by Ellen Dye
Altogether, it hadn’t been a bad night.
I took a seat on the front counter. And now, a drum roll please… I held my breath as I counted the stack of ones and change, arranging the coins in neat little piles. I smiled when I reached a grand total. It was considerably less than I’d have spent on a single bottle of La Praire foundation in my previous life, but it still felt good.
It was my money. I’d earned it, and now it was mine. Damn, it was a good feeling.
“Hey, Wanda Jo?” Sam called from the back.
“Out here.” I tucked my evening’s hoard into a front pocket.
“The cavalry has arrived.” Sam’s large form stepped through the swinging door to the dining room. “And it’s equipped with supplies.” He held up a large picnic basket.
“What’s that?” I hopped from the counter.
“Rejuvenation supplies for later.” He grinned. “What’s left?”
“For closing?”
He nodded.
I glanced around and ran through my mental checklist. Front door? Locked. Lights? Dimmed. Coffee station? Clean. Heck, I’d even polished the long-neglected chrome and mopped the floors.
“Not a thing,” I said with a shrug.
“I’m impressed. Came right back to you, huh?”
“I guess it’s like riding a bike. You never really forget how it’s done.”
“Well, then. I guess this is for now.” He set the enormous wicker hamper on the counter.
I moved closer and caught a whiff of fresh-smelling soap and woodsy aftershave. Involuntarily my feet inched a bit closer. Oh, my. I sighed inwardly. I gave myself a mental slap and forced my feet to retreat. What was I thinking? Good Lord, this was Sam. My childhood friend, not a man. And heaven forbid, certainly not a date.
“You okay?”
I coughed to cover my embarrassment and then gave a small nod.
Sam shrugged. “Okay, then. Close your eyes.”
“Oh, c’mon,” I protested.
“Nope. My basket, my rules.”
I closed both eyes.
“Open your mouth.”
My eyes flew open. “Nope.” I crossed my arms. “You’re not pulling that old one on me.”
“What old one?”
“The cricket?” I prompted.
Sam blushed.
I narrowed my eyes. “No, sir. Not me.” I pressed my lips together.
Sam huffed playfully. “That was like a hundred years ago. Don’t you think I’ve matured a bit since then?”
I arched a brow.
The color in Sam’s cheeks deepened. “Okay. Point taken. But…” He paused, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. “In my defense, it was Jamie Sue, and she did start it.”
I’d give him that one. It had been quite an incident. I’d never have guessed such a big guy could move so fast—prone to sixty in nothing flat. “Still have a spider problem?” I inquired politely.
Sam shuddered. “Damn things.”
“Especially under your quilt.”
Sam looked a bit queasy. “Actually, it was the crawling up my leg that got me.”
I nodded in agreement.
“So I guess it comes down to one thing. Do you trust me?”
I looked into Sam’s deep brown eyes and saw complete sincerity. Oh, yeah, if there was anybody on this earth I trusted, it was Sam Branson. I nodded, only a touch reluctantly.
“Close ’em.”
I complied and opened my mouth.
“Instant bliss,” Sam announced.
The moment the raspberry truffle hit my tongue, every nerve ending in my body audibly sighed.
“Oh, Lord. Godiva,” I whispered reverently after I’d finished chewing.
“And that’s not all. Open your eyes.”
I released a sigh that originated somewhere near the tips of my toes as I looked at the feast Sam had laid on the counter.
“Awesome, huh?”
“Oh, my,” I whispered, my mouth watering.
It was a veritable smorgasbord of all my favorites from San Francisco. A large crockpot filled with creamy clam chowder sat in the middle, between two bowls. To the right was a golden brown loaf of what could only be freshly baked sourdough bread, and a tub of whipped butter stood at the ready.
“Try this.” Sam handed me a mug he’d just filled from a thermos.
I took a sip. “Verona.” I took a second sip, savoring. “Where did you find all this?” I asked in awe. I’d called every grocery store within a hundred miles trying to find my favorite Starbucks blend—and came up empty.
Sam smiled and gestured toward a seat. “The Internet, of course.” He ladled out a bowl of chowder and handed me a spoon. “If you want it, somebody on the net is selling it. And pretty much everything you could ever want is always on Amazon.”
My taste buds continued to dance long after I’d swallowed the first creamy, richly decadent spoonful. This really was bliss. I’d never be a technology buff, but at this moment I was willing to forgive Bill Gates for his world domination.
Hell, I’d forgive practically anybody for practically anything if it resulted in Godiva and Starbucks. Maybe I should rethink my technophobia…
I broke off a chunk of sourdough and slathered it with butter—tight jeans be damned.
An odd question popped into my mind. “How did you know about all this?”
Sam grinned and helped himself to bread and butter. “You mean how’d I know about all your favorite foods?”
I nodded.
“Would you believe psychic connection?”
“Psychic?” I raised a brow.
“Perhaps an odd force in the universe that has me tuned in on your personal food cravings?”
I shook my head.
Sam laughed and ladled more chowder into his bowl. “Okay. It was Olivia. We thought you could use a treat.”
I grinned. “Thanks. It’s wonderful.”
Sam’s cheeks colored. “My pleasure.”
It was official. I’d survived the first night of Asking The Profound Question. And what’s more, I’d done it while wearing the décor-coordinated polyester Tunic of Information. I took another spoonful of chowder and savored. After this, Dixie Beauty School—complete with Bitsy Breckenbridge and her clone of a daughter—would be a breeze.
I wouldn’t even mind wearing the school uniform of white medical scrubs. Really, it couldn’t be that bad.
Chapter Nine
I was wrong. Again. I heaved a sigh as I caught a brief glimpse of my partial reflection in the visor’s mirror. The “professional” white scrubs worn by nurses and assorted health care professionals throughout the country did absolutely nothing for me. Or at least nothing positive. I was certain, dressed neck to ankle in white cotton, I bore a striking resemblance to Frosty the Snowman.
Or probably more accurately, given my recent rise in weight, an even heftier version of the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man.
With that cheerful thought, I locked the Lexus and struck out across the parking lot toward the front entrance, determined to keep putting one white sneaker-clad foot in front of the other.
And then suddenly both feet stopped.
The lighted neon sign read, Dixie Beauty School. Each letter was done in the alternating colors of red, white, and blue with the infamous southern Stars and Bars standing in for the X. A gleaming silver curling iron did double duty as both a graphic illustration and exclamation point. It looked harmless enough. And it probably would have been completely innocuous—if it had been just anyone looking.
However, it was me. And the bright neon sign might as well have read, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
The full impact of what I was about to do hit me right between the eyes. Twelve solid weeks of Bitsy and her daughter awaited me. I’d be logging hours of study for the theory portion of the State Board Examination, and then I’d log even more hours on the floor in preparation for the practical portion.
Oh, joy.
Oh, Lord
, did I really want to do this?
Could I do this?
I briefly thought of my technophobia and forced my right foot forward. I was more than willing to accept the excellent coffee and decadent truffles the Internet had provided. But come over to their side? Never.
Life had indeed turned upside down for me, and it seemed as though I was left with much uncertainty. But there was one thing I was absolutely certain about. I really didn’t want to spend forty hours a week sitting behind a desk with my undivided attention riveted to a computer screen.
I forced the left foot forward and then followed suit with the right.
“Bless your heart, Wanda Jo,” the combined voices of Mrs. and Miss whispered through my thoughts.
That did it. Less than two seconds later I was through the door—having left rubber on the asphalt—and standing at the reception desk, filled with sheer determination to suck it up and get on with it no matter what the “it” turned out to be.
“Oh, a new student!” The older and incredibly chipper receptionist chirped. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Molly.”
I forced a smile as I took in the full effect of her bleach-blonde-tipped, mousse-spiked hair, which not only seemed to defy gravity but also added several inches to the woman’s petite frame.
“And don’t you just look like such a professional hairdresser in your uniform.”
I kept the smile in place and used all my willpower not to disagree or grind my molars.
“Here you go, hon.” She flopped a stack of thick spiral-bound books on the counter in front of me. “You’re a bit early, but you can go on in the Theory room.” She pointed toward the empty classroom Gwen had showed me previously, then dashed off with a quick pinkie wave toward the ringing phone.
The room looked much as the one I remembered from Vo-Tech. About a dozen metal chairs with desks attached dominated the center of the room. A smallish blackboard had been mounted against the front wall, and next to it were two shampoo bowls done in the standard brown that hides hair color spills so well. Their chairs were also a beauty school standard of worn, not-quite-mauve and sported duct tape in several places each.
Along each side wall, a small counter about a foot wide had been mounted at waist height. Mirrors, in various states of disrepair, had been hung above the counters at irregular intervals. These would form mock stations for the much-anticipated day when the desks would be shuttled close together in the center of the room, the blackboard forgotten, and the hands-on work with the Babies would begin.
Said Babies—otherwise known to the outside world as professional mannequins—were currently located hither and yon about the room. Some were stacked, others piled, several were propped against the blackboard, and a few were even mounted to the stands bolted to the countertop. Their presence sort of gave the whole setup a horror movie kind of feel—lots of heads and not a body in sight.
I chose a seat in the second row, hoping to be inconspicuous but doubting the possibility since I was sure to be at least twice the age of the average beauty school student.
I ripped the plastic shrink-wrap from the thickest textbook in my stack. Times certainly had changed, at least in this one respect. This Pivot Point book was very nearly twice the thickness of Vo-Tech’s old standby, MiLady’s Standard Textbook of Cosmetology, which I’d devoured from cover to cover.
It was all here, I discovered, flipping through the pages. Manicures, cuts, perms, and my former personal favorite—color techniques. Color was amazing; a small change in shade or a few highlights could change not only a person’s look but her outlook, as well.
My excitement began on the page covering foil techniques and continued throughout the remainder of the book. And then an odd thought hit me; well, actually two of them did.
The first was that I really did enjoy cosmetology—it had been a fun job. And the second thought was that my only bad memories of my days spent behind the chair were all paycheck related. I pulled a sheet from the introductory packet titled Income Survey. The numbers listed matched those Kirsten from Dependable Temps had quoted.
I blew out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. It seemed as though Olivia and I would be okay financially once I finished up here and got to work.
The other students began to trickle in, some alone and a few in pairs. All looked fresh-faced, eager, and more than ready to get to work on both Babies’ and each other’s hair. Goodness, not one of them looked a day older than my Olivia. I wiggled down in my seat, feeling positively geriatric.
“Do you think we’ll get into acrylics soon?” The baby-faced brunette asked the equally young girl sitting next to her.
She shrugged. “Who knows.”
“You don’t seem too excited about this.”
The young blonde in front of me shrugged again and pulled a bridal magazine from her backpack. “What’s the big deal?”
The brunette snorted disbelief. “Girl, are you saying your whole career ain’t a big deal?”
“This isn’t going to be my career.” She waved a hand about the room. “This will be.” She held up the magazine.
“Hate to break it to you, but being a bride isn’t a career.”
“Maybe not. But being a wife is.”
“If it doesn’t pay, it’s not a career.”
The blonde shook her head and held up her left hand. “Steve will take care of all the money stuff. I won’t have to worry about a thing.” She waggled her fingers, showing off a simple gold band with a diamond chip mounted in the center.
“What about your bills? A home? Kids?”
“Steve will take care of everything. I’m just going to school here to keep my mom off my back until the wedding. The only important thing I need to learn is how to be a perfect wife, keep a perfect home, and be a great mom.”
It took every ounce of my self-control to refrain from shaking the girl until her teeth rattled.
“Good morning, ladies,” Bitsy boomed on her way to the front of the classroom, dressed in a blinding yellow stretch-knit pants set that strained at the seams, jerking my attention away from the girls.
“Your teacher, Miss Mitzi, is running a bit late this morning. So why don’t we get started with a few introductions?” She paused, clasping both chubby hands to her ample chest. “I’m Mrs. Reilly, the headmistress of the school.”
Bitsy assumed a phony smile and pointed to the brunette in the front row. “Tell us your name and something about yourself.”
“I’m Renetta.” She smiled and gave a little wave to the room in general. “I’ve always wanted to be a hairdresser.”
There was a lengthy pause and then Renetta nudged the blonde, who was totally absorbed in her magazine’s glossy pages.
“Oh. I’m Trista.”
I opened my mouth to speak and Bitsy held up one hand. “No, Wanda Jo. I’d like you to go last,” she ordered and then gave her most evil grin. “I’d like for everybody to give your story all the attention it deserves. We’ll use it as part of our lesson plan today.”
The remaining seven students introduced themselves, but their names didn’t register in my mind. My thoughts were filled with dread as I wondered what spectacular embarrassment Bitsy had planned for me. Well, hell, I finally decided. Bring it on. If I could survive the Bless Your Heart status given to me last night, I could take whatever pettiness Bitsy could dish out.
“It’s so nice meeting you all.” Bitsy’s green eyes glittered. “And now today’s lesson is Professional Development.” She scrawled the words across the board and made the gaffe of dropping one S from professional.
I steadied the twitch in one eye with an index finger.
“If you remember nothing else from today’s class, I want you to remember this one thing.” She sighed dramatically and leveled her glittering gaze directly at me. “A woman must always have a way to make her own living. And that’s why Wanda Jo’s story is so important.”
My other eye began twitching.
“Why, poor,
poor Wanda Jo was married to a very well-to-do man and thought she had it all. Didn’t you, hon?” she simpered.
“Well, hell, Bits. Who doesn’t?” A familiar voice called from the back.
In the approximately half second it took me to turn in my seat, two decades vanished. There she was, my most treasured girlfriend, co-captain of the varsity cheerleading squad, and Vo-Tech comrade in arms—Valentine Carmichael. And from the top of her medium brown bob down her petite frame, she didn’t look one day older than when we’d both worn the coveted red and black.
“Welcome home, Wanda Jo!” Valentine exclaimed, opening both arms.
“Val!”
The room full of people was completely forgotten. We hugged. We squealed. We did a little victory dance. “Go-ooo Bucks!” we proclaimed in unison.
I clapped a hand to my mouth; Val’s eyes went wide with shock.
“I have no idea where that came from,” she admitted.
A rather rude cough from the front of the room prevented me from agreeing wholeheartedly. Bitsy stood, one hand on each wide-load hip, glaring.
“Oh, Bitsy,” Val said as I nudged her forward toward a seat. “Sorry. I simply forgot you were there.”
Bitsy snorted, pressing her lips into a thin slash of crimson as her green eyes glittered with malice. Her right foot pawed the ground.
Val’s smile grew bigger; her blue eyes sparkled. She brushed her bangs from her forehead.
I quickly took my seat and prepared to watch the coming battle.
“We were discussing Professional Development,” Bitsy ground out. “And since Wanda Jo—”
Val to the rescue. “Hasn’t heard your story yet—”
Bitsy screeched unintelligibly and turned the color of a Big Boy tomato.
“Ladies, this is the most important lesson y’all will ever learn in Theory.” Valentine sauntered toward the front, nudging Bitsy clear to the shampoo bowls. “You have to work; it’s reality. And that, ladies, is the bottom line of Professional Development.”
“Not if you play your husband cards right,” Trista sing-songed as she continued to flip pages.