “You sure you want to do this now?”

  Caroline nodded.

  “Caroline may not be that interested, but your wife with the—how did you put it? A poet’s pen and an artist’s eye? Well, she has a mind for mystery. So spit it out!”

  “I knew that curiosity would get the best of one of you. Well, let’s see, apparently Mr. Adair’s parents taught him well how to manage and be responsible for wealth. He’s been generous with his contributions to medical research and to the arts. He must lead either a private or a very quiet social life because his name rarely pops up in the society columns. His one sibling, a sister, is a professor in Boston and is married to a professor and physician.”

  “Criminal record?” Angel pulled the last pin from Caroline’s hair and picked up the brush.

  “Not a shadow of impropriety. Looks like a clean-living, hardworking man.”

  Caroline winced while Angel tried to detangle her hair. “The hardworking man’s on his way to London.”

  “You seem to have more current information than I do.”

  “That’s because he’s called twice today and left messages. He just wanted me to know he was leaving for London and to call Liz if I had any questions.”