That’s what happened when you depended on others. That’s why she needed to be successful and independent. So she wouldn’t have to apologize to the Mrs. Desmonds of the world or defend her actions to her family.
When she was successful, she could express herself and people would actually listen and care. They wouldn’t tell her to stop trying to be different. They’d ask her what was next! They’d expect a new, original, bold style.
But right now, she was stuck in a town where mothers expected updos and lawyers threatened to sue over a hairstyle! Unless she hitchhiked to L.A., she’d be here until her car was running again.
Maybe she would have to bite her tongue and play nice, but she wasn’t going to like it.
JAMES WAS TOO UPSET by his confrontation with Scarlett to talk to her or about her the rest of the day. He hadn’t encountered such a defensive, argumentative person in a long time. Definitely not since moving back home. Although some of the folks around Brody’s Crossing could be cranky and opinionated, they didn’t actively argue like Scarlett No-last-name. At least, not unless they’d been drinking too much at Dewey’s Saloon and Steakhouse. He had a couple of clients who fit that description, but he usually only saw them late on occasional Saturday nights or holiday weekends.
That redheaded stranger was infuriating. He’d tried to be nice and helpful, and she’d gone ballistic on him. Well, maybe not ballistic, but she’d been one step away from poking him in the chest. If she had, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. Grabbed her finger and pulled her too close to punch him, that was for sure. The extremely odd and vexing thing was that he’d also had the strangest urge to kiss her while he was at it. Just to shut her up, he told himself. Definitely not for any other reason.
On Tuesday morning, as he worked on a new legal agreement between Troy Crawford and Angelo Ramirez to lease part of the Rocking C, James heard a commotion in the reception area. “It’s that new girl at Clarissa’s,” one of the women said in a whining, shaky tone.
“We didn’t tell her to fix our hair this way,” another woman said.
James dropped his head in his hands for just a second, then heard his mother reply, “I’m sure James can help you.”
“No, I can’t,” he whispered, but that didn’t do any good. He pushed away from his desk and prepared to face the newest hair crisis in Brody’s Crossing.
“Oh, James, Maribelle and Ellen want to talk to you,” his mother said as he walked up to her desk.
“About their hair,” he finished.
The women were obviously sisters. Maybe twins, although he couldn’t remember them from growing up here.
“We’ve worn our hair the same way for…well, for a long time,” one of the ladies said. “Here.” She thrust forward a photo he recognized as the church directory photographer’s work.
“I see,” he said. The picture showed a woman frozen in time, with an extremely traditional, tightly curled hairstyle and oversize beige, plastic-framed glasses. It could have been taken last year or thirty years ago.
“That girl said she’d like to try something flattering, and well, since she’s from Atlanta on her way to California to work at a fancy salon, we said okay,” the other woman said.
“We didn’t expect her to do anything really different,” the first woman whined.
He looked at their softer waves, the pale blond replacing the slightly blue color in the photo, and the ends kind of feathering along their necklines. He thought they looked pretty good. “Yes, the style is different, but both of you ladies look very nice.”
“Why, thank you, young man,” the second woman said.
“But we liked our hair. We felt comfortable with it. We’re not even sure how to fix it now. And what are we going to do with all our temporary rinses that we’d stocked up on when the drugstore in Olney went out of business? We must have two years worth of Fanciful!”
James didn’t know rinse from wash, and wasn’t about to ask. He took a deep breath before telling them they should talk to Clarissa.
Before he could speak, the whiney one added, “We talked to Mrs. Desmond and she said we should talk to you. If we could get enough people, we could file a class action lawsuit and get a lot of money.”
James shook his head. “Ladies, there is no basis for a class action lawsuit, where you would need to have suffered actual losses from a defective product or fraudulent contract or claim. You can’t sue a hairdresser because you don’t like your hairstyle. If you were unhappy, you should have refused to pay for the service.”
“That just seems so rude, don’t you think, Ellen?”
“Yes. We didn’t want to be rude, even though she is awfully different, with that red hair and those wild clothes.” The one who must be Maribelle leaned close to his mother and added, “She has one of those pierced belly buttons. That would be so painful! And can you imagine how many times it would get snagged on your clothes?”
James closed his eyes at the image of Scarlett’s belly button ring getting snagged on his clothes. On his zipper…He did not need this complication. “Please, go talk to Clarissa. I’m sure she can straighten this out.”
“Oh, we can’t talk to Clarissa. She lives here.”
He felt as if his head were about to explode. “I’ve already talked to Scarlett, and she’s leaving as soon as her car is repaired. That could be any day.”
“But what about the lawsuit?”
“There is no lawsuit!”
“James, really, you don’t need to yell,” his mother reminded him. “It’s not professional.”
“I’m sorry, but this controversy over the new stylist has gotten out of hand.” Not that he would mind getting his hands on Scarlett, just to shake her up, of course. Not for any other reason.
“I think you should talk to her again,” his mother said, before he could tell her not to get involved.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“But you’re so good at working out these problems.”
“We want you to see if there are other people who want to get in on this class action thing.”
“There is no class action lawsuit!”
“James, you’re yelling again.”
He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry. If I promise to speak to Scarlett and Clarissa, will you promise me that you’ll wait to do anything? No talking to anyone else, and Mrs. Desmond especially?”
“Oh, all right. We always did like Clarissa,” Ellen said, her tone one of resignation.
“But we aren’t so sure about our hair,” Maribelle added in her whiney voice.
“I’ll go see them today. Just—” He held up his hand in what was probably a futile gesture to keep them silent. “Just don’t talk to anyone about your hair unless they compliment you, and then you can say, ‘Thank you.’”
As soon as the ladies left and he admonished his mother one more time not to encourage potential clients who wanted to sue businesses in or around Brody’s Crossing, he called Clarissa Bryant. A few minutes later, he told his mother he was going out for a while.
With heavy steps and a sense of foreboding, he walked the block or so to his hair appointment with Scarlett, recently of Atlanta, on her way to California, who really didn’t like him all that much. He was beginning to feel a little bit sorry for the temporary, temperamental stylist. And for himself, for being in the middle of a hair crisis.
“YOU’RE MY ELEVEN O’CLOCK?” Scarlett asked as she stared, openmouthed, at James Brody. He slipped out of his jacket and hung it on the rack.
“I am,” he said, easing into her chair. “I thought I’d see what look you might choose for me, given you have such strong opinions about the right style for everyone else.” He crossed his hands over his flat stomach and gave her a smarmy lawyer smile. “You are capable of cutting men’s hair, aren’t you?”
“Perfectly capable,” she replied, snapping open a black cape while she gritted her teeth. So now he was tempting her to run her fingers through his
thick, dark brown hair? Fine. She was a professional.
“Telling you this probably isn’t a good idea,” he said as she picked up a razor, “but I had two more visitors to my office.”
She tested the sharpness of the blade with her finger, then looked at him through her lashes. “Really? More irate mothers with poor taste in hair and clothes?”
He shifted in the chair as he watched her handle the implement. “No. Irate grandmothers.”
“Who?” she asked, putting the razor down and picking up a spray bottle. She misted his hair with water.
“Maribelle and Ellen. Twins or close to it. Formerly with steel-blue curls.”
“Ah yes, I remember them well.” She bit the bullet and sank her fingers into his hair, all the way to the scalp. He was warm and he smelled really good, like crisp soap and clean male. She spent an extra moment savoring the feel of his strong, healthy hair. When she finished working the water through, she looked at him in the mirror. His hair was clumped into spikes around his well-shaped head. He had the kind of bone structure and features that could pull off almost any style.
“Are you ready to get started?”
“Oh, sure.” She made her decision, seeing his style in the lay of his hair, the amount of curl and body. “What about Maribelle and Ellen?”
“They were sort of complaining. They seemed distressed that their style and color were different.”
“They were happy when they left. Sort of.” She pulled his hair between her fingers, angled away from his head, and ran the razor along the ends.
“I promised them I’d talk to you.” He sighed, then said, “Actually, I told my mother I’d talk to you.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be reporting to your mommy?” She had to distance herself, because he was entirely too appealing on a physical level.
“She works for me. And I don’t report to her.”
“Whatever. Why do these supposedly dissatisfied customers keep coming to you rather than mentioning to me or Clarissa that they’re unhappy with their hair?”
“They told me that withholding payment or talking to Clarissa seemed rude. I told them there was no basis for a class action lawsuit, but I have a theory.”
Class action lawsuit! As if she were a faulty heater! She worked her way up to the crown of his head and forced herself to relax. “What’s your theory about this lawsuit that shouldn’t even be considered?”
“Don’t worry. No one is filing a lawsuit. However, ever since I returned to Brody’s Crossing last year, I’ve had a steady stream of folks wanting to sue. There must be some pent-up legal needs in town, because I’ve had some wild requests.”
Scarlett took a deep breath and decided to ignore talk of lawsuits, focusing instead on the information he’d revealed about himself. “Where did you return from?”
“Fort Worth.”
“That’s not very far.” She’d almost gone through Fort Worth when she’d taken that wrong turn in Dallas.
“Not in miles, but it is in culture.”
“Were you a lawyer there?”
“Yes, corporate law.”
She couldn’t imagine a more boring profession. Who would choose that kind of work when they could be talking to real people all day? Of course, being a corporate attorney would pay a whole lot more than her stylist salary. Enough that he probably wouldn’t be stuck in Brody’s Crossing with a huge car repair bill that he couldn’t really afford.
“Why did you come back here?”
“I decided that the folks here needed legal representation, whether they made good decisions or not.”
“I don’t think it’s wise to sue someone who makes you look better.” She finished her initial razor cut, then used her fingers to pull his hair out from his scalp, eyeing the length of each strand as she did so. She made a few adjustments. Perfect.
“Probably not, but then, I’m not encouraging them.”
“And yet you’re right in the middle of this would-be controversy.” She put down her razor and picked up the styling gel.
“So true.” He twisted around to look at the product. “What are you putting in my hair?”
“Something to give it a little body and shape.”
“It’s not colored, is it?”
“No. It’s clear.”
“I don’t want stiff, blue or purple hair.”
He seemed so cautious that she smiled. “Honey, this won’t make you stiff.”
He stilled, meeting her eyes in the mirror. His were hot. Smoldering. Not the least bit angry. She stared back, suddenly realizing what she’d said to this very attractive, single man. She’d definitely grabbed his attention. This time, she couldn’t blame their awareness on an argument.
At least, not yet. She was pretty sure they’d get around to disagreement sooner or later.
“Anyway,” she said, breaking eye contact, squeezing a dab into her palm, “you have to trust me. This is good stuff.”
“So you say,” he replied, settling back in his chair.
She rubbed the gel through his thick, somewhat shorter hair. It felt good. Too good. She was a stylist, for heaven’s sake. She shouldn’t react this strongly to hair.
To distract herself, and keep him from seeing the finished product, she spun the chair around to face the row of old-fashioned bonnet-style hair dryers lined up on the other wall. This time of day, in the middle of the week, they were all empty.
She used the hand-held dryer, shaping his slightly damp strands into a hip style, something a successful, thirty-something city dweller might wear. Of course, James Brody was a small-town lawyer, not a big-city stockbroker or advertising executive, but still, she thought he looked good. Okay, more than good. He looked hot.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t be impatient. I’ll turn you around in a minute. Like I said, trust me.”
“This from a woman with bright red spiky hair,” he replied.
“Yeah, well, it matches my name.”
“I wonder which came first.”
“It’s a chicken-and-egg kind of thing. I’m Scarlett, through and through, thanks to Logics R6.”
“Hmm. I take it that’s fire-engine-red hair color?”
“Right.” She finished up his hair and didn’t say anything else stupid. Before she spun him around, she took a real good look at her work. Yep, star quality. Hollywood worthy. And not just the haircut. “You’re done,” she said, twirling him toward the mirror.
His eyes widened, then narrowed. However, he didn’t frown. He assessed. He tilted. He studied. “Hmm. Different, but I kind of like it.”
His hair wasn’t smooth like before, and didn’t have a part. She’d pulled the short strands forward in a natural style. “Really? I mean, that’s great.” She unfastened the vinyl cape and swung it away from his big shoulders. She was used to small shoulders. Women, mostly. Not hot, hunky guys. She brushed a few hairs from his yellow shirt.
He paused at her touch, then stood and reached for his wallet. “What do I owe?”
“Um, you’ll have to ask Clarissa. I don’t know what she charges for men’s razor cuts.”
He sauntered to the front of the salon. Scarlett followed him with her gaze until she realized Venetia was probably staring. She looked at the other stylist. Yep, staring. Scarlett smiled like she really didn’t mean it, and then tried her best to eavesdrop on Clarissa and James.
“Yes, she does a good job, doesn’t she?” Clarissa said. “People might be surprised, but I swear, business has picked up in just three days.” She leaned closer and said more softly, so that Scarlett could barely hear, “Personally, I think a lot of folks come by out of curiosity, but whatever brings them in is fine with me.”
“A few have mentioned that they were…concerned that their hairstyles were different than they were expecting,” he said to Clarissa very tactfully.
“Really? No one’s said anything to me.”
“I’ve told them to talk to you or Scarlett.”
Clarissa patted his arm. “Good advice, as usual.”
James paid what he owed, then handed over some more money. A tip? After leaning close and saying something that made Clarissa laugh, he turned. Scarlett looked away and started sweeping up his dark, shorn hair.
“So, like a lot of your clients, I look different,” he said to her, hesitating near her station.
“I think you look great. I mean, better.”
“I’m getting used to it.” He bent a little to glance in the mirror, raking a hand through his hair before continuing. “I don’t look much like a corporate lawyer.”
No, he looked like the hunky doctor on the TV show about people stranded on an island, only he needed a few days’ worth of beard and a torn T-shirt. “That’s because you’re not a corporate lawyer anymore. You’re the Brody’s Crossing lawyer, apparently now specializing in controversial hairstyles.”
“You’re right.” He smiled at her, then paused before saying, “I realize that we got off to a bad start. Could I take you to dinner to make up for it?”
“Dinner?”
“The meal most of us eat at night.”
“I know what it means, but I thought I’m supposed to be the enemy. I’m not sure why you’d want to be seen with me in public.” She narrowed her eyes and watched him. “You are talking about a real restaurant, right? Not going to your apartment or your mother’s?”
“Dinner in public at Dewey’s, you and me, no mother. Why don’t I pick you up around six? And where are you staying?”
“Right here,” she said, pointing to the rear of the salon. “Back room sofa. Home sweet home.” Until she was no longer stranded in Texas.
Chapter Three
“So, tell me how you came to be stuck in Brody’s Crossing,” James asked once they’d been seated in a relatively quiet corner of Dewey’s. The high backs of the dark vinyl booth enfolded them and kept the country-and-western music from interfering with conversation.
Texan for the Holidays Page 3