by Amy Frazier
THIS MOVE TO Pritchard’s Neck wasn’t at all what Isabel had expected.
Surrounded by applications to colleges, she couldn’t concentrate on her future. The present took up too much of her energy.
She’d thought because Dad’s big family was here things would feel more familiar, more comfortable. Instead, she had never felt so confused and unsettled. Dad had always thrown himself into his job. Isabel guessed he was trying to prove himself so he could get an even better job down the road. That was the way it had worked all her life, but this past year it had seemed worse. She’d seen him more at school than she had at home.
Then… Gabriella was headed for trouble. Keri was an okay friend, but the crowd those two were trying to hang with was fast and shallow. In no way real friends. There wasn’t anything Isabel could do about it, though. Her sister wouldn’t listen to her. She’d have to find her own way.
And Mom? Mom had been a different person this past year. She seemed more interested in her own stuff—her pottery, her classes—than in what Isabel and Gabriella were doing. Did she think they didn’t need her anymore? Last year when they’d started visiting colleges, Isabel had felt like an adult. Now, a year older and filling out applications for out-of-state schools, she wasn’t so sure. How was an adult supposed to feel and act?
Mom wasn’t helping. Her mother’s freaky behavior lately was selfish. She didn’t see or chose not to see how she affected the rest of the family. Like dominoes lined up. Dad was even more tense than usual. Gabriella was more set on separating herself from the family. And Isabel wondered how she could leave for college when she seemed to be the only one who saw things clearly.
She knew what she had to do, but she didn’t like it.
With a heavy heart, she collected the applications spread across her bed. After long hours of deliberation, she’d made her short list. Boston University, the University of Miami, Duke, Oberlin College, Furman University. She’d spent so much time poring over their features, they were like old friends to her. Now, as if saying goodbye, she looked at each application in turn. Then she shredded them into scraps so tiny she’d be unable to change her mind.
CHAPTER SIX
“I LOOK LIKE a hootchie-mama!” Chessie exclaimed as she looked at the woman in the changing stall mirror. It couldn’t be her reflection because she’d never in her life worn a pair of tight low-rider leather pants, nor a sequined off-the-shoulder sweater. It was the umpteenth outfit she’d tried on this afternoon. None of them felt right to her. She might never make it to the pops concert tonight.
“You said you didn’t want to look like June Cleaver,” Kit replied from the banquette outside the dressing room where she and Martha sat ready to voice their opinions. “Let’s see.”
Chessie opened the door. “Who wears this stuff?”
“Well, if you did,” Martha replied, “Nick would certainly sit up and take notice.”
“As would the board of ed and the PTA.” Chessie tried unsuccessfully to execute a deep-knee bend. “This is a school function, ladies. I’m looking for something that says to Nick, ‘Come and get me,’ while not making the rest of the world think I’ve lost my mind.”
“I see the sales clerk rehanging something that might do,” Kit suggested, standing. Up until now, Martha had chosen the clothing, forcefully, as she’d engineered the whole makeover outing. “Let me get it.”
As Kit left the dressing room, Martha appraised Chessie. “You should get that outfit. It’s not at all hootchie-mama. It’s very sexy and it fits you beautifully.”
“It’s not me.”
“I thought the point of this makeover was to push the envelope. Update the earth-mother Chessie. Now, that’s an update.”
“I’d wear it once and my girls would take it over.”
“The price you’d pay for looking hip.”
“Am I hip or just a woman trying to act young?”
“Try this,” Kit said, returning. She held up a silky dress in a bronze-colored fabric.
Martha wrinkled her nose. “Boring.”
“Look at the color with her hair,” Kit insisted, thrusting it into Chessie’s arms. “I brought these, too.” Strappy high-heeled sandals in peacock green. “Go. Try them on.”
Chessie retreated to the changing stall. After the sticky warmth of the leather pants and the scratchiness of the sequined sweater, the dress felt liquid-smooth and cool. When she looked in the mirror, she held her breath. The dress skimmed her body perfectly. The deep V-neck showed a little cleavage without giving away the store. The floaty capped sleeves hid her upper-arm tan line. The skirt flared at the waist into a tulip hem that swirled softly at her knees. But it was the color that took her breath away. At first glance it was bronze, but as Chessie moved, blues and greens shimmered below the surface in a subtle moiré.
“What’s going on in there?” Martha asked. “You’re awfully quiet.”
Chessie opened the door.
“Wow!” the two exclaimed together.
“I feel like a new woman,” Chessie whispered, stepping to the three-way mirror. “This is me, but a me I didn’t know existed.”
“We have a winner,” Martha declared. “Let’s see the shoes with it.”
“I don’t know about dressy sandals.” Chessie came back to reality. “I’m afraid I have Birkenstock feet.”
“And that’s why we’re all getting pedicures while you get your hair styled.” Martha stood up with finality. “The owner of the salon is a dear friend of mine. He’s pulling out all the stops for us. Come on. Let’s pay for this stuff.”
Although Chessie loved the dress, she felt a tiny twinge as she forked over a hefty chunk of her pottery earnings. She had never spent so much on herself at one time, and for an outfit she might wear once.
“I see that guilty look, Chessie,” Martha said sharply, “and I will not have it. You deserve this dress.”
“It’s not so much that,” Chessie replied as the three women made their way through the mall to the salon and day spa. “With the clothes and the hair and all, I feel as if I’m… I don’t know…baiting a trap. I didn’t go through this much primping when I went out with Nick in high school.”
“Honey, when you’re sixteen, pheromones do all the work for you.” Martha laughed. “After a certain age and so many years of marriage, a woman must use all the help she can get.”
“I feel like I’m chasing Nick.”
“So?”
“Did you chase George?”
“Oh, he chased me till I caught him, and, believe me, I used every trick in the book.”
Chessie turned to Kit. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Did you use your feminine wiles on Sean?”
“Ha!” Kit grinned broadly. “My entire wardrobe consisted of tank tops and cargo shorts. Moreover, I did everything I could to drive him away. I pushed him off my porch. I slapped his face in public. I told him dating was bourgeois romanticism.”
“And he kept coming back for more.”
“Thank God.”
“You see,” Martha interjected, “if you don’t have any fashion sense, offer them excitement. Men are simple creatures. They respond to bright colors and movement. I swear that’s why George still watches cartoons.”
“That doesn’t describe Nick.” Chessie sighed. “I’m not sure what does anymore.”
“Hey, hey,” Martha cautioned. “I thought you were just trying to attract him. Understanding him, now that’s another seminar.”
“If you’re trying to understand men, you’ve come to the right place.” Lee, the owner of the salon, came forward as the three women walked in. “That’s all anyone ever discusses here, morning, noon and night. I could write a book.”
Martha and Lee air kissed.
“So, who’s getting the makeover today?”
Tentatively, Chessie raised her hand.
Lee swooped away the scarf she’d used to tie back her unruly curls. “Oh, yes!” he exclaimed. “We’re going to get rid of this Cousin It
t look!”
He had that hair cut look in his eyes that made Chessie’s blood go cold. “Just a trim and shaping,” she said weakly. “I’ve worn my hair this way since high school.”
“And does it show,” Lee retorted. “Time for an update.”
“But my husband likes it.”
“But he’s going to love it when I’m finished.”
“This is what you’re working with,” Martha said, pulling the new dress and shoes out of the bag.
Lee’s eyes lit up. “I have a vision,” he declared, pulling Chessie toward the back of the salon where an assistant waited with three footbaths. “Come on, ladies. It’s pedicures, gossip and one fabulous transformation.”
Chessie’s pulse began to race. What had she gotten herself into?
BEFORE THE MOVE back to Pritchard’s Neck, he’d promised himself weekends would be devoted to family, but so far Nick hadn’t been able to avoid working most of every Saturday.
He glanced at his watch as he headed for the Volvo in the school parking lot. Five-fifty. He’d lost track of time as he and the custodians had moved hundreds of boxes of cleaning and paper supplies off the loading dock where a new trucking company had dumped them into the storage closets. Left outside, they would have disappeared by dawn tomorrow. He might have an advanced administrative degree, but when a job needed doing, a job needed doing. Including manual labor.
Now, hot and sweaty, he had to get home, shower and change, and get back to the football field with Chessie for the pops concert. It was the last thing he wanted to do, and, technically, it was the duty of Eleanor Adams, his assistant principal, to put in an appearance tonight. Nick didn’t really need to go. Sure, he’d told Richard he’d show up, but shouldn’t the dog bite get him a bye? And while Chessie had talked about a date, wouldn’t she just as soon have some quality time at home? Maybe they could rent a movie that the girls would enjoy too. It seemed like ages since the four of them had spent an evening together.
Besides, Isabel and Gabriella would act as a buffer. It wasn’t as if he needed or wanted to hide behind his daughters, but he thought he and Chessie needed some neutral time to restore a sort of equilibrium. There’d been so much sturm und drang of late. Far too noticeable turmoil. As they were moving boxes, one of the custodians had actually asked him if he was getting a divorce.
Good God, that couldn’t be on Chessie’s mind, could it?
Not if the kiss she’d delivered the day before yesterday signaled her intent. See, that was the crazy part. Why would she push him away when she’d declared she wanted to be wooed? And why would she tell him no sex, then turn around and lay a kiss on him that made him feel like the pursued? Whatever, Nick wanted to work it out in private. Too many people in town had now logged in an opinion. He definitely wanted to stay in tonight.
Pulling in to the driveway, he was pleased to see the Mini Cooper. It would mean—might mean—his wife was safely home and not out and about fomenting revolution. Gingerly, he got out of his car. The dog bite was healing nicely.
No sign of the girls, except that the house was a mess. He needed to have a talk with them. In that Chessie was right. The girls were old enough to take on more responsibilities.
He headed upstairs, the thought of a hot shower already beginning to relax his aching muscles. “Chess? You home?”
“In here,” she called from their bedroom.
“Change of plans,” he said. “Would you mind—”
Who was that woman coming out of their bathroom?
“Chessie?”
“What do you think?”
She indicated the dress—she rarely wore a dress—but he couldn’t take his eyes off her hair.
Where the hell was it?
She turned around slowly, and his heart sank as he saw that her hair was neither pulled back with a tie nor piled on top of her head. He loved her long hair. But now it was gone. Mostly. Cropped and sophisticated and nothing like his free-spirited Chessie.
She tentatively touched the blunt cut that came to her jawline. “It will grow,” she tried to reassure him. “But I kind of like it.”
He was shocked speechless. The color and curls were still there, but in a style that made her look as if she’d just stepped off a plane from New York, ten years younger. It made him feel as if he were standing in the room with a stranger. A gorgeous stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.
“Well?” she said. “Say something. I’m losing courage.”
He took in the rest of her. The figure-revealing dress. The every-man’s-fantasy heels. The glint of copper nail polish on her toes. “It’s going to take some getting used to.”
And it was going to take some getting used to in public. The eager look on his wife’s face said she wasn’t going to settle for a night in.
“I’ll shower,” he said, brushing by her, suddenly uneasy in her presence. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the disappointment on her face.
When he emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, she was no longer in their bedroom. He threw on a clean shirt and trousers and ran his fingers through his damp hair. Before heading downstairs he steeled himself for the prospect of making conversation with a woman he wasn’t sure he knew any more.
He found her on the terrace, standing very still and gazing absently at the flowers. She held a large basket.
When she heard his footstep, she turned. “I packed a picnic supper.” She also seemed unsure of herself, and the moment felt awkward.
“Where are the girls?” It seemed strange talking about their daughters when this felt so much like a first date.
“Gabriella’s spending the night with Keri.”
“Again?”
“She seems to live across the street, I know, but Martha doesn’t mind.”
“And Isabel?”
“Gone for a walk. She says she’s going to work on her poetry tonight.”
He didn’t know what else to say.
“Would you feel more comfortable taking your car?” she asked at last.
“Yeah. More room. And the pillow’s still in it. Well, we’d better get going.”
They drove in uncomfortable silence to the high school. What could he say? That she looked gorgeous? She did. That he liked her hair? He didn’t. It wasn’t so much the cut. It suited her. More than suited. It made her features stand out. Made her come alive. But it had been such a big decision, and knowing how he loved her long wild curls, how could she spring this on him? One more change in five days of what seemed like endless and incomprehensible changes.
Parking in the spot reserved for him, Nick started for the stadium, then realized Chessie wasn’t beside him. She sat in the Volvo’s passenger seat and waited. He felt like a fool. When was the last time he’d opened the car door for her? She’d made her point.
“Hey, Nick.” John and Abigail Tindall came up alongside him. “Where’s Chessie?”
“Right here.” As Nick opened the car door, she emerged—long, shapely, tanned legs first.
“Put your eyes back in your head, dear.” Abigail chuckled and poked her husband in the ribs. “You’d think he’d never seen a pair of—oh, my goodness! Chessie, you look fabulous! Who cut your hair?”
“Lee Barnes. Like it?”
“Love it,” Abigail raved.
“You’ve got my vote,” John added, giving Nick a sly look. “Bet it makes you feel as if you’re stepping out on your wife.”
“You could say that.” For the life of him, he didn’t know why the Tindalls’ enthusiasm made him so testy.
“We’ve got to run,” Abigail said, holding up a folder. “Wendy forgot her music. Catch you later.”
Nick put his hand on Chessie’s elbow and moved her through the gathering crowd toward the stadium. He nodded and smiled at people he knew—just about everyone—and tried to ignore the surprised looks. The appreciative looks. The thumbs up, even. They were all for Chessie. Were people wondering if that’s what her picket sign had meant by having her needs
met? Did they think she’d been lobbying for a day at the spa and an extreme makeover? And why did he care what they thought?
“Oh, Nick, look.” Chessie stopped at the football field. “The kids and the band boosters have done such a lovely job.”
You wouldn’t know this was the same guts and glory arena of football season. Midfield before a portable acoustic shell trimmed in twinkling lights, the band played a lively forties jitterbug number. Fanned out from the stage and a large dance floor, a hundred or more banquet tables covered in white linen dotted the grass. People were quickly finding places to put picnic hampers and coolers, greeting friends and family, lighting candles as centerpieces and settling down to enjoy their children’s music.
“Nick! Chessie! Come join us!” Betsy O’Meara called from a table in the middle of the crowd. Nick recognized Sandy Weston and Patrick Goodall and the rest of the Art Guild group along with their spouses. Although there was no alcohol at this school function, he thought he saw eighty-year-old Sandy surreptitiously pour something from a flask into a plastic cup. Great. As an administrator, he was here to police students, not the senior citizens. And if he had to be here, he’d feel more comfortable with a table of faculty members. He tried to steer Chessie in the other direction toward Hattie St. Regis and her husband.
“We’d love to join you,” Chessie called back to Betsy, and he could do nothing now but follow her.
“Wow!” Sandy exclaimed as they approached. “Chessie, you’ve emerged from your cocoon! Nick, you have one beautiful dance partner tonight.”
Nick winced. “I’m not sure how much dancing I’ll be doing.”
“Ah, your…injury.” Sandy stood, then held out a chair for Chessie right next to his own. “I’ll be glad to help fill your dance card, my dear.”
Chessie beamed up at the old coot as if she was actually enjoying his outrageous flirtation.
As Nick stood behind his wife’s chair, the group discussion broke into small talk about art and technique and the best tourist-free spots for open-air sketching. Chessie, her cropped head bobbing with enthusiasm, joined in the discussion as if he wasn’t there.