“I’d like that,” she said without raising her voice. She didn’t want to seem overeager. Cool was better. Suave was best.
“What can you bring?” Pam asked.
Samantha scooped her hair to the side. “What do you need?” Something told her that salsa and chips weren’t on the wish list. Not for a party at Jake’s. This was big stuff. Unbelievable.
“Whatever you have at home—vodka, gin. You don’t have an ID, do you?”
An ID. No, she didn’t have an ID.
Pam waved a hand. “Not to worry. Bring whatever.”
“I may have a problem,” Samantha warned, but boldly. If she sounded weak, she would give herself away. “My mom’s been in a coma for a week, so my dad’s with us. It’s a nightmare. He drives us here and back. He watches us like a hawk. If he gets even the slightest idea that I’m smuggling out vodka—” Like there was a drop of vodka in the house. There was nothing in the house.
Pam waved a hand. “Don’t do it. We’ll manage without.” She stood back and grinned. “I’m glad you’re coming, Samantha. I never understood what you were doing with Lydia and the others. They’re very young.”
“Tell me about it.”
Pam started bouncing from one toe to the other of crisp white platform sneakers. “No need. You know. Saturday night at six for something before the prom. See you then.” She jogged off.
HOPE had turned the corner unaware and stopped short, watching from the other end of the hall. She didn’t move again until Pam was gone. “Sam?”
Samantha whirled around. She put a hand to her chest. “You scared me.”
“What did she want?”
She was suddenly nonchalant. “Not much.” She closed her locker and slung the backpack on a shoulder. “She’s a friend.” She started down the hall.
Hope fell into step beside her. “Since when?”
“What do you mean, ‘since when?’ We’ve been in the same class for years.”
“Does Lydia like her?”
“Lydia,” Samantha spoke clearly, “is not in this equation.”
“Why? Did you guys have a fight?”
“We didn’t have to. Lydia and I have been heading in different directions all year. Those guys are young.” She swung through the door and started down the stairs.
Hope hurried to keep up. “They’re your age.”
“In years. That’s all. They have no idea how to have fun.”
“But you’re going with them to the prom, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t decided,” Samantha said as she pushed open the outside door and hit the steps.
Hope followed her, squinting against the sun. “Mallory Jones said you were going with Teague Runyan. I don’t think Mom would like that.”
Samantha stopped short, came up close, and said with lethal quiet, “Mom’s in a coma, and if you say one word to Dad, you’re dead.” Scooping her hair back, she set off again.
Hope watched her go. Lydia, Brendan, and Shelly were watching, too, but from an even greater distance than Hope.
Halfway to the curb, Samantha turned and yelled, “Are you coming?”
Hope ran forward, because Jack was there and she didn’t want him waiting, but during the entire drive to the hospital, she tried to decide what to do. Samantha would never forgive her if she told Jack—and it seemed like his mind was somewhere else anyway. If Rachel was still in a coma, the only one left was Katherine. But Katherine wasn’t at the hospital when they got there, and when she finally came, it was late, and then Jack said he needed to talk with her and took her out in the hall.
So, while Samantha stared at her forehead in the bathroom mirror, Hope tacked a drawing she had made of her mother up on the bulletin board, then sat beside Rachel and told her that Angela Downing’s mother was running Friday’s picnic, but Jack was bringing drinks. Whispering, she read Rachel a poem she had written about Guinevere’s death. She pulled a jar from her backpack and opened it under Rachel’s nose.
“What’s that?” Samantha asked.
“Paste. Remember all the signs we used to make? Thanksgiving, Christmas, end of the school year, start of the school year.” Construction paper cutouts pasted on poster board. “She likes the smell.”
Samantha snorted and turned away, but Hope didn’t care. She couldn’t do much if Sam decided to make a mess of her life with Teague Runyan. But if that happened, she wanted Rachel awake to help clean things up.
JACK stood in the hall with his back to the wall and his hands in his pockets. He didn’t know whether to be embarrassed, angry, or hurt. “I was so proud of myself, asking questions and learning little things about Rachel, and then Charlie hits me with the business about trying to buy her off with a ring. Do you know about that?”
Katherine was unruffled. “I didn’t know Charlie had said it. But I have seen the ring.”
“What did Rachel do? Present it as display number eighteen, proof of Jack’s materialism? Did the two of you sit back and laugh? If she thought it was so gaudy, why didn’t she sell it and give the money to the International Save the Walrus Foundation or something?”
Katherine looked amused. “For the record, I thought the ring was beautiful. For the record, so did Rachel.”
“Charlie said—”
“Charlie is young. Charlie is poor. Charlie is the product of every possible kind of abuse. She is wonderfully loyal to the women in the group and lends a different insight to conversations, but what she told you may have been tinged by her own feelings, not the least of which is envy. Charlie would give her right arm to be married to someone who could support her while she worked. She gave you her own take on the ring. It may not have been a fair representation of what Rachel said.”
“What did Rachel say?” When Katherine shot him a beseeching look, he said, “I gave her that ring because I loved her. I can’t believe she took it any other way.”
“You gave it to her at a time when she wanted you, not a ring. She worries, Jack. She sees you buying lavish gifts for the girls.”
“On birthdays. For Christmas. And what should I do? If they want CD players—or Patagonia jackets—or leather backpacks, and I have the money, why not? It’s not like I see them all the time. It’s not like there’s much else I can do for them.”
“Do you really believe that? What about more time with them? That was what Rachel wanted most. That was what she missed. She didn’t want the money. She had it once. It didn’t help.”
“Ah.” Jack pushed a hand through his hair. “We’ve been down this road before, Rachel and I. She had it and spurned it. Me, I grew up poor. Dirt poor. Money means something, after that.”
“But it’s not about money,” Katherine said, suddenly impassioned. “You could have made billions, and Rachel wouldn’t have cared, if you had been there emotionally. But you were so obsessed with work, you lost sight of what mattered. Your days were exhausting. Come nighttime, you had less and less left over for Rachel and the girls. I see it, too. You walk in every day with briefcase, laptop, and phone. Hey”—she held up a hand—“I’m not complaining. I think it’s great that you’re here. I think that if you’d been half as portable with work when you were married, you’d still be married. But are you enjoying it? Doesn’t look to me like you are. You look hassled. So some of that’s worry about Rachel, but I see you on the phone. I hear you. You’re not having fun. How much is enough?”
Jack stared at her silently for a time, then dropped his eyes. “I don’t know,” he finally said.
But he thought about it when he returned to the room, and thought about it back at the house. He thought about it when he woke up in the middle of the night and found Hope with tear streaks on her cheeks, wrapped in her quilt on the far side of Rachel’s bed, sound asleep. He thought about it when he woke up and Hope was gone.
Sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing a stiff shoulder, he still didn’t know. He opened the window. The morning chill felt good on his skin. He stretched, flexed that stiff shoulder a time
or two, put his hands on the windowsill and his face to the air, and wondered about a place that didn’t need screens.
It was a good place. It was a different place. There was no cover price here, no charge for admission. All he had to do was walk, breathe, listen, and look, and the beauty was there.
Just then, that was enough.
He pulled his head in and closed the window. Picking up the phone, he called his would-be client in Boca and said that Sung and McGill was withdrawing from the project. Life was too short to be held ransom by a bunch of two-bit politicians, he said. No, he didn’t want to take one last crack at it; he had already compromised too much. Yes, he knew he wouldn’t be paid if he quit. But he wouldn’t be paid, anyway, when perfectly good designs ran into last-minute code interpretations. So he was cutting his losses. Thanks a lot. Bye-bye.
When he hung up the phone, his shoulder felt better, and no wonder. The load had been lightened a little. David would be upset. But that was a passing thought. The one that lingered was that he couldn’t wait to tell Rachel.
chapter thirteen
COLOR AND CUT normally opened at nine, but Katherine believed that loyalty stemmed from accommodating the client; hence she was often at the shop far earlier. She had a seven-thirty this Wednesday morning, a young woman who worked a ten-hour stint as concierge at a resort in the valley. Even if Katherine hadn’t been fond of her—which she was—she knew that Tracey LaMarr was a showcase for her work. Besides, Tracey was fun to do. She gave Katherine the freedom to try new things and had the kind of thick chestnut hair and pretty features to wear it all well.
Today they had agreed on a partial face frame. Katherine was carefully layering Tracey’s hair, using foil and three shades ranging from light brown to ash to create a subtle glow around Tracey’s face. There wasn’t much talk. Early morning appointments rarely jabbered, and Tracey didn’t need therapy. She was refreshingly content with her young marriage and her work. So this was a gentle wakeup time for them both. The sounds of a New Age harp drifted through the shop, along with the scent of freshly brewed coffee. Tracey, a tea drinker like Katherine, was nursing a fragrant lemongrass herb tea when, almost dreamily, she said, “Mmm. There’s a nice one.”
Katherine followed her line of sight out the front window. The shop was on a street that was a block off Carmel’s main drag. This early in the day there was little by way of either vehicular or pedestrian traffic, which meant what Tracey saw stood right out. It was a runner, a man. He was gone before Katherine could do more than admire his shorts and his stride.
“I’m envious,” she said, resuming her work. She slipped the tail of her comb under another layer, deftly catching alternate strands. “Certain people have the build to do that.” She took a square of foil. “It’s a physiological thing. Have you ever run?” She knew that Tracey was into aerobics; they often compared classes and instructors. But running was something else.
“Not me,” Tracey said. “If I have to exercise, I’d rather enjoy what I’m doing. Running is torture.”
Katherine used a brush to slather the separated hair onto foil with one of the three colors in nearby bowls. “Not so torturous, if your body is made for it. Watch a marathon, and you’ll see it. Those runners are lean. They’re not even heavily muscled, though you know they’re in perfect condition.” She set the brush aside and folded the foil in half.
“Which comes first,” Tracey asked, “the chicken, or the egg? Are they lean because they run? Or do they run because they’re lean?”
Katherine started again with the tail of the comb. “Both. I think there’s a genetic factor. I tried running two years ago. I was about to turn forty and decided that running a ten k would be a great birthday gift for myself. That’s only six-something miles. Piece of cake.” She reached for the foil.
“No?”
“No.” A second brush, second color. “After two miles, wicked shin splints. I rested and tried again. Same thing. I backed up to a half mile and slowly added. No go. I had every test in the book done. The only thing they could find was that I was pronating. I changed sneakers. I got orthotics. I did special stretches and longer warm-ups.” She folded the foil. “It bought me a mile. So I could do three before the pain.”
“What did you do for your birthday?”
“A friend threw a party. It was a ball. A little caviar and champagne, a little cake with sugary icing. My shins felt great.” She took up the comb. “So that’s my running story.”
“There he is again.”
Katherine’s first thought was that it couldn’t be the same man, but the stride had the same length and litheness, and those running shorts were the same—navy and of normal length. She noticed things like that. She hated running shorts that showed groin. She also hated ones that were so long and loose that they could hide diapers underneath.
“Sharp guy,” she remarked.
“He’s looking here,” Tracey said.
Katherine noticed that, at the same time that she noticed his hair. It was a brown-gray shade, sweaty and spiked. She had seen that hair before.
She returned to the rhythm of her work—separate hair, insert foil, brush on color, fold foil; separate hair, insert foil, brush on color, fold foil. She had wanted to do this to Rachel’s hair, to add a subtle variation in color. Rachel had been on the verge of giving in when the accident happened.
She missed Rachel. Rachel thought the way she did. Katherine didn’t know what she would do if Rachel didn’t wake up.
Enya was chanting something soulfully Celtic. Katherine let it take her to another time, another place, and it worked for a bit. Then two things happened. First, she finished with foil and color and turned on a three-headed ultraviolet lamp to speed the processing. Second, she looked out the window again.
“That’s his third time around,” Tracey said. “Do you know him?”
Katherine sighed. “I do.” With a reassuring hand on her client’s shoulder, she leaned around the lamps. “You’ll need fifteen minutes here. Can I get you anything—more tea, biscotti?”
“I’m fine,” Tracey said, opening the latest Vogue. “Go.”
Katherine stripped off her thin rubber gloves—surgical gloves, irony of ironies—and pushed the color cart aside. She checked the appointment book, giving Steve Bauer a chance to leave. But he remained across the street, feet firmly planted in front of the curb, hands on his hips, sweat on his T-shirt, which was navy as well. Though it galled her to admit it, he looked gloriously male.
She went outside.
“I thought it was you,” he said, breathing faster than normal.
Katherine worked too many early mornings to know that he didn’t normally run down this street. She made no effort to hide her cynicism. “Were you just … trying out a new street today?”
Bless him, he didn’t even blush. Rather, he took a steadier breath, drew himself up, and smiled. “Actually, the Internet had two numbers, work and home. I called work and got the name of the shop, decided to run by and take a look. I wouldn’t have expected you here so early.”
“I wouldn’t have expected you here so late. Don’t you have rounds or something to do?”
His eyes sparkled. In broad daylight, they were a striking blue. “Yesterday was my long day,” he said, “rounds at dawn, teaching in the city, private patients between surgeries.” A trickle of sweat began to roll down his cheek. “I was in the OR until nine last night. I figured I’d sleep in today.” He wiped the sweat from his cheek with a shoulder. “So. That’s your shop?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Looks chic.”
“It has to be, in a town like this, or I’d be out of business in no time flat.”
“Have you had it long?”
“Five years.”
“Ah. Steady clientele?”
She thought about that and conceded, “Steady enough with locals. Tourists fill in the gaps.”
“How do tourists know you’re here? Do you advertise?”
“I
give referral discounts to the hotels.”
He smiled. “Clever.” He gestured toward an Italian restaurant halfway down the block. “Ever eaten there?”
Katherine was grateful when he looked that way. Always a sucker for blue eyes, she was relieved to be released. “I have. It’s great.”
Too soon his eyes caught hers again. “I’ve never tried it. Want to go with me?”
“Mmm, I don’t think so.”
“Any special reason? Husband, fiancé, significant other?”
She thought about lying, but that wasn’t her style. “No. I’m just … not interested right now.”
Those blue eyes clouded. “Is it me?”
Oh, it was. She liked the way he looked, liked the way he dressed, liked the way he ran. He didn’t evade questions. When she thought he was handing her a line, it turned out to be a legitimate one, and even aside from that, there was something intangible going on. She didn’t understand what it was. She didn’t know why a woman fell hard for a particular man. Chemistry, more than logic?
Oh, yes, it was him. But she wasn’t ready to take another chance. Not yet. Not when she was finally starting to feel good about herself.
It had taken a long time—another thing they hadn’t warned her about. She was forty-two and finally believing that she wasn’t soon going to die. The shop helped. It spoke of a future. The way people looked at her helped, too. They saw not only the healthy woman she was but the attractive woman she wanted to be.
Still, she wasn’t ready to take her blouse off for anyone yet, much less a man—which was no doubt jumping the gun. Steve Bauer had asked her out to dinner. He hadn’t asked her to bed.
But it was coming. She saw it in those blue eyes. Worse, she felt it in the tiny place in her belly that hadn’t been revved up since her surgery. Oh, it was revved up now. She could do it with this man. The question was whether things would go dead if he had a problem with her breasts.
Those eyes were still clouded. He seemed concerned, on the verge of hurt, and Katherine wasn’t one to hurt. “No,” she said. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
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