by Kim Boykin
“I have a feeling it’s not that. ” Shiteater’s grin on her face, definitely moving in for the kill. “I’m pretty sure it’s the recipe you told me to put on the menu Thursday night. And then yanked it Sunday.”
“It was an experiment.”
“Are you sure about that? You sold it in well,” she sat up tall, trying to imitate him. “‘The wild west meets the sticky-sweet south.’ There’ve been customers who’ve come back just for the tiramisu banana pudding. Three asked me for the recipe.”
“You give it to them?”
“Wasn’t mine to give.” He handed her another beer. “So, you gonna ply me with alcohol, try to make me forget about the cute blonde I saw you with in town on Monday? I even ran into her at the Dillon’s later when I got my oil changed. She’s pretty, and so damn southern. I could hardly understand her a word she said.”
“You’re one to talk, Boston.” A Southie no less.
“So how’d the experiment go?”
He finished his beer and threw the bottle in the trashcan. “I’m definitely getting a new chef.”
Tuesday morning Nell had made it clear it was important to her that I let my parents know where I was. I didn’t call them every day like Antwan called his, but it had been a little over two weeks since I’d talked to them.
“I’m fine, Mama. Really I am.”
“Well if you’re in Montana, who’s got my grand dog?”
“Antwan’s got Buster. Says he might not give him back.”
“Rainey Brown, I’m going to tan your hide when I see you. I can’t believe you just up and took off across the country by yourself. Especially in that old car. I’m not even sure I’m going to tell your daddy.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s doing a little processing now, mostly deer. Fixed him a place in the storage building behind the store, put a cooler in. It’s real nice.”
“He’d always talked about doing something like that. That’s good.”
“I think it will be. Ray Hallman had a big weekend, killed a buck and two doe, so he’s there helping your daddy process them. Ray will give us some venison. I’ve even got some boar meat in the freezer now.” She laughed. “I was making your daddy watch one of those cooking shows on TV the other day, and lo and behold, they were smoking boar hind quarters. Said it’s real gourmet. You should have seen your daddy’s face… it was a hoot. So where exactly are you in Montana?”
“Smoked boar does sound good, Mama. You sound good.”
“You still didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m in Marietta.”
“And Adam’s in Missoula isn’t he? So, how is he? What did he have to say?”
“He’s good, but what do you mean?”
“Oh, Rainey, you’ve been waiting on that boy a long time, a lot longer than I thought you would. It’s a shame you had to drive all the way out there to get your heart broke.”
“I’m fine, Mama.” Relieved. “It’s been a good trip.” All things considered, a great one.
“So when are you heading home?”
“I don’t know. I’m working a little. Staying with a friend. Her name is Nell, you’d like her.”
“You applying for a license there?” There was a long beat. “Well, if you do, just remember where you came from. And don’t forget where you belong.”
“I won’t ever forget.” I belong to Beck.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Graff Hotel seemed like a good place to start handing out business cards. I looked for someone at the concierge desk, but didn’t see anyone. A thirty-ish looking, pretty redhead smiled at me from the reception desk and waved me over.
“Our concierge is out sick today. Can I help you with something?” Her name tag said Andrea, from Boulder, Colorado.
“You have great hair, Andrea.” And she did. Good and thick and the color was perfect.
“Well, thank you.”
“Gorgeous color.”
“Really? I wasn’t sure. I just changed last week from brown to this.” Instinctively she ran her hand through her auburn hair. “I’ve never colored my hair before. It’s hard to get used to. So, how did you know?”
“I’m a hairstylist.” I pulled out my cards. “I’m in town, working at—.”
“Like one of those celebrity hair stylists who travel all over the place?”
“No.” She looked disappointed. “But I’ve set up shop at Nell’s Cut ‘n Curl. It’s that cute little retro place down Main Street.”
“Oh, I love that place. I always wanted to go in, but I never have.”
“You should. It’s so cool. And Nell, well let’s just say meeting Nell alone is worth the trip.”
“Maybe I will stop by.”
“That’d be great,” I said. “Would it be okay if I left some of my business cards with you with my cell number? I’ve written the number of the Cut ‘n Curl on them too? Maybe when your concierge gets back, he can send some of your guest our way.”
“You know what you should do?” Her eyes lit up, Andrea was obviously a creative soul too. “You should sell the whole retro experience. Oh my God, that would be so much fun. And the tourists would absolutely love it.
“They come to Marietta for different; we always have guests who are looking for things to do, experiences that aren’t the normal outdoorsy stuff. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the scenery as much as the next girl, but to go back in time? To get your hair done, maybe even in one of those cool retro hairstyles? That would be a blast.”
“What a great idea, Andrea. Thanks.” If she wasn’t on the other side of the desk, I would have hugged her neck. “You know, you’re hair’s so thick, you’ve kind of got that whole Zooey Deschanel thing going on. You would look great in bangs. ”
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely. Come by if you want and I’ll cut your hair. For free.”
The whole time I made the rounds to a dozen B&Bs, my mind was churning with ideas. I couldn’t wait to get back to the beauty shop and tell Nell. By the time I pushed through the door, thanks to Andrea, I had two appointments for today and four for tomorrow.
“They all made sure to say they wanted the experience. What the hell is that?”
“Nell, what have you got that no other salon in town has?”
“Besides you, I don’t know.”
“Look at this place. What do you see?”
“A salon that’s more outdated than I am.”
“No. You have nostalgia. This place is fabulous with the old hairdryers, the artwork. And you’re fabulous. You know how to do poodle cuts, and beehives, and bouffants. Styles I never learned, but you can teach them to me. And we’re not going to shoot the tourist, Nell, we’re going to invite them to come in and step back in time to the fifties and sixties. I can even do their makeup to fit their look.”
“Well, the experience isn’t on the menu,” she said pointing to the poster board. “That will be good for you.”
“I’ll be good for us.”
“What are you going to charge?”
“I thought about that on the way back here and called around to some of places that offer excursions. Most of them charge $100 to $200 a head, I don’t see why we can’t do the same.”
“What about my people who get those styles anyway?”
“We’ll leave the poster board up for show, and let the clients know up front what the cost of the experience is. You continue to charge your people what you normally do.” I was so excited, my mind racing a mile a minute. “This will be so much fun.”
“Sounds good to me,” Nell chimed in. “I just have one question. Does this mean you’re staying?”
Her question took my excitement down a notch or two. “Maybe, but I am going to apply for a Montana license. If you get yours pulled because I’m practicing without one, I’ll be in a mess, Nell. I need you to teach me because this is going to be big.”
“All right then. Let’s go home for lunch. I’ve got some cute uniform
s I kept from the sixties. You’re a shorty like me, I bet they’d fit you just fine.”
Turns out Nell liked to show a little leg back in the sixties. A lot of leg, really. The crisp white cotton dresses had cute Peter Pan collars and came up to mid-thigh. I tried several on and thought they were a little too tight. “They’re supposed to be that way.” She laughed when I blushed. “What? You thought I was always an old lady?”
“No ma’am, and I’ve seen the pictures to prove it.” We ate good old southern pimento cheese sandwiches that I made for lunch. Nell had never had them before, and like everything else, she did, she added a little cayenne pepper to it, and it was wonderful.
We got back to the shop by one o’clock, me dressed in my uniform and Nell in hers. “Sit down before that first appointment comes in. I want to do something,” Nell said.
She piled my hair on top of my hair and made it look big, sexy, almost making me a little jealous that Nell had actually lived the whole great big bouffant look.
“My God, girl, you look like a blonde Audrey Hepburn.”
I blushed and thanked her just as the bell over the door rang. I put my southern on and strutted out to meet my first guinea pig. Her name was Jane from Dallas. Miss Dallas didn’t blink when I told her the retro hair experience was $100, with makeup $150. She opted for the same bouffant hairdo I had along with the makeup, and I went at it. Without a blow dryer because according to Nell, they weren’t commonly used until the seventies.
While Miss Dallas was under the dryer, Leigh came in. She had a head full of platinum blonde hair and didn’t look like the kind of girl who’d agree to a Montana vacation. She was slick, New York chic in her black short skirt and skimpy sleeveless turtleneck, and surprisingly enough, she wanted a beehive.
Now I’ll be honest, bouffants aren’t so hard. You just keep piling the hair up on the client’s head and then make sure it stays in place while making it as sexy as possible. So Miss Dallas was happy and out the door in less than two hours. But beehives are terrifying, and as I proved with Nell’s hair, I was woefully inadequate when it came to them.
Nell would have made a great beauty school instructor, and to be honest, she was half of the experience, telling her salon stories from over the years. Most of them had to do with a client bringing in a picture out of a magazine of a model or a celebrity who had been airbrushed and an army of hair warriors had worked on their hair. Invariably the client had two hairs on their head, and they still wanted to look like Liz Taylor or Jane Fonda.
“And let me tell you,” she went on while I fixed Miss New York’s hair. “I cursed the day Farrah Fawcett was born. Every woman in town wanted to look like her, and not a one of them understood that Farrah was chosen for that cut because she had good hair. Just like Dorothy Hamill or Jennifer Aniston, even that kid today. What’s his name? Austin Bieber?”
We all laughed, and then I saw Miss New York lick her lips and get that haute look women get, almost a come hither look. I thought it was her new do, because regardless of how outdated and sometimes ugly, beehives can be, she looked stunning and not at all like someone who would go rafting tomorrow.
“I saw the sign out front.” Beck. “What happened to the imported stylist?”
“Well, it took you long enough.” I smiled knowing Nell had advertised I was back in town, changing the sign to read SOUTH CAROLINA STYLIST. I called on every ounce of my professionalism not to run to him. “I’ll be right with you.”
I sprayed the hell out of Miss New York’s beehive. She handed me $120 cash and said she loved her hair. She also mouthed he’s gorgeous when she thought Beck wasn’t looking.
Yeah, he is.
Nell left with Miss New York, suddenly claiming she had to be somewhere and flipped the Closed sign on the door.
And then it was just the two of us.
“Funny how it wasn’t supposed to be this way, Beck.” I was almost afraid to touch him, to need him, to want him. But it was too late.
“Now there’s where you’re wrong, Rainey. Maybe it was supposed to be this way.” He took me in his arms. “Because I started loving you the minute you opened that smart southern mouth of yours.”
“But you might get tired of my smart mouth, Beck.”
“Not likely.” He laughed. “Hell, I want to make sure I’m as accurate as possible here. I’m going with never.”
“So what does this mean?”
“It means wherever you are, that’s where I want to be.”
“You still shooting for forever, Beck Hartnett? Because I love you and that’s what I had in mind.”
“Absolutely.”
I smiled against his lips, “Got to warn you though, I’m a handful.”
“No shit.” He grabbed my ass and pulled me even closer. “But you’re my handful.”
“You might get sick of me and my southern ways, you might—”
“Stop talking, Rainey,” he whispered against my lips. “I’m fixing to kiss you.”
And then there I was with my hands in Beck’s gorgeous dark hair. Kissing him back. And it felt like home.
THE END
About The Author
Kim Boykin is a women's fiction author with a sassy Southern streak. She is the author of The Wisdom of Hair, Steal Me, Cowboy, and Palmetto Moon (Summer 2014.) While her heart is always in South Carolina, she lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, with her husband, three dogs, and 126 rose bushes.
An excerpt from
Late Last Night
Lilian Darcy
Copyright © 2014
March, 1996
Really, rock music wasn’t what it used to be.
Kate fumbled for the tuning knob on the car radio and came up with a country station. She liked country, but not today when she was late and tired and stressed after a long day of teaching. The meeting after school with Neve Shepherd’s parents had gone on much longer than she had thought it would, and then she’d had several more tasks to complete after that.
“We’re worried that her boyfriend is a bad influence,” Neve’s father Gary had said at one point.
“Jay Brown,” Annette Shepherd had put in. “Do you teach him, too?”
“Yes, I do.” Kate already knew that Neve and Jay were dating, and she’d resisted blurting out her instant response—Jay a bad influence on Neve? No, it was the other way around. Neve was getting seriously out of control.
Careful with the speed limit, Kate.
She needed rock, and she needed it LOUD, and the Smashing Pumpkins and Foo Fighters just weren’t the same as the bands she’d loved in her teens. Blondie, the Eagles, the Police, the Stones. Those were bands.
I sound as if I’m forty.
Which she wouldn’t be for ages. Not until three years into the next millennium. She was only thirty-two, for heaven’s sake. Meanwhile, if she didn’t find a song she liked, she might start screaming instead.
She twiddled the tuning knob once more, finally found a halfway decent song, started singing with no style and no tune at the top of her voice—it worked a little, as a stress release—then saw the flashing red and blue lights in her rear-view mirror and her heart sank into the pit of her stomach.
Please, no! Not again.
She slowed and pulled over, pressed her forehead against the hard curve of the steering wheel and groaned while she waited for the long arm of the law to step out of his vehicle and arrive beside her.
This couldn’t be happening. And yet it was.
A minute later, he appeared in his dark uniform at her window and she wound it down, the battered pickup not being a recent enough model to have push-button windows. It was the sheriff himself, not a mere junior deputy, and not the highway patrol. Sheriff Harrison Pearce had been with the county for just over a year, and had now pulled her over four times in less than three months for traffic violations. She’d run one stop light in town, and was caught speeding twice out here on the highway, but this time she didn’t even know what she’d done wrong.
“I wasn’t speeding,” she said, before he could open his mouth. He loomed beyond the open window, big and unmoving, the uniform clinging to strong shoulders and well-worked thighs. “I wasn’t.”
“You know, Miz MacCreadie,” he said in a slow Montana drawl, “we gotta stop meeting like this.”
“I know we do. Why is it always you? Between the police department and the sheriff’s office and the highway patrol, there have to be other officers on the roads, you would think.” She shut her mouth quickly, before she began to sound completely hysterical.
“I mean that.” He wore a sober, serious expression that made the planes of his face look as if they’d been carved by a sculptor in a thoughtful mood. He had dark eyes and dark hair and the kind of short, neat haircut that looked terrible on any man who had a badly shaped head.
Sheriff Pearce’s head was very well-shaped indeed.
Almost as well-shaped as his body.
Unfortunately.
“I wasn’t speeding,” Kate said.
“That is a plus,” he agreed. He sounded calm, and almost kind. “But your tail-light is out.” He put a hand on the roof of the pickup and leaned in a little.
“One tail-light?” she said.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. It’s still a violation.”
“I—I’m sorry, too, but I really didn’t know it was out, and I’m late home.”
“Step out of the car, and I’ll show you.”
She stepped. Well, she opened the door with a slightly shaky hand, and stumbled out on tired, impatient legs. Every minute she was delayed here would only increase the likely chaos when she arrived home.
Sheriff Pearce walked her around to the back of the pickup, his stride even and long. “See, it’s your left light, and these roads are pitch black at night. What if someone thinks you’re a motorcycle when they try to pass you?”
“It’s not pitch black yet.” It was a plea, not an argument.
“Will be, soon,” he pointed out, still sounding kind rather than stern. The last fiery edge of the western sun had dipped below the jagged and snow-capped horizon of the distant Tobacco Root Mountains some minutes ago.