by Joyia Marie
“So Mrs. Gunderson will be here with the children?” he said suddenly sounding a lot more cheerful.
“Yep, until six,” I said bursting that bubble as well.
Mrs. Gunderson was a stickler for time as well. She stayed late on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but she never stayed past six and usually was gone by five. One of the reasons she and Harold had never met. When he used to come home from work, he was never there before 6:30. Mrs. Gunderson would be long since gone.
“Oh,” Harold said suddenly sounding a lot less cheerful.
I grinned, ‘nope, won’t have any time for an afternoon delight with Mrs. Gunderson minding the tykes.’ Harold would be at work or at least he should be. I guess Jillian could sneak into his office and they could rip one off on his desk but if Harold Sr. catches them, they would both be out of work.
Nepotism is not a fault I can assign to Harold Sr. He wanted the best for his company. If that was someone other than Harold then someone other than Harold would be vice president of the company.
“Then I’m going to let you go,” I said again. “Lunch is here and it’s time I rinse off. Good luck tonight with the kids,” I said, not adding the ‘you’ll need it’ but it was implied.
I hung up the phone before Harold could say anything else. My massage and wine bliss was completely blown, another sin to lay at his feet. When the esthetician stepped back in to take me to rinse me, I was ready.
She rinsed my face, I redressed and returned to Raphael for him to finish my hair, and I’d be done. The spa day was fun until then, but now I was ready to get back to business.
Raphael had called my favorite sandwich place and had them deliver when I told him I hadn’t eaten that day. I tend to run on coffee and I forget to eat if not reminded. Mrs. Gunderson would usually shove something under my nose about noon when I was caught up in my writing in the house.
I ate after my hair was rinsed and while Raphael fiddled with my hair. I like my shortcut for its wash and go convenience, but Raphael insisted on using a diffuser to dry it before using a comb to place every curl just so. He turned the chair away from the mirror and I ate, content to let him play.
After my hair has been just so, he called the esthetician over and she grabbed my makeup bag from my purse and applied what little makeup I wear. She did add a lovely fuchsia lip-gloss when I bought from the salon’s line of makeup.
Finally, when everything was completed to Raphael’s satisfaction he turned me around and waited. Raphael is a genius and one of the few stylists I’ve met who really ‘gets’ my hair, which is why I’ve been going to him for years. Our friendship bloomed out of that and he dragged me to the gay bars pre-Harold.
That is not why I sat there, stunned like a kid on its first trip to the circus. I looked at my cap of glossy black curls, still unthreaded with gray, thank goodness and good genes. Vivian just started sprouting gray hair and she was almost sixty.
My brows were shaped from my Brook Shields’ impression to smooth slender wings of black over my large dark eyes. My eyes, tilt up on the edges which made one long ago love christen me ‘cat eyes’. He and I didn’t last long.
My skin glowed under the light coating of makeup and my eyes sparkled. I looked years younger, always a bonus at 39. However, the biggest shock was I was looking into the face of a woman I hadn’t seen in years.
It was as if time had rewound and I was that 25-year-old moron wandering around looking for a place called normal. I looked young, hopeful, and nothing like the mother of a pre-teen twins. I took a long look, then I burst into tears.
For someone who’s not a crier, I wailed like a newborn. The Korean ladies fluttered and the esthetician looked dismayed. Raphael took control, sent them all away with assurances my tears were not for how I looked, that they had done a good job. I tried to add my own assurances, but I couldn’t stop crying long enough to do so.
Finally, Raphael swept me out of the chair and into his office. I experienced my usual sense of a dichotomy when I saw Raphael’s office. The salon was lush and pampered like a Persian cat. It screamed luxury and I think that kept his clients from screaming at his prices.
His office was stark. The floor was tiled, his desk was metal, and the place was militarily organized. This was the office of a Marine. I envied him the ability to switch back and forth so easily.
Raphael pushed me into a metal chair in front of his desk. He shoved a box of tissues in one of my hands and a bottle of water in the other. He sat there and let me cry it out. I appreciated it. For the last two days, I was running on adrenaline and rage and seeing the woman I used to be, popped that protective bubble.
“Where’s Vivian?” he asked when I finally drifted down to sniffles.
He patted my arm consolingly, knowing it would be okay now. I’m weird, I cry rarely and when I do the last thing I want is someone paying a lot of attention. Crying embarrasses me and I would prefer people just act as if they didn’t see it, like a spot on a blouse.
Afterward, when I was a little more under control, I can deal with the patting and hugging. Raphael was a friend for close to 20 years so he got that. Little did I know when I first wandered into his chair at ProCuts that I had found a friend for life.
He was with me during my wild and crazy party days. He was with me through Harold’s courtship, my marriage, and the birth of my twins. He went with me to the funeral of Grandma Gert, much to Harold’s dismay.
Raphael held my hand and passed me a tissue while Harold wandered around trying to figure out why all these people were here for my grandmother’s funeral. I had told Harold back in our courting days who my grandmother was but it didn’t register. Harold’s idea of art was those velvet pictures of dogs playing poker.
I didn’t hold it against him, but looking back, I should have. I know all his forbears back to the Mayflower and he couldn’t keep up with my spindly family tree for two generations? What had I been thinking?
“Where’s Vivian,” he asked again, yanking me back to the present.
“Don’t you think I’m a little old to need my mommy,” I joked as I mopped up my face.
The tissue was multicolored with my makeup. It hadn’t lasted a hot 15 minutes, but that was fine. I had no one I needed to be pretty for; my husband didn’t want me anymore. Even as angry as I was I still found that a little sad. I mopped up the tears that dribbled down my cheeks at the thought.
“No such thing, honey, no such thing. Trust me there are still days I wish I could pick up the phone and call mine,” Raphael said as he grabbed the sodden tissues from my hand and tossed them away.
I smiled when he immediately pumped hand sanitizer into his hand and gave them a brisk rub. I held out a hand when he held up the bottle, accepting a glob of the icy liquid. Raphael had a bit of a germ thing so he has hand sanitizer everywhere.
He even carried it his purse, my term, or his man bag as he referred to the messenger bag he carried everywhere. Vivian had given it to him in thanks for the rescue and it was one of Raphael’s prized possessions. I made a point of letting him know wherever Vivian was in town if she didn’t beat me to it.
Raphael does her hair, picking out whatever leaves and twigs she had picked up from wherever she was. They gossip like girlfriends, have lunch, and shop. So not my thing. They bonded over their South American adventure. Vivian treats Raphael like the son she never had, and the daughter she always wanted.
Vivian and I have a good relationship, but I don’t do the whole lunching, shopping bit. The salon visits were a carryover from my days growing up and she would take me. I stopped when I left for college, then I began again when I realized I missed it. Pampering feels good so why not indulge?
I sipped water and tried to collect myself. “She’s out there somewhere as usual,” I said slightly resentful.
Then I shook off the thought. I wasn’t being fair. I knew Vivian would be on the first thing smoking if I sent up a flare that I was in trouble.
I guess I hadn’t because I k
new I had my own share of ‘I told you so’s’ coming. Not that Vivian had exactly told me so, she just looked more doubtful than anything else when I announced my plans to marry Harold. The only thing she ever said was to ask me if I was sure before she walked me down the aisle.
When I nodded my silly bobble head, she had patted me on the cheek, lowered my veil, and walked me to my destiny. Harold’s mother was horrified when she found out Vivian would be the one giving me away. She offered every man in her family for the honors, but I was adamant.
Only when I threatened to sweep Harold up and cart him off to Vegas to get married by an Elvis impersonator did she desist. Good grief, what else did that woman want? She picked out everything, including my dress. My only request was that my mother walks me down the aisle and she couldn’t give me that? The hell you preach. My mother was great and if Gwendolyn couldn’t see that then her loss.
I came back to the present with Raphael looking at me with reproachful eyes. I winced and he said, “Do you want me to call her?”
After Mother’s South American adventure, Raphael set her up with a satellite phone. That thing had range that made Harold’s smart phone look like a tin can and string. I’m not quite sure if Raphael was supposed to give it to Vivian as it looked like military issue, but so far the men in black haven’t shown up to retrieve the piece of stealth technology.
“No,” I said, “I just got an email from her saying she was heading back in soon. I’ll wait until she gets here.”
Raphael gave me another look. He knew about Vivian and knew her definition of ‘soon’ might not be someone else’s definition of soon but he let it go.
“Okay,” he said with a smile and stood up, “you good?”
I stood as well as I knew Raphael needed to get back to work. It was cool. If I needed him, he would lock the office door and we’d talk the day away, but I couldn’t talk about this right now.
I needed some time to come to terms with the fact I had married a philandering idiot and bore children with him in some misguided attempt to have some Ozzie and Harriet life. I bet Ozzie never started boffing a younger woman.
“Yeah,” I said softly, then gasped when Raphael pulled me into a firm hug. Raphael wasn’t touchy feely like that so I must really look like hell. This was sad, as I had looked amazing before.
Raphael pulled away and maintained his grip on my shoulders. “Anything,” he said and stopped there.
I got it. If I needed anything from a shoulder to cry on to a drive by on Harold and Jillian, he was there for me. It made me feel good knowing that even as I experienced a moment of worry for Harold and his child bride. I shook off my worry and hoped Raphael would at least check with me before pulling a trigger.
I nodded, my eyes filling again. I blinked back the tears. I would not have another melt down, as that would severely compromise Raphael checking in before getting out his sniper rifle.
I think he was supposed to have left that behind when he decamped from the Marines but I saw it one day in his bedroom closet. He and I had a discussion, as I didn’t want the kids around firearms. Okay, more honesty, I didn’t want Tonya around firearms. She’s my daughter, but she’s also Grandma Gert’s great-granddaughter. Who knew when those genes were going to kick in?
Anyway, Raphael assured me the rifle wasn’t loaded, and since I trusted him, I haven’t mentioned it since. I sure wasn’t mentioning it now, just in case he had forgotten it was there and available. Despite everything, I did not want Harold dead or even maimed. He was the father of my children. I knew from personal experience how sucky growing up without a dad could be.
“Okay,” he said and gave me a firm shake before releasing my arms. He threw an arm around my shoulders and walked me out of his office. I noticed everyone was suspiciously busy right around the office door and they scattered like pigeons when the door opened.
The esthetician grabbed me, sat me in a chair, and hastily repaired my makeup. This time when I looked in the mirror my only thought was, ‘I look good’. I couldn’t wait for Harold to get a gander at me the next time we crossed paths, which would be this Saturday at the twins’ soccer game.
I grabbed my purse and pulled out a wad of cash, I had gotten for the occasion. I went around thanked the ladies that had worked on me, praised their work and passed out tips.
Raphael and I had a brief argument at the register when he wanted to comp everything and I insisted on paying for everything. We finally settled on a free haircut and I paid for the rest. He didn’t know about the large tip I had slipped into a drawer on his station when he wasn’t looking. Sheila saw me and smiled, used to our antics.
I slipped on my sunglasses as I walked out of the salon into the hot Texas sun. The day was winding down fast and I needed to hustle to get back to the loft to meet the architect. There was a slight breeze and it felt strange on the newly exposed back of my neck.
I briefly allowed myself to wonder what Aiden would think about my new look, then pushed the thought away. He was running through my mind all day and I wondered if he was tired. I smiled at the old line as I slipped into my minivan and headed back to the loft.
Chapter Twenty-Four: Aiden
Aiden looked at the shiny red Mustang parked where the minivan had resided before. He smirked wondering if Helen was already entertaining visitors. After all, no man would care about the lack of ambience with a woman like her to keep him entertained.
He frowned at the truck bearing the logo of one of his rival’s, Duncan construction. She certainly doesn’t waste any time, he thought as he looked at the truck. He grabbed his briefcase out to his truck and headed toward his loft, reminding himself to tell his secretary, he was busy when Helen called in for an estimate.
He didn’t think he’d be missing much in terms of business. How much money could a writer make anyway? He hadn’t heard of her, although she could be using a ‘nom de plume’ as his English teachers used to call it.
Still, she didn’t act like a successful writer. The minivan she drove was middle of the line and she said she had a husband. He was sure her husband was the major breadwinner in that family.
Aiden tried to avoid even looking at her door, but it opened, letting Craig Duncan out. He frowned at the woman shaking hands with the departing contractor. She looked completely different, not that she looked bad before, but now she was stunning. The new shorter hairstyle emphasized her big brown eyes and high sharp cheekbones.
Aiden never paid a woman’s hair much attention unless she had one of those elaborate styles that discouraged touching. He loved the feel of soft, clean hair sliding through his fingers as he kissed a woman.
He licked his lips as he imagined the springy curly hair on Helen’s head wrapped around his fingers as he plundered her lips again. He had replayed that kiss many times and it only whet his appetite to experience it again.
‘Okay, Mrs. Dudley, you get back to me as soon as possible. I’m sure you’ll find my bid is the best in town,” Craig Duncan bragged, holding Helen’s hand a little long, in Aiden’s opinion.
How long did a handshake take, he thought irritably as it continued on and on to his eyes. Why didn’t she pull away? She could pull away since Duncan wasn’t going to. Finally, when he thought he’d have to separate the two with a jig saw their hands parted.
He gave a sigh of relief, then Duncan’s words penetrated. Helen was already taking bids? She hadn’t called him? Okay, he did not intend to take the job, but she couldn’t know that. After she toured his loft, he was sure she’d at least give him a call.
How had she already gotten an architect’s rendering? He smirked, typical homeowner. Think they can describe a job, throw a check at the contractor, and hope for the best. Duncan was pulling her in with his nonsense.
He wondered how much Duncan was going to hose her. He supposed he had to step in to save Helen from herself. It would be the neighborly thing to do, he assured himself.
His smile faded at Duncan’s next words. “Let me kn
ow if that mystery architect of yours needs any more business. Never seen plans so clean and easy to understand. Makes the guy I usually use look like he is using an etch-a-sketch,” Duncan said in admiration.
Okay, she had an architect so maybe she knew a little bit about what she was doing. He thought she had just started thinking about this loft, but, she planned this for a while. Maybe she just wanted to see his place to get some ideas to firm up her ideas.
He jolted when Duncan turned to him and said, “Smyth? I didn’t know you lived here. You one of my competitors for this job? Looks like it’s going to be a doozy, but pretty when it’s finished. You see the plans yet?” Duncan asked after he strode over and pumped Aiden’s hand as if he was trying to prime an unused pump.
Aiden noticed Duncan put a little more pressure than was warranted, which told him Duncan was as interested in the homeowner as the job. Duncan had a bit of a reputation for that.
His wife turned her head as long as he kept bringing home the bacon. He tried not to let the thought bother him. Let the two married folks have each other. It would save him some heartache down the line.
Aiden looked at Helen wondering what she’d say. It was really none of Duncan’s business who all she went to for bids. The construction business was cutthroat especially in a down economy like the one the country was in now.
“ Mr. Duncan, thank you again for coming by. I’ll let you know one way or the other in the next day or so. As I stated, I want to get started as soon as possible,” Helen said, avoiding the question completely.
Duncan looked like he wanted to pursue his line of questioning, but the polite dismissal on Helen’s face stopped him. He merely smiled and said he’d await her call. He waved, then walked to his truck and drove away.
Aiden watched Duncan leave, then noticed Helen had returned to her loft and shut the door without another word. He tried not to take offense. They had agreed to take things slow or not at all but he didn’t think it precludes common courtesy.