by Ellen Dye
“Well, I will be damned,” I whispered.
“Thought so,” Val replied before polishing off the last bite of her slaw dog.
I smiled and sent a wave toward Mama. She smiled broadly and returned the gesture. “Damn. She’s transformed,” I admired as I finally understood her somewhat cryptic comment from the other night.
“Sure looks good to me.”
“Who is that she’s talking to?”
“Clifton Loudermilk. I’m sure you remember him.”
I did. A widower from way back, if I recalled properly. I also seemed to remember he’d retired from Backhill’s with the appellation of “very well off” trailing behind his name.
“You go, girl,” I whispered in Mama’s direction.
“Ah, no.” Val grabbed my arm.
“Huh?”
“I think we better.” She started in the direction of the field. “C’mon!”
“What—” I began to trot after Val, completely baffled.
“Yee-haw!” bellowed Aunt Nettie—dressed in a leopard-print housedress, matching shoes, and her pillbox hat with veil fluttering in the breeze. “Ride ’em, cowgirl!” she yelled from atop her pony, which was making a break from the ring, heading straight toward the center of town like a streak of lightning on hooves.
I picked up my pace to match Val’s. Oh, well. Some people could change, but some never would. And sometimes that was a very good thing.
Chapter Thirteen
“Well, there is one good thing to be said about arriving ahead of time,” Val commented early Tuesday morning as we made our way through the otherwise empty school to the theory room.
“What’s that?”
“We won’t have to share with the entire class.”
“True,” I returned, giving the light switch a flip. I grabbed the mugs and napkins from Mitzi’s bottom drawer.
“We certainly did raise talented girls.” Val drew back the plastic wrap covering the pan of glazed orange-cinnamon rolls Olivia and Kate had presented first thing this morning.
I gave a nod and poured Val and me each a mug of Verona from the thermos. “But I really can’t take credit for this.” I bit into the lighter-than-air sweet roll and sighed. “I never learned to bake this well.”
Val agreed. “Neither did I. In fact, I have no idea where Kate got her talent.” She polished off a roll and reached for another. “Are you sure we really had a three-day weekend?”
“I think so.” I propped both my tired feet up on an empty chair.
The amount of activity we’d crammed within three twenty-four-hour periods of time had been staggering. And in direct proportion, the results had been amazing.
The cottage had been completely transformed into a charmingly warm home, filled with calico quilts, refurbished family castoffs, and all we’d salvaged from San Francisco. I’d even managed, thanks to a late night sewing spree after the fundraiser, to finish curtains for the many windows.
It was a far cry from our last house in San Francisco, with its designer-quality window treatments and elegant furnishings all done in muted shades of beige, brown, and cream. But, truth be told, I liked the cottage, with its jumble of color and cotton, much better. It was a true and comfortable home, something our trendy, upscale San Francisco house had never been.
“Did we get everything?”
I reached for another roll. “Oh, yeah. Amazing, wasn’t it?”
Val nodded.
Sam and his mysterious crew of guy pals from Backhill’s had made short work of hauling our possessions from the over-packed garage to the cottage. Val, both girls, and I had washed, dried, stacked, and eventually found space for everything.
Well, almost everything. I still had to come up with a solution for my clothes and shoes, which at present were still in boxes and bags, stacked floor to ceiling and covering much of my bedroom’s floor space.
“It looks great. You’ve made a real home. You done good, girl.” Val nudged my arm.
“I had a lot of quality help.”
Val snorted before taking another bite.
“I’m serious. I couldn’t have accomplished it all on my own. It was a real team effort. Thanks for everything, girlfriend.”
It was true. Now, all that remained were a few last minute details. I’d use the fabric Olivia had unearthed to fashion some slipcovers, and maybe I’d pick up some extra for throw pillows. A few green, leafy plants, some fat pillar candles, a little potpourri, and our new home would be complete.
Val shrugged away my thanks but looked pleased. “That’s what friends are for. And besides, I do have a proposition for you.”
“And that would be?” I ventured yet again in reference to her oft-repeated but still very mysterious proposition.
“You’ll find out soon,” Val followed. “I really need Mitzi to be with us.”
I nodded, silently hoping Mitzi was okay. She hadn’t arrived to help out as promised yesterday, nor had she called.
“Val, I was serious about the money thing.”
She waved my concerns away. “Just keep an open mind, okay?”
Mitzi walked in. “About what?”
My breath stalled as I caught sight of her face.
“Uh…” Val gaped, her normal strength-of-iron composure faltering.
Mitzi gave a nervous chuckle, and color rose across her cheeks. “I’m so clumsy. I swear I just can’t…” She trailed off, fingertips gently brushing across the large bruise encompassing her left eye.
I swallowed hard, finding myself at a complete loss for words.
Val recovered more quickly. “Boy, are you in luck. Today was the first day of school, and the girls made us a gift. How cool is that?” Val filled Mitzi’s mug and pulled up another seat. “You have just got to try these,” Val carried on as though she hadn’t noticed Mitzi’s bruise or stammered excuse as to its origin.
Mitzi’s smile was both strained and grateful. She deliberately avoided making eye contact. “They look wonderful.”
“Orange-cinnamon sweet rolls. They’re absolutely fantastic,” I choked out, unable to tear my gaze from her face.
Mitzi took a small bite and nodded agreement before focusing solely on the napkin lying on the desk in front of her.
Val plunged ahead. “I’ve got an announcement and a proposition.”
Mitzi and I both looked toward her.
“Do you remember the Cut and Curl?” Val shifted toward me.
“Sure. That’s the shop Mama Dove owns, right?” I remembered the grand tour I’d had shortly before graduation.
Val nodded.
“I don’t—” Mitzi began.
“It’s my mother-in-law’s salon. It’s located toward the center of town, here,” Val clarified and when Mitzi nodded, she continued. “She needs to get out.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Is business bad?” I asked.
“No. Actually it’s good news. Mama Dove wants to retire. Maybe travel a little and kick up her heels. But she can’t so long as she owns both businesses. And she really wants to keep the school.”
I nodded, slightly baffled as to exactly where Val was going with this conversation and wondering how the frequent proposition comments worked into the mix.
Val briefly described to Mitzi the medium-sized, four-station salon I remembered. “And here’s the good part—she’s offered it to us.”
“Us?” I squeaked.
“Well, actually me. But I wouldn’t consider it without y’all as partners.”
“How much?” I croaked.
Val waved a hand. “We’ll get to that in a minute.”
Val produced a sheaf of paperwork from her tote bag and passed one hefty portion to each of us before launching into a list of all the particular details pertaining to the Cut and Curl.
Mitzi flipped through to the back page. “Are you sure these numbers are accurate?”
“Absolutely,” Val replied as I hastily flipped pages to catch up.
When I arrived at the bot
tom line, I gasped.
Good heavens, the place was a veritable gold mine.
“We’ll be taking over the salon basically as it is. Meaning that we’ll keep all equipment and supplies.”
“How about the clientele?” Mitzi asked, her eyes sparkling with life for the first time this morning.
“Mostly an older group, high society for Worthington. They’re both steady and loyal. And the location is great, only a couple blocks away from the mall. It’s the only full-service salon for at least two miles.”
“Awesome.” Mitzi whistled low.
“But that’s not even the best part.” Val grinned. “The hardware store, which is the unit next door, is closing. We can get it for practically nothing.”
“You lost me. Why would we want a hardware store?” I asked.
“Not the hardware store itself. The unit, the space. We could expand. What do you ladies think about owning Worthington’s first full-service salon and day spa?”
A quick flash of days I’d spent getting ready for Reed’s numerous functions in similar establishments ran through my thoughts. Facials, full-body massages, and the ultimate pampering experience to complete the designer shoe image, hot stone spa pedicures—oh, my, those were the days. And then I remembered the price tag attached to such services.
“Do you think that sort of thing would go over in a town of this size? Who would have enough money to pay for it?” I asked, remembering my difficulty in finding gainful employment in town.
Val shook her head. “Worthington’s grown in industry. And those very businesses are bringing in loads of top-level people. In fact, the town’s a gold mine for degreed fields.”
The light dawned, and I grinned. “And those top-level people would probably be thrilled to save themselves over an hour’s drive for a bit of pampering.”
“You bet.”
This could work. I flipped through the sheaf of papers twice more, my hope growing with each page I finished. I could be my own boss, set my own hours. Excitement began to pump its way through my veins.
There was just one obstacle, and it was a doozy.
“How much?” I asked a second time.
Val named a figure that froze the flow of excitement and nearly stopped my heart. “But if you divide that by three…” She quoted a much lower figure. “And Mama Dove’s agreed to take most of her share in monthly payments.” She quoted an even lower figure. “We really can do this.”
Suddenly I knew I’d solved the problem of available bedroom floor space. During my Want Ad scouring days, I’d noticed several consignment shops in town offering cash for gently worn designer clothing and shoes. And, for good measure and financial breathing space, the balance of my E and E from T collection would finally be put to good use.
“I’m in,” I said, before I could change my mind.
Val whooped and grabbed my hand. “Mitzi, this is your chance to put all that specialized skin care and massage training to a great use.”
Mitzi sat still and silent as a statue.
Val wisely chose to give her time by changing the subject. “We’ll need to figure out a name.” She turned toward me.
I grinned. “Nope. We’ve got one.”
Val raised a brow.
“Be Headed.” I stated the name of our fictional heroine’s very own salon.
“Hairdresser Hattie saves the day,” Val agreed.
“Mitzi?” I ventured.
“I can’t—”
An earth-shattering scream tore through the otherwise silent beauty school, cutting off Mitzi’s reply. Several loud crashes with enough impact to shake the building followed.
Like a shot the three of us, Val in the lead, were running through the doorway and toward the commotion.
****
Seconds later, in the dim light of the clinic, we screeched to an abrupt halt, with me slamming into Val’s back and Mitzi following suit.
The room was a shambles. Several hydraulic chairs had been flipped onto their sides, and the entire length of station counters had been cleared of their contents. The floor was littered with brushes, combs, broken tip containers, leaking bottles of styling products, and broken sanitation jars, their disinfectant pooling in large blue puddles across the tile.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” hissed a very large, very angry, young man sporting multiple tattoos and shaggy black hair. “Didn’t I tell you never to run from me?”
He switched direction, turning toward the pedicure station and the bundle of white cotton huddled behind it.
“Steve, please,” begged a frightened voice I immediately recognized as Trista’s.
Steve overturned one of the last upright hydraulic chairs and lunged for Trista.
“The baby,” Trista gasped as she shot from behind the chair, one arm clasped protectively across her stomach.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, boy?” Val bellowed, taking charge of the situation.
Steve jumped and turned suddenly, obviously startled to find he had acquired an audience. “Who the hell are you?” he slurred the words, training his bloodshot gaze on Val. He staggered a step closer.
“Trista, come here,” Val ordered, her tone brooking no refusal.
My Mother Instinct leapt to the fore. Trista scampered toward us, and I received a full view of her pale, swollen, and bruised face. Silent tears fell from her panicked eyes; a small trickle of blood seeped from her cut lip. I shifted closer to Val and grabbed Trista’s arm, protectively sheltering her behind both Val and myself.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” Val said so calmly it was hard to believe she was speaking to someone nearly twice her physical size and completely inebriated as well.
“Call the cops. Now,” I hissed to Mitzi quietly over one shoulder, while keeping my gaze riveted to Steve, who was slowly weaving his way toward us.
Mitzi stood perfectly still.
The clinic was silent except for the sound of Trista’s small, panting breaths. Her hands convulsively clutched the back of my shirt. I quickly glanced about; not a proper weapon in sight. So naturally I grabbed the nearest available beauty school substitute—a heavy Helen of Troy professional curling iron.
Val stood, her eye contact never wavering, as proud as an Amazon warrior radiating a strength that belied her petite stature.
I inched closer to Val, vainly hoping the cavalry would arrive or some miracle from above would drop in our laps. I knew, despite both our protective instincts and combined anger, two middle-aged women were no match for a raging twenty-something male clearly not in control of himself.
“What is going on here?” Bitsy screeched, flipping the light switch to full power.
A flurry of movement exploded within the clinic.
Steve lunged for Val.
Val sidestepped and grabbed a curling iron.
Trista flung her arms around my middle, and we staggered backward, me dropping my curling iron in the process.
Bitsy screamed.
And then, finally, that miracle I’d been hoping for happened, playing itself out as though it were a movie in slow motion.
I made a futile grab for a replacement curling iron just seconds before Steve’s chunky, boot-clad foot came down in a puddle of disinfectant. His thick sole made contact with the liquid, which rapidly and unsteadily propelled him forward. He blindly swung out toward me.
Protectively I held Trista behind me with one arm and flung the other across my eyes, expecting the worst.
“No!” Mitzi screamed. A sharp crack, sounding like cannon fire, reverberated through the room.
I dropped my arm in time to see all six feet and more of formerly pissed-off twenty-something hit the floor in an unceremonious heap and lie perfectly still.
I gaped at Val. She gaped at me. We both looked at Mitzi and blinked. Twice.
Mitzi, looking a tad green around the gills, stood perfectly still, her gaze glued to Steve, while a professional blow dryer dangled from her right hand. If it
had been a gun, it would have been smoking.
“Damn, heck of a hit there. You go, girl,” Val praised.
“Call the police, Trista.” I disentangled her hands from my shirt and gave her a small push in the direction of Bitsy’s office. “Stay in there. Don’t come out until they arrive.”
She fairly flew from the room.
Bitsy’s face was purple with suppressed rage as she sputtered unintelligibly.
Val, quick thinking as always, dropped to a crouch and made fast work of binding Steve’s hands behind his back with a curling iron cord. I followed suit with his feet, but before I could get both bound together, Bitsy managed to form her sputters into actual words, which Val and I ignored.
Steve raised his head, issuing a loud groan.
I jumped to my feet, out of kicking range, with more speed than I realized I possessed.
“This is highly irregular. Absolutely against all school regulations,” Bitsy screeched in a squeaky high voice, pointing at the somewhat prone male on the floor but keeping her gaze on me.
Steve groaned again, kicked out, and made a half-decent attempt to haul himself upright.
I gave Bitsy a quick shove, and the disinfectant did the rest. “Sit,” I commanded as all two hundred-plus pounds of Bitsy Breckenbridge Reilly wobbled, slid, and went backward, her arms flailing, onto her rear end, which landed squarely on Steve’s lower back.
Steve whooshed as the breath was knocked from his body. His eyes rolled quickly back, their lids fluttering down, and he finally lay still.
“Damn.” Val whistled low. “Quick thinking, Wanda Jo.” She gave an outraged, completely stuck Bitsy a pat on one fleshy shoulder. “Do be a dear and stay there until the police arrive.”
My gaze traveled quickly from Bitsy’s indignant pose atop a very immobile Steve around the wreck of the clinic and back to Mitzi, who was still holding her previous pose complete with blow dryer. A hysterical bubble of laughter burst forth. Val joined me, and we both focused on Mitzi.
Val stepped around the debris. “Girlfriend, you’re a hero.” She squeezed Mitzi’s arm.
I draped an arm across Mitzi’s shoulders and agreed.
“Shit,” Mitzi whispered, looking away from her handiwork for the first time.