by Молли Харпер
I shuddered. “Agreed.”
“I thought you went to the lake to figure some things out,” Mama said, running her fingers through my hair, fluffing it up.
“Her problems followed her,” Emmett said. “Lacey is now dodging phone calls from men in two counties.”
“Monroe called?” I asked, my brow furrowed.
“Who’s Monroe?” Mama asked.
“Your voice mail was full, so he starting calling my cell,” Emmett said. “I assumed that since you let your voice mail fill up, you didn’t want to talk to him. I told him I didn’t know where you were.”
I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and saw that the battery was completely dead, which happens when you don’t charge it for three days. Monroe had called. And when he couldn’t reach me, he tracked down my brother. He cared enough to find me, which was more than I could say for Mike in the last days of our marriage. I didn’t know whether to be happy or annoyed. I settled for ambiguous and confused, with a teeny little spark of hope wriggling the weight loose from my chest.
“Oh, that’s good,” I muttered.
Mama took my face in her hands and forced me to focus on her question. “Who’s Monroe?”
“The man Lacey owes a big apology,” Emmett said.
“Oh, honey, you didn’t write something about him, did you?” Mama asked, shaking her head and clucking her tongue.
“No,” I mumbled. “It’s a normal relationship apology.”
“Relationship!” Mama exclaimed. “When did you have time to start a relationship? And how did you meet someone? You’ve been living in the middle of nowhere.”
“Well, she didn’t have to look far,” Emmett said, smirking.
“Hidden piercings,” I said in a warning tone.
“Shutting up now,” promised Emmett.
“I’ll never understand the two of you,” Mama sighed. “Well, Emmers, it’s sweet that you put your sister up, but it would be best if she came on home. It would give her more time to tell me about this Monroe character.” She gave me a pointed look.
“Mama, I can’t come back to your house. I’m not staying at Emmett’s place permanently either. I’m just there for a few days and then, I don’t know what. I’ll figure something out.”
“Lace,” Emmett protested. “There’s no need to -”
Mama sighed, “But if you would just -”
“No,” I repeated. “You two can’t keep passing me back and forth like I’m some emotionally handicapped tennis ball. I love you guys, but I’ve managed to dress myself, and feed myself, and live on my own for the last several months without withering away and dying. I know I came down here looking for help, but sometimes that means ‘Just listen to me while I vent,’ not ‘Please take over my whole life.’ Now, I’d like to keep working here, Emmett, if it’s okay with you, but I think we can agree I need my own place, whether it’s up at the lake or here in town. Mama, don’t argue. I need my own space, and my own things, and room to make the huge mistakes I know you’re going to try to protect me from.” Emmett frowned, but seemed mollified when I added, “But I am keeping the clothes, though, because they’re really cute.”
“Will you at least let me make you an appointment with Dorie, honey, because this needs work,” Mama said, gesturing to my head.
“Hey, I did that!” Emmett explained.
“Oh…” Mama said. “It’s lovely, really.”
“In Emmett’s defense, it’s grown out a little since he cut it,,, said. ”And I didn’t put much effort into grooming this morning.”
Emmett cleared his throat.
“Fine, this week.”
My head ached dully at the thought of going to a salon, a public place, filled with women who would have dissected and discussed every little detail of my divorce. Face-to-face, they’d put on sweet smiles and make polite small talk and act like nothing had happened. The minute my back was turned, the whispering would start. But I’d put off dealing with this for long enough. I was going to have to deal with it eventually. Better to jump headlong into the icy pool than slide back into Singletree’s social circle one toe at a time.
I told Mama, “Please make an appointment with Dorie. Not because either of you told me I need it, but because I’d actually like to have some input into my haircut and not just wake up with a new one.” I scowled at my brother, who seemed more miffed than ever.
Mama smiled triumphantly and whipped out her cell phone. Our shared stylist’s number was on speed dial, between Daddy and poison control. “Dorie, hi, honey, it’s Deb. I’ve got a bit of a hair emergency here. Lacey’s in town and she could use a cut if you have a spot open.” Mama’s grin faltered a bit. “Oh, I see.”
Emmett shot me a confused look. I shrugged.
“Well, I suppose that will be fine,” Mama said, somewhat stiffly. “I understand that you’re booked up. Yes, that will be fine.” She hung up the phone. “Dorie says you can come by tomorrow at four.”
“Okay,” I said. “You seem a little upset about that.”
“Dorie’s never made me wait before,” Mama said. “She’s kept the shop open late for me when I needed a last-minute appointment. She opened up at the crack of dawn that morning I woke up with orange hair because the chlorine in the Terwilligers’ pool -” Mama gasped. “Wynnie got to her.”
“Mama, Wynnie doesn’t even go to that salon,” I said, laughing.
“No, but Dorie’s husband works for your soon-to-be former father-in-law,” Emmett reasoned. “This could be her subtle way of showing where her loyalties lie.”
“In the Great Hair Wars?” I laughed. “Mama, has Dorie treated you any differently since the e-mail?” Mama shook her head. “Then I’m sure she just didn’t have room for me on the schedule. I’ll go tomorrow and it will be fine. There is no mass salon conspiracy or darker purpose at work here.”
But from the moment I walked into the Uniquely You salon, I knew I was wrong. The salon was packed with the usual Friday afternoon primping-for-the-weekend crowd, and the moment I walked through the door, everyone stopped talking. Plump, pleasant Dorie Watkins blanched at the sight of me, her mouth set in a grim line as her baby-doll blue eyes flicked to the peach and chrome shampoo station in the back.
“Hi, Lacey,” Janey Radner ventured. “It’s nice to see you.”
I smiled politely, plucking at the long-sleeved red jersey dress Emmett insisted I wear, with a red-and-jet-bead lariat and killer heels. It had been so long since I’d worn a skirt or heels, it had felt almost alien to slide them on, like a skin I’d shed a long time ago. But now I was glad I’d slipped into one of the nicer outfits Emmett had purchased for me. I wanted to combat those insistent “dumpy sweatsuit and snake tattoo” rumors.
Dorie cleared her throat nervously. “Um, Lacey, I’m running a little behind on another appointment. It will take me a little while to finish up. Do you want to maybe have a manicure while you wait? Judy’s free. Or we could just reschedule.”
Judy Messer, a sweet girl I’d gone to high school with, waved at me from the rear of the shop. “Sure, my hands are a wreck. Are you okay, Dorie?”
Dorie insisted she was fine, but I couldn’t help but notice the way she kept angling me away from the shampoo station, pushing me to the rear of the shop. When Shelly, the shampoo girl, gently raised the chair up and began toweling the client in question’s hair, I realized it wasn’t just another woman, it was the other woman. Beebee, in all her bronzed and lacquered glory, shot me a triumphant look as she was led to Dorie’s station and seated. I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. The scent of perm solution roiled across my nostrils, making me dizzy and nauseous. The roar of the dryers grated on my eardrums. My grip on my temper was getting more tenuous by the second.
“What the hell is she doing here?” I demanded.
“Getting a trim,” Beebee said, smirking at me. “You might consider it, honey, you’ve got some split ends showing. Now, exactly who the hell do you think you are, showing your fac
e around here again?”
I smiled and stretched my hand out as if to offer a friendly shake. She flinched dramatically, as if I’d taken a swing at her. I rolled my eyes. “I know it must be difficult for you to keep track of all of the wives of the married men you’ve slept with, so I’ll help you out. I’m Lacey, Mike’s wife. You’re living in my house, sleeping in my bed, oh, and, driving my car.”
Over Dorie’s shoulder, I saw Pam Hamilton watching our exchange with glee. Behind her, Felicity Clark was pretending to read a magazine, but was obviously memorizing every word and expression.
“Someone doesn’t like being replaced,” Beebee singsonged in a silly Betty Boop voice that made me want to smack her.
Distress raised Dorie’s voice by two octaves as I took a menacing step toward her rack of scissors. “I’m so sorry, Lacey,” she whispered, pushing me away from Beebee toward the manicure station. “She started coming here right after you left town. Her usual appointment is on Thursdays, which is why I booked you for today. But then she came marching in ten minutes ago and demanded a shampoo and updo for some fancy dinner thing Mike’s taking her to. I thought I could squeeze her in before you got here.”
“What the hell, Dorie?!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been coming here for years! You did my hair for the junior prom, for God’s sake!”
“I know,” Dorie said, chewing her lip. “But with Mark working for Jim, I need to keep the Terwilligers happy, Lacey. I can’t make a fuss.”
“Lacey, I think you need to calm down,” Felicity told me. “You’re making everybody uncomfortable.”
I whirled on Felicity, and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she’d be just as upset if her Karl paraded Margie Wannamaker through the salon. Or to tell Pam that everybody knew her hubby, Larry, and Bruce Gibbs don’t really go “camping” once a month, unless you count shacking up at the DeLuxe Inn for two days as “roughing it.” Emma Powell, who was smirking at me from under the dryer, had the bad fortune to have married a man who gave a stripper at Tassles more than five thousand dollars from his 401(k) and a used Honda. And he paid to have some of her tattoos removed. I could wipe the smug expressions from their faces with just a few well-chosen words, just like I was knocked off my own smug little pedestal all those months ago.
Hell, I could tell Beebee that Mike came crawling back to me, begging me to butter his toast and scratch his back again. That little tidbit would be circulated on the kitchen circuit by dinnertime.
But just as my lips parted to launch my opening attack on Felicity, I remembered feeling that sick, queasy sensation of my world spinning off its axis. And I tried to imagine going through that with other people around, with a room full of women I knew. And I couldn’t do it.
“Why don’t we all just admit that we have problems?” I asked, shaking my head. “My ex-husband is nailing this bimbo. He moved her into our house, gave her my car. Hell, I’m pretty sure those are my shoes she’s wearing. And how exactly is that my fault? I didn’t do anything to encourage it. I wasn’t a bad wife. I had a bad husband. Why don’t we just admit that we married the wrong men? Hello, my name is Lacey, and I married an asshole. Why is that so hard? Whatever happened to sisterhood? Why can’t we just be honest and support each other? Well, obviously Beebee’s out. But why can’t we just admit to each other that our lives aren’t perfect? That’s all I did when I wrote that newsletter. I admitted that my life, at the moment, sucked. And if that scares you, or sickens you, I’m sorry. But you might want to ask yourselves why.
“Dorie,” I said, turning to her. “Finish Beebee’s hair. I’ll come in the same time next Wednesday if you’re free. That should keep us from any unpleasant passing encounters.”
Dorie smiled shakily. “That should be fine.”
I walked out of the salon with my chin up, my heels clicking on the floor as the silent patrons watched me. The moment
I stepped out the door, the buzz of voices rose like a swarm of angry bees.
I’d almost made it to my car when I realized I’d actually walked over to my old Volvo, the car Beebee was now driving. Crap.
“Don’t you touch my car!” Beebee shrieked, scrambling out of the salon door with a wet head and a nylon cape tied around her neck.
“I wasn’t going to,” I sighed and spotted a half-dozen faces pressed against the salon window, watching us. “I just forgot you were driving it now.”
“Don’t you play dumb with me,” Beebee hissed. “What do you think you’re doing, just waltzing around town after what you did to me and Mike?
“Beebee, I know you’re upset. I mean, after all, I did call you a whore in a public forum. But I would just like to point out that you did sleep with my husband. So, really, I think that makes us even. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to climb into my car and leave with some dignity intact.”
“Oh, spare me, you wives always climb up on your high horses, getting all righteous and offended, like it’s not your fault your husbands sleep around. You know, Mike wouldn’t have come after me if you were keeping him happy! That’s why men leave women like you for women like me. You’re dull. You’re uptight. You’re so worried about keeping Mommy and Daddy happy that you can’t keep your man happy. You’re useless in bed. And then you’re surprised when he goes looking for something else.” Her eyes narrowed and she smiled nastily. “He told me you’re so frigid, you would just lay there like roadkill.”
Okay, that did sting a little bit.
Even with grinding teeth and my fingernails biting little half moons into my palms, I managed to smirk at her. “So how many times have you had to fake it for him?”
“That’s none of your -” she hissed before she caught herself. “You’re never getting Mike back. Do you hear me?”
“I don’t want him back!”
“I don’t believe you!” she yelled.
“I don’t care what you believe. That’s the crazy thing about having your life derailed. It means you have nothing left to lose. I’m not even that angry with you anymore, Beebee. If you’re happy with my hand-me-downs, more power to you. If anything, I owe you a big fat thank-you for showing me what kind of man my husband really was. I’m not going to thank you, because, again, I think you have no redeeming value as a person, but the temptation is there.”
“I love him,” Beebee said simply, in a voice that made her sound so much younger. “I know that probably doesn’t matter to you, but I do. And I don’t want to lose him.”
I stared at her. This was a different Beebee than the unnaturally colored, husband-stealing she-beast I’d come to picture in my head. Her face was clean. Her hair was damp and slick against her skull. There were actually tears shimmering in her eyes. She looked… bare, somehow, vulnerable. And scared.
Of all the emotions bubbling through my chest at the moment, the one that caught me by surprise was pity for Beebee. She really did feel something for Mike, and he had already given up on her. He’d made it clear that afternoon at the lake that he was moving on, whether it was with me or the next receptionist, cocktail waitress, or dog shampooer that took his interest.
Wait a minute.
“I don’t care!” I cried. “I don’t care if you love him. I don’t care if you tattoo his name on your eyelids! If you came to me looking for forgiveness or some sort of blessing, you’re even dumber than I thought you were.”
Beebee’s lip curled back over her teeth as she snarled, “Fine, if you want to be a bitch, be a bitch. But you stay away from us.”
“Fine!” I exclaimed, climbing into the car. As I backed away, I could see the salon patrons scooting away from the window as Beebee stomped through the door. But I managed to get out of the parking lot without running her over, and I gave myself a little pat on the back.
The drive home seemed to take longer than it should. I used the time to stew. Was this the way it was going to be for the rest of my life? Would every trip into town result in some sort of public scene? Would I have to sneak into town for holidays
with my family, assuming that my father was speaking to me? Was I going to have to enter some sort of shamed small-town divorcée witness protection program?
I’d been evicted from my whole damn life. Mike had replaced me with the kind of woman that could engage in a catfight in a beauty salon parking lot. Someone who he could lavish with stupid, thoughtful, impractical gifts that had no value other than making Beebee happy. He had time to take Beebee on long weekends at bed-and-breakfasts. Her gifts weren’t bought with the intention of impressing our neighbors. I’ll bet she didn’t get a damn robot vacuum for Christmas.
Just when I thought I had moved on and wasn’t angry at Mike anymore, I got pulled back in. It was like I was in some sort of petty mafia. And I wanted that righteous anger, that feeling that I’d been wronged. It was clean, clear, like a gas flame that helped burn away my more jumbled emotions, like guilt and doubt and regret. But I couldn’t find it. I wasn’t even angry with Mike anymore. I just didn’t want to know him. I wanted him out of my life, to cut him out like a cancer. I wanted… why was this drive taking so long?
I finally focused on my surroundings and realized I was about a mile away from the cabin. I must have driven the car there on autopilot. I’d wanted to go home, and here I was. The light sprinkling of rain that had started to fall just a few minutes ago picked up to full gale-force winds and sheets of water over my windshield.
“Shit,” I muttered. “Emmett’s going to love this.”
I pulled the car into the gravel driveway. Monroe’s truck wasn’t parked outside his cabin. For a panicky moment, I worried that he’d moved out. That he was gone and I’d never see him again. I jumped out of the car, shucked the needle-thin heels, and trudged across the wet, muddy ground in my stocking feet. The porch light was on, a beacon in the growing darkness of late fall. I peered in the window and saw his laptop open on the desk, his running shoes thrown in the corner, as usual. The place was a mess. There were dirty dishes piled on the kitchen counters. Stacks of papers were strewn over every available surface. It looked like he’d started reading a half-dozen paperback novels and then just dropped them when he was finished.