Birdie hadn’t noticed. She swung her head around to study her daughter.
Hannah shrugged coyly and went back to filing her nails. “I’m just not hungry.”
Birdie thought back to Hannah’s eating pattern of the past several days and recalled that she’d been very choosy about her food, avoiding the sweet and fatty foods she usually preferred. She ate salads with vinegar dressing, lots of fruit, and no desserts. When she did order a dinner plate, she ate small portions. She was also taking greater pains with her clothes and putting on makeup with a lighter hand.
“Are you on a diet?” she asked, amazed. Hannah had never agreed to any of the diets she’d suggested in the past.
“Not really,” Hannah replied in a lofty tone. “It’s more a life pattern.”
Birdie’s brows rose on that one. A life pattern? That didn’t sound like Hannah. She turned to look at Jilly and saw from the expression of pride on her face where the source of this new attitude in her daughter came from. She could imagine long, cozy chats with the light out about diets and beauty and boys and maybe even sex. All the things that Birdie should have been the one to talk to her daughter about. She felt an unexpected surge of jealousy. “Just what kind of life pattern are we talking about?”
Hannah tsked loudly. “What do you think? That I’m taking drugs or something? Or that I’m anorexic? I’m eating healthy foods!” she exclaimed. “Cutting out snacks and sweets. Jeez, Mom, it’s the kind of thing you’ve been preaching at me for years. Except you don’t do it yourself.”
The dig was intentional and meant to hurt. It succeeded. Birdie tried to rise above it, hating the telltale blush she could feel burning her cheeks. “I don’t think you’re on drugs. I was just asking.”
Hannah didn’t reply but began to file her nail with vigor.
“She’s exercising, too,” Jilly added. “Every night. I’ve got her doing a nice little weight routine and every morning we’re taking a long jog. These hills can be a good workout.”
“I’m going to be buff by the time I get back from spring break.”
They were walking together, too? Birdie felt terribly left out. Why didn’t they invite her? She knew that Jilly was just trying to be helpful, but she was only making matters worse. Didn’t Jilly understand that Hannah saw everything she did as so much better than her mother? Jilly was slim and beautiful and Birdie felt like an old bat next to her.
Jilly groaned and lay on her back, rubbing her fingers against her disgustingly flat stomach. “My stomach hurts. Get this stuff away from me. Throw it away. I never want to see chocolate again.”
Birdie grabbed the bag and despondently unwrapped another chocolate and popped it in her mouth with a toss of the wrist.
“Until tomorrow,” Rose said with a chuckle.
“Oh, listen to you,” Birdie teased. “I didn’t see you dive into the candy.”
“I had some,” she replied defensively. “I just don’t like candy that much.”
“I hate it when skinny people say things like that.”
“Well, maybe that’s why they’re skinny and others are not,” Hannah muttered.
“Hannah…” Jilly’s tone was a warning. Hannah gave her a pointed look, then shrugged and went back to her nails.
Birdie ate another chocolate.
“What should I do with my hair?” Jilly asked as a change of subject, pulling herself from the mattress to walk over and stand in front of the sink mirror. “Look, do you see? Gray hair! Right at the temples. It’s starting.”
“Join the crowd,” Birdie said sullenly.
“Not as long as I’ve got a breath in my body and a dollar in my wallet!” Jilly leaned close to the mirror searching for gray hairs.
Birdie could see from Hannah’s worshipful expression that she found it utterly charming. Birdie pinched her lips and thought she wouldn’t be surprised if Hannah switched languages from Spanish to French in school the next year.
“I’ll have to find a salon,” Jilly said. “No, I shudder to think of what could happen to me up here. I can do it myself. I don’t want my daughter to meet me for the first time with gray hair. Do they still sell hair products in the supermarkets here?”
“Sure. All sorts of choices,” Birdie replied. “But to be honest, Jilly, I can hardly see the gray.”
“Me, neither,” Rose piped in, raising herself up on her elbows.
“Hardly? That means you see some?” She swung around to the mirror again. “I hate my hair.”
“It’s funny that you say that,” Birdie said, twisting a candy wrapper in her hand. “I’ve always loved your hair.”
Jilly caught her pensive gaze in the mirror and dropped her hands from her hair.
“And yours, too, Rose,” Birdie admitted. “With that gold-red softness.”
“It’s orange. Like a pumpkin,” Rose said in her self-demeaning manner.
“It’s beautiful and sunny,” Birdie countered. “Like Mom’s and Merry’s. I was so happy when Hannah was born with that same color. Red hair is the Season family trademark and everyone has it. Except me.” She gave off a short laugh, trying to defuse the sympathy she could feel pouring out from her sisters. “When we were little and Dad would call out that awful ‘Here come the Four Seasons’ whenever we walked into a room, I used to cringe thinking that everyone was looking at me and wondering who the big, gawky kid was. I felt I didn’t belong. Me and my plain old brown hair. Do you want to know what my first reaction was when I read in the hospital report that your child had red hair, Jilly? I felt cheated. Another Season with red hair. Why was I left out? I swear, if I didn’t look so much like Dad, I’d think I was adopted.”
“But you have lovely hair, Birdie,” said Jilly, the sympathy rich in her voice. She was suddenly sorry for all the years she’d chided and teased her sister about her appearance, never guessing she’d hit the mark. Birdie had always shrugged and said with an air of superiority that she’d rather have brains than beauty. “You have lovely red highlights.”
“I used to have red highlights. Now they’ve turned gray.”
Jilly tapped her lips and said dramatically, “That can be changed.”
“No, no, no. Dye and all that is not for me.”
“Why not?”
“This is me, for better or for worse. I prefer to be natural. I hardly wear anything other than a little lipstick and mascara.” She heard the uppity tone in her voice and instantly regretted it. She didn’t feel uppity in the least. She actually felt quite sorry for herself but had to salvage some smidgen of pride after all she’d just gushed out. Embarrassed, she wished she could just wipe her whole confession up like a glass of spilled water.
But Jilly wasn’t giving up. “There are many products that are all natural.” Coming to sit beside Birdie she said in a gentler tone, “Mother Nature isn’t very kind to us women as we get older. I think it’s up to us to do what we can to best her.” Her face lit up and she looked at each of them with mischief in her eyes. “Let’s do makeovers!”
“No,” Birdie replied stubbornly.
“Come on, it’ll be fun and you’ll look fabulous when I’m through.”
“No.”
“Go ahead, Birdie,” Rose argued, her lips holding back a laugh.
“Look who’s talking! You’ve had the same hairstyle since high school. I’ll do it if you’ll do it.”
“Oh, no,” Rose said, backing off. “I’ll never change my hair. It’s me. I couldn’t imagine ever…”
Birdie guffawed and threw up her hands.
“Why not?” Hannah asked, lazily stretching across the bed. “It’s just hair. It’ll grow back. Do you think you could cut mine, Aunt Jilly? I’d love something radical. Maybe really short, like Winona Ryder’s.”
“I think you’d look adorable in something like that,” Jilly agreed, appraising Hannah’s youthful, flawless skin and dark arched brows. She tapped her lips, taking her role as beauty consultant seriously. Hannah sat up straight under the professional scr
utiny. “You have wonderful bone structure. Maybe a little longer than Winona’s. A little more Meg Ryan’s. It would show off your doelike eyes. And some gold highlights to bring out the pinkness of your skin. And lighter makeup. Soft and feminine. Yes,” she said, nodding. “Absolutely. You, too, Rose. A new haircut might be fun for you.”
Rose clutched her long hair in her hands and shook her head. “Stay away from me, you madwoman.”
“Whatever,” Jilly replied, turning back to her main target. “Frankly, Birdie, you should shoot your hairdresser. That haircut does nothing for you. And neither does the gray. It makes you look—forgive me, but I’m your sister and if I don’t tell you who will?—it makes you look older. You want to be a redhead? I think you’d look fabulous as a redhead. If Mother Nature made a mistake, so what?” She smiled smugly. “We can correct it.”
“Forget it.”
“Well, you two sticks-in-the-mud,” Jilly said, totally exasperated with her sisters.
“Why not, Mom?” Hannah asked, jumping into the fray. “I think you’d look great as a redhead. Won’t Dad be surprised when we come home?”
That was the one argument that caught Birdie’s attention. She didn’t miss the knowing glance between Jilly and Rose, or the silent look of expectation in Hannah’s face.
“I don’t think he’d notice one way or another,” she replied. Or care, she thought to herself.
“Yes he would,” Hannah replied with a poignant urgency. “You should do something special for yourself, Mom. You never do. And it will be fun. I’ll do your nails. It will be beauty night. We used to do that when I was little, remember?”
She did remember and it brought a pinprick of bittersweet pain to recall how much fun they used to have, just the two of them. Birdie looked into Hannah’s eyes and wondered what it was she was trying to tell her in the intensity that lurked there.
“You really think I’d look good as a redhead?” she asked flippantly, fooling no one.
Hannah’s eyes widened with excitement that transferred to Birdie. “I do,” she replied, playing lightly with her mother’s hair. “You’d look hot.”
“Hot?” Jilly repeated. “That does it for me. Come on, Birdie, how can you resist looking hot?”
Birdie saw Hannah’s face lit up like when she was three, gazing up at the Christmas tree. She felt a spontaneous wave of elation and laughed in resignation. “I can’t resist. Let’s do it.”
Hours later, Jilly stood at the sink, rinsing out the plastic containers that came in the box of hair color, and listened to the sound of laughter fill the walls of the little motel room that had been their home for the past five days. A rollicking, uncontrolled kind of laughter that had them holding their sides and howling till tears flowed from their cheeks.
Jilly never thought she’d hear that kind of laughter again or feel the same flush of tenderness and devotion that burned in her heart right now. She paused to lean against the sink and watch her sisters lying on their bellies with their toes and fingers spread apart as their manicures dried. Beauty night was a huge success.
Birdie looked ten years younger as a sexy redhead. She’d chosen a color very much like Hannah’s, only a tad redder and a smidgen more daring. Jilly had softened the lines of her harsh haircut, accentuating her cheekbones. Her new color made her blue eyes shine like brilliant stars and the makeup Jilly had masterfully applied made them appear even larger and more luminous. Throughout the evening, Birdie kept reaching up to touch the short hairs along her neck, or peeking into the mirror. Jilly smiled with satisfaction when she saw the disbelief written all over her face.
Hannah looked pretty good, too, if Jilly did say so herself. She’d cut Hannah’s drab, shoulder-length style into wisps of different lengths that bounced around her chin and played with the dramatic blond highlights she’d added. The heavy black eyeliner was gone and in her soft colors she positively glowed.
Even Rose got into the act at the last minute. After begging and cajoling, Rose had finally agreed to let Jilly give her long hair its first real trim. Rose closed her eyes when Jilly put the scissors to her hair. Never before had Jilly been so nervous to cut. This was positively virginal. Birdie and Hannah clustered near, mouths agape. Jilly only lopped off the uneven, frazzled ends, but just that was six inches. Rose’s hair now swung around her breasts with an even, blunt fullness that made her hair look healthier and thicker. When Rose opened her eyes, she didn’t even notice that her hair was shorter. Instead she laughed the same joyful laugh she did when she was six. Rose didn’t laugh often but when she did it burst from her throat so full of life it sounded like a peal of bells.
Jilly listened to the music of their laughter and was carried back to the days when they used to laugh together all the time. Back to that golden time when they believed that they were princesses waiting to grow into queens and rule the world.
15
A SOFT KNOCKING ON HER DOOR woke Jilly up from a deep sleep. She pried open an eye to the surrounding darkness. A line of gray light was outlining the dusty olive-green paisley curtains.
“Wha—” Jilly raised her head. “Who’s there?” she called out groggily.
“It’s me. Birdie. Open up.”
Jilly stumbled from her bed to open the door. She was surprised to see a glorious pink dawn rising up beyond Birdie’s shoulder over the hill. Birdie walked in, rubbing her hands.
“Don’t you dare say the early bird catches the worm,” she warned. Then, taking in the dark room and the obviously sleeping guests, she scrunched up her face in disappointment. “I thought you two went jogging every morning,” she said. “I wanted to join you.”
Jilly scratched her head and yawned. Birdie seemed to bring a bit of the dawn inside with her. Surrounded by the rosy color of her hair her face glowed with light. She was wearing jeans and a burgundy sweatshirt with University of Wisconsin emblazoned across her chest. She kept jogging in place.
“Forget the bird analogy. You’re like a rabbit. Stop hopping around,” Jilly said, a bit grouchy.
“I’m warming up.”
“That’s not a warm-up, Mom.” Hannah had awakened and was sitting up in bed, yawning. “You need to stretch.”
Birdie stopped hopping. She peered into the dim room and hoped her eagerness wasn’t too obvious. “Will you show me how?”
Hannah scratched her belly then smiled angelically. “Sure.”
“You two go ahead,” Jilly said in a sleepy stupor. “My stomach is rebelling after last night. I’ll follow at a slower pace.” Her stomach really wasn’t upset, but she wanted to be sure that the two of them had some time alone.
“You’re getting old,” Birdie teased, but she didn’t push her.
Twenty minutes later, Jilly stepped outside in her sweatpants and jacket and began stretching her long legs against the cement wall. The morning was soft; it would be a lovely spring day. Drops of earlier rain still hung heavy on the leaves and the grass. From somewhere she caught the sweet scent of a blossom. Could it be lilac so soon?
She took off on an easy jog back along the river. The earth was soft under her feet. She found she enjoyed the early morning run here much more than in the city, even more than Paris. She loved feeling the coolness of a country morning on her cheeks and catching the smell of the woods, the damp grass and the earth as she passed. Running for her was a kind of communion both with nature and her body, a centering of her mind and spirit when everything else in her world was spinning off axis. She ran along the river, picking up her speed until sweat pooled and her heart rate accelerated, then turned around and headed back. As she drew closer to the motel she spied another figure just across the river coming her way. In the early morning fog, she couldn’t be sure who it was. A few steps farther, she squinted to see a little white dog running along beside him. So, it was Rajiv Patel. She felt a shiver of anticipation.
A few yards ahead was the small wooden bridge that she’d seen him working under before. She slowed to a walk and wiped her brow wit
h her sleeve. Before she could wonder if he’d cross to say hello, the little dog made the decision for them, darting over the bridge and running to her, barking. Jilly bent to pat its head as he jumped up and made muddy paw-prints on her pants.
“Are you quite sure this isn’t your dog?” she asked when Rajiv approached.
He laughed. “I’m sure, but I don’t think he’s convinced.”
“Does he have a name?”
“If he does, he’s never told me.”
“Then what do you call him?”
“I don’t. I usually ignore him but he doesn’t seem to care. For whatever reason, he likes to hang around.”
“You could give him a name.”
“He’s not mine to name. He’s an independent sort. He knows every inch of the area and where every handout lies. I think he’s quite popular with the ladies, too. I’ve seen a few mutts around town with a patch over the eye.”
She laughed then, admiring the dog’s lean but wiry body and his bright eyes. There was no doubt the rascal had a way about him. “But he needs a name. Everyone needs one.”
“Perhaps. But not given by me. Then I should become attached to him.”
She wondered at that remark and what pain caused him not to want to be attached to a stray, even to the point of not giving the dog a temporary name of reference. Looking back at the dog, she thought, too, of her daughter. She’d never named her, either.
“I’ll name him, then,” she decided, moving once more to rectify the past. She considered for a moment, studying the black patch over his eye, his jaunty stance. “How does Pete sound to you?”
Rajiv studied the dog. “Rather a human name, don’t you think?”
Then she remembered his profession as a thief. “I know. Pirate Pete.”
Rajiv smiled and nodded. “It suits him.”
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