CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE

by Julie Mulhern

  “Just fix it.”

  Without shifting the hand hiding my disastrous hair from his delicate sensibilities, he raised the other hand and snapped his fingers.

  Immediately, a shampoo girl appeared. Her nametag read “Wendy”.

  “Take her to the bowl. Extra crème rinse.”

  Wendy was too well-mannered to gawk at my hair. The customers dotting Kunz’s ridiculously chic salon were not. I donned a tight smile and followed Wendy to a line of black leather chairs that leaned back into black porcelain sinks.

  She washed my hair, poured half a bottle of crème rinse onto my head, then ran a comb through the tangled strands.

  Even with my head bent back into a porcelain bowl, the murmurs of interest from the front of the salon reached me. They were that loud.

  When Wendy raised me to sitting, I saw what the fuss was about. Anarchy had claimed a chair in the reception area and stretched out his legs. He’d even picked up one of Kunz’s glossy magazines filled with stylish hairstyles.

  My teeth clenched.

  “I’d do his hair anytime.” Wendy wore a dazed, dazzled look, a look that said a cross between James Dean and Steve McQueen was lounging in reception and she wanted to be his groupie.

  I said nothing.

  With a lingering look over her shoulder, she led me toward Kunz’s chair in the center of the salon. I nodded to several of Mother’s friends, smiled at a few of mine and air-kissed Libba’s cheek. Anyplace else, I would have stopped and told her about the fire. Not here. Kunz did not like being kept waiting. At all. His hissy fits were legendary. And frankly, I had enough problems without adding an angry German wielding a sharp pair of scissors.

  “Call me,” she said. “I want to know what you’re wearing.”

  I nodded then hurried to Kunz’s chair and climbed in.

  He trimmed.

  “I hear you were hurt last night at the party.”

  “A small accident.”

  He poured some miracle concoction onto my head then showed me the bottle. “It will add body and shine and softness. I will send you home with some, yes?”

  “Yes.” A bathroom full of expensive, miraculous hair care products was one of the costs of sitting in Kunz’s chair.

  He blow-dried.

  I looked in the mirror. My hair had body. My hair had shine. I touched a strand. My hair felt soft. Perhaps this miracle product really was miraculous. Or perhaps that half a bottle of crème rinse Wendy had poured on my head had something to do with the transformation.

  Libba rose from Jacque’s chair (yes, all the stylists were European—or at least pretended to be), and mimed a phone to her ear.

  I nodded.

  Kunz swept my hair into a twist, secured it with a few pins, put a bottle of hair miracle into my hands and sent me on my way.

  Hammie Walsh rose from Emilio’s chair and we walked to the front of the salon together. “Just a few hours away. Your mother must be excited,” she said.

  “She is. Thank you so much for supporting the event.” Hammie and her husband had made a contribution just shy of sizeable. I smiled at her and ignored the police detective who’d looked up from his magazine.

  “Well, of course, dear. It’s such a worthy cause. All those adorable little children…”

  Did she know what she was supporting?

  “You go ahead.” She waved me forward. “I’m sure your mother has given you a to-do list a mile long.”

  “Thank you.” I pulled my checkbook out of my purse and laid it on the receptionist’s desk.

  Lynn, the receptionist, had a phone plastered to her ear and a pencil in her hand. “Yes, Mrs. Cooper, we have you down for next Tuesday at three.” She tapped the pencil tip against an entry in a calendar so complicated it would give Einstein a headache. Maybe it had given Lynn a headache, her eyes were red-rimmed. “We’ll see you then.”

  She hung up the phone and offered me a watery smile. “Just the trim and blow-dry today, Mrs. Russell?”

  “And this.” I set the bottle full of miracles next to my checkbook

  Lynn patted her hair, a shade of bottle red that verged on purple. “We’ve been selling a lot of that lately.”

  I bet they had.

  “With that, your total is $25.”

  I wrote a check and handed it to her.

  Hammie picked up the bottle and studied the label.

  “Thank you for the plant,” said Lynn. She wiped her eyes with a tissue. “That was very kind of you.”

  I’d heard over the bridge table that Lynn’s husband had cancer. Sending a Swedish ivy and a note expressing my thoughts and prayers seemed the least I could do.

  Hammie looked up from a careful reading of the label. “That’s right, I heard your husband was sick.” She cocked her head like a curious robin. “Has he died yet?”

  My jaw dropped.

  Anarchy’s magazine dropped.

  Lynn stood up, sending the appointment book and a handful of pencils to the floor. With a shaking hand, she pointed toward the door. “Get out.”

  Hammie puffed her chest and lifted her chin. “I was just asking a question.”

  Lynn’s voice rose, attracting attention. “You rich bitch. Who the hell do you think you are? Get out.”

  “Well—” Hammie brought her hand to her chest as if she’d been mortally wounded “—I’m sure Kunz won’t approve of your name calling.”

  Lynn leaned over the edge of the counter. “Get out or I’ll kill you.”

  Hammie paled, raised her chin another notch and walked to the door. She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Don’t plan on working here after today.” The door slammed behind her.

  Lynn collapsed into her chair, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He only has a few weeks left—” her voice broke. She hiccupped. “I don’t know how I’m going to live without him.” She buried her face in her hands.

  I snuck behind the desk and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Hammie didn’t mean it. She didn’t. She was just born with a sterling silver foot in her mouth.”

  “I could kill her.” Lynn wiped her eyes. “I mean it; I really could.”

  Obviously she didn’t know there was a homicide detective present.

  Anarchy picked up the fallen magazine and put it on a side table. He stared at Lynn with his forehead creased and concern writ large across his face.

  Those wrinkles probably would have been deeper if he’d known what was coming.

  Six

  Some women might swoon at the sight of Anarchy Jones in a tux.

  Not me.

  I recovered the ability to breathe after only a few seconds.

  My lungs might have inflated faster if he wasn’t standing at the bottom of the stairs staring at me like I was a ray of sunshine after a month of rain.

  I closed my eyes, shutting out his smile.

  “Who—” Marjorie paused for breath “—is that?”

  With my eyes still closed, I said, “Anarchy Jones. He’s Aunt Sis’s date.” I didn’t add that he’d taken up residence in the studio apartment in the carriage house. Given my sister’s recent exploits, it didn’t seem wise.

  “Why are your eyes closed?” she asked.

  Because Anarchy looked more mouth-wateringly dangerous in a tuxedo than James Bond. “No reason.” I opened my lids and stared at Marjorie.

  Oh. Dear. Lord.

  The neckline of her dress plunged to her waist. Unmistakably Halston. Gun-metal blue, barely-there Halston.

  I don’t care for Halston. Swimming into a dead body clad in one of his designs has put me off him. Probably forever.

  She pursed her lips. “You don’t like my dress?”

  She looked like an aging call girl, but what I thought didn’t matter. “Mother’s head is going to spin off her neck when she sees
you.”

  Marjorie grinned. “As long as she doesn’t vomit pea soup.”

  While the thought of Mother as Linda Blair possessed by a demon was amusing, Marjorie exposing her…melons as if they were produce marked for a quick sale was not. “Tomorrow, when this is over, we should talk.”

  “Fine.” She shook her head as if she was already dismissing my opinions. “Now, introduce me to our aunt’s date.”

  We descended the stairs. “Marjorie, this is Detective Jones. Anarchy, this is my sister, Mrs. Blake.”

  “Don’t be so formal, Ellison.” Marjorie extended her hand. She also took a deep breath and arched her back. “Please, call me Marjorie.”

  When I was sixteen, I glanced out the front window of my parent’s home and saw my boyfriend and my sister kissing—kissing as if they were performing tonsillectomies with their tongues. I broke up with him and didn’t speak to her for three months. Finally, Daddy intervened—I think the death glares at dinner gave him indigestion. Marjorie’s excuse—that she wanted to prove to me that Bill couldn’t be trusted—was absurd. She was the one who couldn’t be trusted. With a sister like her, who needed enemies?

  And now she’d set her sights on Anarchy. Acid green vines appeared from nowhere, wrapped around my heart, my lungs, and my stomach. They squeezed and twisted and sent starter shoots to my fingers, curling them into claws.

  To his credit, Anarchy didn’t seem to notice that my sister’s breasts puffed like pigeons less than a centimeter from his chest. “A pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand and took a step backward.

  “All mine.” She said the words as if she were declaring intent.

  Heat seared the vines to ash. Heat closed my claws into fists. What was she thinking?

  What was I thinking? A cat fight in the foyer? I loosened my taut muscles.

  Ding-dong.

  “Is that my date?” Aunt Sis’s voice floated down from the second floor.

  Her date was already here. Chances were good this one was mine.

  Marjorie slipped past Anarchy and opened the front door. “Hunter.” Her voice sounded as seductive as warm brandy on a cold night. She rose on her toes and her arms circled his neck. Her barely covered body molded to him like cling wrap.

  “Lovely to see you, Marjorie.”

  “Isn’t it?” she purred. Since he was seeing—and feeling—most of her, maybe it really was.

  The vines made a reappearance, so too did the need to yank Marjorie away from a man.

  Maybe Marjorie and I shouldn’t wait for tomorrow to have that talk. Maybe I should say something about her dress and the way she threw herself at men this very minute. I opened my mouth but Aunt Sis’s hand on my arm stopped me from speaking. She’d come downstairs without my noticing.

  “Don’t,” Aunt Sis whispered. “Not now.”

  Probably good advice. I ignored it. “Marjorie,” I said through gritted teeth. “May I see you in the kitchen for a moment?”

  Aunt Sis sighed.

  Marjorie released her tentacles and Hunter stepped inside.

  My breath caught all over again.

  Hunter Tafft combines Cary Grant’s charm and good looks with a level of charisma that defies description. He has prematurely silver hair, a golden tan, and very white teeth. In a tuxedo, he is perfection.

  Perhaps living with perfection is wearing. He is thrice divorced.

  A fact that Mother brushes aside like a bit of cottonwood fluff. In her mind, I am the fourth Mrs. Hunter Tafft.

  Aunt Sis glanced at her watch then at me. “Don’t you think we should be going? Your mother will have a hissy fit if we’re late.”

  My aunt was right, but I jerked my chin to the back of the house. “Marjorie. Kitchen.”

  She followed me down the hallway. “What?”

  I knew without looking that she’d put extra sway in her hips in case Hunter or Anarchy were watching. With my lips tightly sealed, I held open the kitchen door.

  She stepped inside and I let the door swing closed behind her.

  “What is it?” Marjorie demanded.

  “Stay away from Anarchy.” My voice shook with unexpected emotion.

  She planted a hand on her silk jersey clad hip. “I see. Does that mean Hunter is fair game?”

  “No!”

  “So they’re both off limits?” She licked her lips as if she’d just tasted something delicious and had every intention of going back for a second helping.

  Damn straight they were off limits. At least to my sister.

  A saturated shade of crimson clouded my vision. I raised a flattened palm, ready to slap the sexy pout off Marjorie’s glossy lips, and stopped myself. Just. Instead, I fanned my flushed cheeks. Truth was, I had no claim on Anarchy or Hunter. If either, or both, of them wanted to look down my sister’s dress and gaze at her toes, I had no right to stop them. I took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. “They’re not off limits, but you should be. Last time I checked, you were still married.”

  Her eyes thinned to mere slits. “That is none of your business.”

  “Figure out what’s important to you, Marji. If it’s your family, then stop screwing around.”

  “Oh, lighten up.”

  I responded with an eye roll that would have done Grace proud.

  She crossed her arms and her breasts nearly escaped the confines of her dress. “Which one do you want? Both? Or is it just that you don’t want me to have them?”

  I didn’t know if I wanted a man in my life, much less which man. This wasn’t about Hunter or Anarchy. It was about something bigger. “Why would you hurl yourself at my date? We’re adults now. Who does that?”

  She snorted. “Try being unhappy for years on end.”

  “I have. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “You want them to look at you instead? Stop dressing like a nun.”

  Was she referring to the rather austere lines of the nutmeg brown Bill Blass I’d chosen? The front might say “nun” but the back plunged. I smoothed the fabric against my hip. “Just answer me.”

  “You get to date and go out and—”

  “You think dating is fun?” Incredulity made my voice squeak. I drew a breath deep into my lungs. “Men scare the bejesus out of me.” In my experience, they broke vows, broke hearts and broke trust. When it came to men, I was as skittish as a new foal. But this wasn’t about men, this was about my sister wounding me on purpose. “Why throw yourself at Hunter like that?”

  She rubbed her bare arm, patted an invisible strand of hair back into place and glanced around the kitchen, her gaze landing anywhere but me. “You take things too seriously, Ellison. You really do need to lighten up.”

  She wasn’t going to answer. Damn.

  If I were to paint how I felt, my brushes would create a monochromatic landscape in shades of gray. For a bit of visual interest, I’d add a leafless tree reaching its bony limbs toward the leaden sky. That tree—desolate and lonely. I bit my lips and closed my eyes for an instant—more to block out my sister’s derisive glare than to stop a well of tears. Counting to ten seemed like a good idea, so I did that too. Then I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. “You can move out in the morning.”

  We stared at each other for a moment then she lifted her chin. “Fine.”

  The kitchen door swung open and Aunt Sis peeked her head in. “Girls, we need to go.”

  “We’re ready.” Marjorie swept past me without a glance.

  Aunt Sis shook her head. “This promises to be a fun evening.”

  Exactly what I’d been thinking.

  It was hardly a surprise that Marjorie chose to ride to the gala with Aunt Sis and Anarchy. That left me alone with Hunter, grinding my teeth in the front seat of his Mercedes.

  Hunter, bless him, kept up a stream of small talk as he drove.
<
br />   I looked out the window, silent and fuming.

  “Let it go, Ellison.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s obvious you’re furious with Marjorie, but for tonight, let it go.”

  I cut a glance his way. Perfect profile. Hands at ten and two. Eyes on the road. Three failed marriages. And no wonder. He didn’t understand women at all. I snorted softly.

  “There will be plenty of tension tonight with your mother wanting everything to be perfect. Don’t let the problem between you and Marjorie add to it.”

  The problem? Was that what he was calling having my sister press her breasts through his chest and into his spine?

  I said nothing.

  “It’s rather sad.”

  He looked my way.

  The black mood that had settled on my shoulders like one of Mother’s fox stoles lifted its head and stared at Hunter with beady eyes. “Sad?”

  He nodded and returned his gaze to the road. “You’ve made something of your life and she’s jealous.”

  This time, my snort wasn’t soft. Marjorie and I had been handed the same tools—to whit, a copy of Emily Post’s The Blue Book of Social Usage, a recent Social Register, a lifetime of listening to Mother repeat her expectations for us, and a closet full of pretty clothes.

  We’d done exactly what was expected of us. We got married.

  True, Mother had approved of my husband and barely tolerated Marjorie’s. Of course, my late husband turned out to be a cheating, lying blackmailer. But at least he didn’t manufacture condoms.

  We pulled up in front of the hotel Mother had chosen for the gala and a doorman helped me out of the car. Hunter handed his keys to the valet and we stepped inside.

  Mother had transformed the lobby. An igloo similar to the one children played in at the museum stood in the lobby. The igloo at the museum was made of concrete. The one in the lobby was constructed from Styrofoam blocks. Men in bear suits stood ready to startle patrons. Davy Crockett carried a musket and wore a coonskin cap.

  “Wow,” said Hunter. “Your mother went all out.”

  Mother swept toward us, reviewed my gown, then air-kissed my cheek. “Ellison, you look lovely.”