“Where is your car parked?” she asked as she pulled into traffic. Conn told her and picked up their conversation. “I just didn’t expect you to drive something like this. I kind of figured you for a car that was a little more . . . high end.”
Harmony laughed. “Are you really complaining about your ride?”
“Not at all. I just thought you’d go for something with more bells and whistles. More status.”
She looked over quickly. “Why would you think that?”
“Seriously? Aren’t you the one who just asked me to wear my uniform to this reunion thing because you thought it would look more impressive?”
His comment made her uncomfortable. She would have to think about it later. “Point taken. I drive this because it’s practical. It gets great mileage, it’s reliable, and maintenance is cheap and easy. I don’t have the patience or time for a prima donna of a car that needs constant coddling.”
She slowed for the upcoming stop light. “It’s also cheaper to insure than a high-end vehicle and retains its value for resale. It’s all part of the best value equation. I studied it pretty thoroughly before I bought this.”
She braked for the light and felt his gaze on her. Glancing at him quickly, she caught the bemused expression on his face.
“What?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Nothing.”
They quickly made the drive to the parking garage where Conn had left his car. Harmony was amused to see that Conn’s black Wrangler was more expensive than her own car. She pulled up as close to it as she could.
She already knew him well enough to know better than to offer to help him make the shift from her car to his. He only had to take a couple of steps to bring him to his own car door. She breathed a sigh of relief when he was settled behind the wheel.
Before shutting his door he leaned out to speak to her. “Thanks for the ride.” His mouth tightened momentarily. “Sorry it was necessary.”
“Not to worry.”
“We should get together to work out the specifics of your reunion. Are you free next Saturday? Can I take you to lunch?”
“We can just meet for coffee. You don’t have to take me to lunch.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
“Why?” The word seemed to have leaped out of its own accord. She wanted to clap both hands over her mouth.
He looked at her with a quizzical smile. “Are you always this hard on potential dates?”
There is was again, that reference to her as a date. This time her pleasure was more pronounced. She wasn’t good at flirting, was at a loss as how to answer him. She hadn’t had a lot of experience with dates, potential or otherwise.
He solved her problem by taking control of the situation. “Noon okay?” He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket. “Give me your address. I’ll pick you up.”
“Noon is fine. I can meet you. You don’t have to pick me up.”
His finger was poised to enter her information in his phone. He looked up from it and shook his head. “We’re back to that. I will pick you up. Give me your address and phone number.”
She had provided the opportunity for an out and he hadn’t taken it. She gave him the information he requested, trying to tamp down the zings of pleasure that kept wanting to make themselves felt.
“Great.” He slipped his phone back in his jacket pocket and sent her a smile and wink. “See you Saturday.”
She nodded and pulled away, already in a panic about lunch. Was it a date? What should she wear? She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard, but still . . .
Back home she fed Cookie, her gray tabby, who was clearly in a snit over the late meal. She allowed Harmony to feed her, but otherwise gave her a cold shoulder. Harmony barely noticed. She was too busy thinking about the evening.
She looked at herself in the mirror above her dresser. What she saw was what she always saw. Blah. She wasn’t ugly. Small children didn’t run screaming at the sight of her. She was just there. She would have made the perfect bank robber. Witnesses would argue later about what she looked like, because she would have made an impression on no one.
She pulled out the elastic band holding her hair in its brutal ponytail and fluffed the mass, sighing at the release. Her hair had been the bane of her existence for as long as she could remember.
She had tried a do-it-yourself chemical straightener in her teens, but that had turned out to be a disaster. Ever since, she had sought just to control it, pulling it back into a ponytail most of the time.
She took off her glasses and leaned closer to the mirror, examining herself myopically. If Cinderella was going to go to the ball, she needed a fairy godmother. Surely that’s what it would take to turn her into the kind of person people noticed.
She looked at her hair, already springing out around her head. She looked more like Medusa than Cinderella. She wished she were counter-culture enough to be comfortable shaving her head. Think how nice it would feel not to have to pull her hair back every day. She had been afraid to cut it, because if it were too short for a ponytail, what could she do with it? On the other hand, what she was doing now was hardly working. She stared at her reflection a moment longer and came to a decision.
Putting her glasses back on, she headed for her desk and the file on Amanda’s Place. Inside was a roster with the other board members’ contact information. She glanced at her watch. It was late, but not outrageously so.
She needed to talk to Samantha Modena while resolve still inspired her. If she waited until morning, she might change her mind—or chicken out, she corrected honestly.
Samantha sounded surprised to hear from her, but not displeased. Just the opposite. She professed excitement at having the opportunity to work on Harmony’s hair, and they set a date for three days later.
The following Tuesday, she stood outside Style for Now holding her phone and debating cancelling her appointment. Too late. Samantha had spotted her through the window and hurried through the shop to the door, opening it and beckoning Harmony inside.
“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this appointment. I’ve been dying to get at your hair forever.”
“You have?”
“Oh, definitely. You have wonderful hair. It’s so thick and healthy looking.”
At that, Harmony rolled her eyes. She decided one of the reasons Samantha was so successful must be because of her easy line of flattery.
“No, really. There is so much potential here. Come and get in a chair, and we’ll talk about it.”
Seated and caped, Harmony watched in the large mirror in front of her as Samantha took down the ponytail and ran her fingers through the tangled locks.
The stylist working on a customer at the station beside them looked at Harmony’s hair. “I can’t wait to see what you do with that,” she said.
Harmony laughed. “I can’t either.”
“What did you have in mind?” Samantha asked.
“Not much. I don’t have a clue what to do with this. Have never known what to do with it. I just know I’m sick of this ponytail. It gives me headaches.”
“Hm.” Samantha continued to fuss with her hair, rubbing it between her fingers, pushing it one way and the other. “Are you willing to trust me?”
“I guess. If I hate it, I suppose it will grow back.”
Samantha laughed. “Such optimism. I think you’re going to like what I have in mind.”
She continued to fiddle for a few moments longer. “What would you say to letting me highlight it? I think some lighter blond in it would brighten up your face.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Go for it.”
“All right! Let’s get to work. First to the sink.”
For the most part, watching in the big mirror as Samantha worked was fascinating. Harmony did have a bad moment when the first fat lock of hair hit the floor, but immediately after, a sense of liberation had her drawing a deep breath. For better or worse, it was don
e. There was nothing now except to move forward, minus all the hair she hated anyway.
“So, I’ve been really curious. Tell me,” Samantha said at one point in the process, “what is the deal with the Blue Angels bid? If I had known you were a fan, I would have asked Conn earlier if he could score tickets for you.”
Harmony hesitated, but figured Conn would probably tell her about the reunion himself, so she confessed what she had done and why. Samantha was the perfect audience, by turns shocked, impressed, and amused.
“What was Conn’s reaction to all this.”
“Your brother is a really good sport. He agreed to go and even wear his uniform.”
Samantha looked confused. “He’s wearing his uniform?”
“Yes. He agreed after I explained I thought he’d be a really impressive-looking date in it.”
“Uh-oh. I’m surprised at that point, he didn’t turn you down flat.”
Chapter Five
Harmony’s eyes widened. This didn’t sound good. “Why?”
“Conn was married once, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. But I don’t understand what that has to do with this.”
“I’m getting to it. His wife was a small-town girl he met while he was going through training at Quantico. Kari was . . . naïve, and that’s being kind. When she said she fell in love with Conn’s uniform, we all thought she was kidding, her probably most of all.”
Samantha paused in her snipping to squint at Harmony’s hair, then continued cutting and chatting. “She had a crazy idea that military life was going to be exciting or glamorous or something. Maybe too many movies. Turned out being a Marine’s wife wasn’t at all what she expected. She hated the moves, Conn’s absences, living conditions that were less than five-star. She divorced him while he was in the middle of his first deployment to Afghanistan.”
“That’s terrible! How long ago was this?”
“Three years now.”
“How did Conn take it?”
“He and Kari had been married four years. By the time she divorced him, I think he was relieved. She complained about everything, and no matter what he tried to do, there was no pleasing her. I deserve sainthood for the number of times I bit my tongue to avoid bad-mouthing her to Conn. He deserved better. I’m not sorry she’s gone.”
Harmony was beginning to understand Conn’s reaction when she asked him to wear his uniform. She cringed now at the memory. She was trying to come up with a tactful way to ask about his injury when Samantha solved the problem for her.
“I’ve been so worried about him,” Samantha said, “since he got wounded.”
“He told me about that. He sounds lucky to be alive.”
“He’s having a hard time with all of it.”
“He seemed to be doing pretty well Saturday.” She didn’t mention the episode with the muscle spasm. She didn’t want to worry Samantha further.
“He did, didn’t he? It was so good to see him get out and socialize. He’s been pretty much a hermit since it happened. See, our dad was a Marine. Conn has wanted to be a Marine since he was a little boy. I’m not sure how he’s going to handle it if he has to get out.”
“Will he? Have to get out I mean.”
“The physical requirements to be a Marine are pretty tough. He’s working hard to heal and get back in shape, but his chances for that are beginning to look slim. I tease him about how lazy he’s being right now, because if he knew how worried I was, it would make him feel even worse.”
Harmony was feeling sicker by the moment. “I wish I’d known all this Saturday.”
“Just as well you didn’t. You would have behaved differently.”
Samantha was probably right. She’d have been even more awkward, tongue-tied, and inept than usual.
“Conn is taking me to lunch next Saturday,” Harmony volunteered.
“Is that right? That’s great! I’m so glad. And now that I think about it, you two would be good together.”
“We’re just going to lunch to work out the details of the reunion.” Although she did hug to herself the fact that Conn had referred to their lunch as a date.
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s a beginning. You never know.”
Harmony gave herself a giddy moment to contemplate the possibility before she dismissed it. Men like Conn did not go for women like her. They went for women like Brittany. Beautiful, sparkling, and dumb enough that a man could feel intellectually superior. Harmony was too smart, too socially clumsy, too blah.
“Next up, highlights.” Samantha turned her chair around so she was no longer facing the mirror. “I want to surprise you with the finished product.”
Harmony supposed it didn’t matter that she could no longer see what Samantha was doing. It was much too late to object.
She observed the activity going on around her with interest. The laughter and conversation among the customers and stylists, the scents and variety of products struck her as quintessentially feminine. The environment was a novelty for her, but one that seemed happy.
Perhaps she would come back to have her nails done as she watched another customer being pampered. She wouldn’t want artificial nails, she couldn’t imagine trying to use a computer with them, but color might be fun.
The selection of colors arrayed on a wall shelf was mind-boggling. She might not be counter-culture enough for a shaved head, but after studying the color assortment, decided she could handle mint green fingernails.
After another trip to the sink, a return to the styling chair, and what seemed like an inordinate amount of time and fussing, Samantha announced she was done. “And a great job it is, even if I do say so myself.”
The stylist who had been working next to them all morning echoed Samantha’s sentiment. “Wow, Samantha, did you take a before picture? You should submit that to a style magazine.”
“I want to see.” Harmony started to turn the chair toward the mirror.
Samantha put out a hand to stop her. “Wait. I’m not done.”
She hurried to a cupboard behind the check-in desk and pulled out what looked like a tool kit. She crossed back to where Harmony sat and set the kit on the counter. When she opened it, Harmony saw it contained an assortment of paints and potions.
Samantha studied her face for a few moments before reaching into the kit for a bottle. It turned out to be foundation.
“Um, Samantha, I don’t wear a lot of makeup.”
“Nothing extreme. I’m just going to do some light touches to bring out your features.”
She patted and stroked on different products she pulled from her box of tricks, the last being a wand of mascara. By the time she was satisfied with her work, they had the attention of everyone in the salon. Harmony could hear murmured comments of “gorgeous” and “what a change.”
“Now you can see.” Samantha spun the chair dramatically back to its original position so that Harmony faced the mirror again.
She stared at the attractive young woman who looked back at her without recognition. It was only when she reached up to touch her hair and the woman in the mirror did likewise that she realized she was looking at herself. She had removed her glasses earlier and laid them on the counter. She snatched them up now and shoved them back on for a better look.
She returned her hand to the tousled golden curls that covered her head and framed her face. Unable to take in the change Samantha had wrought, Harmony patted her hair and grasped a curl that brushed her cheek. She stretched it out and released it, watching it spring back.
When the reality finally struck her that this was her hair, she laughed. “Oh my God. I look like a Victorian cherub.”
“And every bit as adorable.” Samantha smiled.
As Harmony continued to stare and play with the curls, she began to notice the subtle makeup Samantha had applied. Even through her lenses, the mascara and smudgy eyeliner accented her eyes and made them look huge. The lip color drew attention to the shape of her top lip and the fullness of the bottom one
.
She looked to Samantha in wonder. “What did you do? Wave a wand?”
“Nothing so exotic. We just released what was there all along.”
“Where were you when I was in high school? You’re a genius.”
Samantha laughed. “No, that would be you.”
“We’re all smart in different ways.”
At Harmony’s remark, Samantha gazed at her glasses, her eyes tracing the shape of the large frames. “Do you really need those?”
“Only if I want to see something,” she answered wryly.
“Have you ever considered contacts?”
She had, but decided there wasn’t much point. She was what she was. And, she admitted to herself, the glasses provided something of a psychological shield against the world. “Not really.”
“You should. You have beautiful eyes. Let them shine. You’re hiding your light under a bushel. Hey, there’s an optometrist in this building. I’m going to call to see if he has an opening this afternoon.” She crossed to the desk, picked up the phone, and after flipping through a stack of business cards, tapped in a number.
Five minutes later she was telling Harmony, “He can take you at two. Go have lunch and then see him. He can check your eyes and tell you everything you need to know about wearing contacts.”
Many hours later Harmony drove home—minus glasses!—in a state of disbelief. So much she had always thought about herself had been reversed by two people who, in her estimation, could justifiably be called miracle workers.
She blinked, still not used to the contacts. They weren’t uncomfortable, just different. She had been so pleased when she saw herself in the mirror, she would do whatever it took to become accustomed to them.
And her hair! She reached up to finger the curls again that rioted around her head. Still giddy over the change, she smiled every time she thought about her new look. Walking back to her car, she had caught sight of her reflection in a store window and stopped dead to study the startling transformation.
Cinderella and the Major Page 3