by Jan Moran
How things have changed. Verena pressed her fingers against her forehead to ease the growing ache she’d had all morning. She rose from her desk and stood by the second story window overlooking North Beverly Drive. Mia had framed photos of the salon and the street from the early 1950s. At that time, Beverly Hills was a small village with its share of grocers, hardware shops, and silversmiths.
When her grandfather Emile built the salon for his wife, all the shops were owned by individuals and families; the corporate invasion had not yet started. Today, the small, five-square-mile city was a mecca for luxury shopping with international retailers from Cartier and Gucci, to Gap and Victoria’s Secret lining the streets.
Verena touched the cool glass, watching the bustling street scene below. She was so proud of the women in her family. Mia had worked tirelessly to grow the business. Many of their estheticians had started their careers with the salon and had been trained by Mia.
Angelica, Verena’s mother, had also worked in the business. When Mia had been diagnosed with breast cancer while on a trip to Switzerland, Angelica took the helm. Mia’s husband, Emile, had died of a heart attack a couple of years before, so Mia had decided to stay in Switzerland with her sister during her cancer treatments.
And it was during this time that tragedy struck their family.
Verena had just turned eighteen. Ten years ago, though sometimes it seemed like yesterday. She had graduated from Beverly Hills High School and had been accepted to Brown University to begin in September. She was thrilled to be going with her closest friends, and eager to meet new people, too.
Angelica was running the salon and looking after Anika and Bella, Verena’s twin sisters, who, at the time, were just two years old. “They were a singular surprise, but a double blessing,” Angelica used to say about the twins. They seemed to make her parents young again.
It had been a balmy summer evening, Verena recalled. Angelica and Joseph had gone out to dinner at Trader Vic’s restaurant in Beverly Hills. Verena agreed to watch the girls so her parents could celebrate their anniversary. It wasn’t far from their home; in fact, it was so close that Verena heard the ambulances and fire trucks, but at the time, she didn’t know the emergency vehicles had been called for her parents.
To this day, whenever she heard a siren she always said a prayer for the victims.
Her throat still tightened when she recalled that night. Died on impact, she’d been told. Killed by a drunk driver. In an instant, her entire world changed.
Still in the middle of her cancer treatments, Mia was too ill for the long flight home—her doctor sternly forbade it. She did what she could from Switzerland, but most of the work fell on Verena’s shoulders. She immediately canceled her fall matriculation into Brown University so she could care for her young sisters and run the salon. She hired a nanny, and her assistant Lacey was amazing, but it was a heavy load. The days passed in a grief-stricken blur.
And she never made it to Brown. Her friends had left without her.
There was a knock at the door. “Yes?”
“It’s me, Lacey.”
“Come in,” Verena said to her assistant.
Lacey shut the door behind her. “I’ve held client calls for you,” she said in a soft drawl and handed her a few phone messages. Originally from Atlanta, Georgia, Lacey helped Verena run her life. It was Lacey who had helped her manage the salon business. Lacey performed the bookkeeping and handled the human resource and insurance issues. She’d been her mother’s assistant, before Angelica died, and Mia’s before that. She taught Verena how to run the business. But it was Verena who had the vision, who brought the salon into the twenty-first century.
“Any luck?” Lacey asked.
Verena shook her head. “Nothing. Although the feds bailed out the banks, they’re not making many loans to businesses. The banks are sitting on federal funds, strengthening their balance sheets, protecting their assets.”
“Asses, you mean,” Lacey said with disgust. “But we have accounts receivables from major retailers that pay like clockwork, every thirty days. Nordstrom, Duty Free, LVMH.”
Verena shook her head. “Doesn’t seem to make a difference.”
“Well, I never,” she said with a huff. She brushed a thread from her lace blouse.
That was one of her favorite expressions, Verena knew. Lacey was a smart, loyal assistant, and Verena valued her, quirks and all. Because of her name, she often wore lace, and she had an assortment of southern expressions that made Verena laugh.
Lacey gestured around the office. “What about this building, the land? I declare, it’s worth a fortune. And what about the other salons across the country?”
“Mortgaged for the expansion. Derrick said it was the right thing to do.” She heaved a sigh. “It doesn’t look promising.”
Lacey clucked her tongue and placed a stack of papers on Verena’s inlaid French desk. “Here are invoices for your approval, and checks to sign.” She pushed up stylish red glasses onto her nose. “Say, what about government loans for businesses?”
“Takes too long. We need funds now, not six months from now.”
“This is a good business we have here,” Lacey said. “It’s going nowhere but up. I know you’ll find a way,” she said on her way out of the office. “You always have, sweetie pie.”
“Thanks for your confidence, Lacey.” Verena sat down to review the documents on her desk, made a few notes, and signed the checks. But thoughts of Marvin and the challenges before them made it impossible to concentrate.
She pushed back from her desk, got up and put on her jacket, crossed the Persian wool carpet, and made her way down a curved staircase to the salon. At the bottom of the stairs, she stepped into the spa waiting area, which she had recently updated in shades of ivory, taupe, and seafoam green, and added subtle lighting, relaxing music, and elegant recliners.
Out of habit, she surveyed the area, always making sure that everything was perfect and comfortable for their guests, as Verena referred to their clients. In one corner stood an antique hutch with hot herbal tea, china cups, fresh fruit, and chilled water. French doors opened to a private walled Zen garden with a trickling fountain and the sweet scent of gardenia flowers. Smooth rocks surrounded the warm water therapy tub and natural stone outdoor showers. She scooped up a magazine that had fallen to the floor and returned it to a table beside a cushioned lounge chair.
Verena wove through the hallway past a labyrinth of rooms outfitted for facial, massage, and hydrotherapy services. She saw Rosa Morales, one her best estheticians who made more than six figures a year, emerging from a treatment room. A tall, willowy young woman with platinum hair followed her.
It was Penelope Plessen, one of the world’s most famous, perfect faces.
“Verena,” Penelope gushed, “Rosa is sensational, she’s a magician, I swear.”
“She certainly is,” Verena said, giving Penelope a hug. She adored Penelope, who had left her home in Copenhagen at just fourteen years of age to model. Now, a decade later, she was always in demand, and her flawless complexion was one of the reasons. Penelope was a chameleon; her hair was forever changing—color, length, style. With the lift of an eyebrow or a tilt of her chin, she could go from virgin to vixen, from innocent to imperial.
Verena pulled away to inspect the skin on Penelope’s face and neck. “Marvelous,” she said to Rosa. “Well done. And you’re doing your part, too, Penelope. I’m glad you’re staying out of the sun now.”
Penelope laughed. “I hope to have a long career. At least another ten years. So, have you and Derrick set a date yet? I’m booked far in advance, but I want to be at your wedding.”
“No date yet, he’s awfully busy. His schedule is perpetually changing, but you’ll be among the first to know.”
Penelope leaned close to Verena and whispered conspiratorially. “You should elope to Fiji. I just returned from a photo shoot there. It’s breathtaking.”
Verena chuckled, although it sounded appea
ling, especially today. “I’ll keep that in mind. Great seeing you, Penelope. Relax, and try our new outdoor showers. There’s a special screened roof high above covering the area to keep out paparazzi lenses. I’ve got to run, but I’d love you to join me and my friends again for one of our all-afternoon Friday lunches. And it’s not just girl talk.”
“I know, last time I picked up some great stock tips as well as an amazing recipe for gluten-free banana nut bread.” They traded kisses on the cheeks before parting.
Verena left her and continued to the front of the salon, where the entire line of Valent Swiss Skincare was showcased. All natural, organic botanical ingredients were the hallmark of the line, and had been since inception. Worldwide trends had simply caught up with them.
Inside the shop Verena could see a famous young British actress, accompanied by her equally famous mother, also an actress. Many women passed the VSS skincare regimen through the generations.
Verena stopped by the front desk. “How is everything today?” she inquired quietly.
The fresh-faced young woman answered brightly, “Excellent. By the way, a call just came in for you. I took a message. Lacey said you’d be passing through any minute. His name is Lance Martel. Here’s his phone number.”
“Thanks,” she said, and added, “I’ll be out for the rest of the day.”
How nice of Lance to call. A spark of happiness surged through her, unbidden. It had been a nice evening, but that was all it was, she told herself firmly.
A moment later, she found herself smiling again.
5
After visiting the Panetta family, and offering her condolences on Marvin’s death, Verena spent the rest of the afternoon visiting the Mulholland home of David and Marian Cohen, who were old friends of her father. David had run a real estate development company before he retired, and was one of the wisest financial minds she knew, aside from Derrick. But even David didn’t have a good answer for her dilemma. “You won’t find a bank willing to lend right now. They’re hoarding cash to bolster their balance sheets.”
“What are our options?” she asked, perched on a sofa in his home office.
He scratched his bald head in thought. “Private money is all that’s left in this market, but be careful who you trust.”
Verena shifted with unease. “What do you mean?”
“There are plenty of vultures and sharks out there, just looking for tasty companies like yours to acquire at rock bottom prices.”
“Any advice?” She swallowed. This was worse than she’d thought.
“Watch your back, Verena. Bad timing for an expansion, as you know, but your wheels were already in motion.” David added, “I don’t envy you; we’re out of the market and in bonds for our retirement now. You’d better buckle up for a rocky ride.”
After Verena left the Cohens’ home, she wound down the hill back to her house just south of little Santa Monica Road, as the locals called it. She pulled her car into the narrow driveway that led to a detached garage in the rear yard. Walking past old vine roses, she drank in their heady aroma. She opened the back door and walked in, her leather pumps clicking across the dark polished hardwood floor.
Their house was modest in comparison to the mansions north of Santa Monica and Sunset Boulevard, but she loved it. It was the home her grandfather had built for Mia, which she’d moved into after her parents had died. It was one of the original cottages on the street, nestled now between large new homes and condominiums. She loved it, and had always felt at home here.
The twins were at a friend’s home, so the house was quiet. She checked on Mia, and she saw that her grandmother was sleeping again. She leaned against the doorjamb until she saw the steady rise and fall of Mia’s chest. Before going to bed, Verena always checked on her grandmother and the twins, making sure they were breathing. It was an odd quirk she had, but after her parents had died, she’d been terrified of losing Mia or the girls. She couldn’t sleep until she’d made sure they were safe.
Verena had a date with Derrick tonight. She walked into the bathroom and turned on the water in the large, old-fashioned, rose-colored tub. She shed her clothes and slipped into the bath. A generous pour of Valent bath oil filled the air with the fresh citrus aroma of verbena, while the natural oils turned her skin silky smooth. Just ten minutes. She savored the quiet.
Her thoughts wandered to Derrick. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d never been entirely comfortable discussing the company’s financial matters with him. When he asked, she didn’t mind answering his questions, but she never initiated the conversation. He dealt with highly sophisticated financial matters and maneuvers that were foreign to her. She didn’t have the financial degree that he had, and she’d always felt like she was at a disadvantage when the discussion turned to finance. However, she decided to ask his opinion tonight.
Once he’d asked if she’d ever thought of selling the business. She couldn’t believe he’d actually asked such a question, and she’d been vehement in her response. How could I possibly sell this business? It was the only link to her parents and grandparents, and she loved the work she did. She found it fulfilling to help people discover their own beauty and serenity. If only she could find that tranquility, too. She’d had it once, but then her world had exploded. Now, she tried to summon it whenever she could, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.
Mia’s cancer was in remission, but someday they would lose her, and then it would be just her and the twins. The girls didn’t remember their parents, of course. They’d been two years old at the time. I must preserve the business for them. The employees were like an extended family to them, and she felt a deep sense of responsibility.
She eased deeper into the warm bath, stealing a few more minutes. Sometimes she wondered if she had true feelings for Derrick. He had been relentless in his pursuit of her, and while it had been flattering, she didn’t feel the passion, the connection she’d heard friends rave about. Were they exaggerating? Or worse, maybe she simply wasn’t a passionate person, or her responsibilities precluded her from yielding fully to love.
In the kitchen with Lance, she’d seen Derrick’s jealousy for the first time, but she’d also had a right to a moment of respite and a decent meal. He’d been so demanding she couldn’t help but become defensive.
Thinking about that evening, her thoughts drifted to Lance. He was so easy to be with—not at all like Derrick. She wondered what Lance had thought of her, and remembered that she needed to call him back. She sloshed water in the tub as she thought. Was she being hasty with Derrick?
Failing to find answers for her questions, Verena yanked the stopper from the drain and stepped out of the tub. She toweled off, and then smoothed the body cream she’d developed from neck to toe. She freshened her makeup and brushed her hair, and dressed in a simple white silk sheath dress. But something seemed missing.
As an afterthought, she opened the safe and chose a vintage opera-length strand of pearls. She took great care to fasten the intricate antique clasp, and then ran her fingers along the lustrous pearls. She felt close to her grandmother when she wore a piece of her jewelry, and she was sure Mia wouldn’t mind. Tonight, for some reason, she needed that closeness more than usual.
She was waiting when Derrick knocked on the door.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said, immediately pulling her into his arms and kissing her longingly. He slid his hand up her dress.
“What a greeting,” she said. “Whoa, what’s gotten into you?”
“Verena, you drive me wild.”
His breath felt warm against her neck, and she could smell patchouli on his skin—a Tom Ford fragrance, she noted, her gift to him. He’d never worn it before.
“Let’s put this on hold until after dinner,” she murmured.
“Hmm, you think so?” With reluctance, he pulled away. “Missed you today,” he said, tapping her nose. “Couldn’t wait to see you. Thought you might have had another date with the kitchen help.”
Lance Martel had gotten under his skin. She suppressed a smile. “So, this is about the chef. Jealous, are you?”
“Why should I be? I know you’re crazy about me.” He nuzzled her neck. “That cook wouldn’t have a chance with you, not with me around.”
“Down boy, I’m famished.”
He released her with a boyish pout, which had her laughing. “Get in the car then, hungry girl,” he quipped. “The sooner we get you fed, the sooner I can have my own feast.” He waggled his eyebrows and she laughed again.
They got into Derrick’s Mercedes convertible and drove the short distance to Madeo’s restaurant. Derrick pulled his car into valet parking in front of the restaurant, and helped Verena out. As soon as they entered the popular restaurant the maître d’ greeted them with warmth, and then escorted them to a prime booth. Derrick had a taste for the finest, and frequented restaurants where he was known as a big spender, thus guaranteeing he would receive the best service.
Their usual cocktails—a martini for him and a champagne cocktail for her—quickly appeared at the table unbidden. Derrick nodded to the bartender and raised his glass to Verena.
“To us,” he said with a wink.
“To us.”
After they ordered, Derrick asked about her day, and Verena told him about her meeting with David Cohen and the difficulties she was having. Derrick looked more interested than usual.
“David’s right, the credit crisis has virtually shut down bank lending,” Derrick said.
“I was counting on our usual revolving line of credit for our working capital needs, as well as the Asian expansion.”
“So what’s your plan?”
Verena sipped her cocktail, wondering what her plan was, too. All her previous ones had been shut down. She was getting nervous, and didn’t know where to find help. “David Cohen suggested I turn to private investor money.”