by Ellen Dye
Jamie Sue nodded, and Dr. Bushnell scrawled his signature across the top sheet of paper, which he then handed to me.
“Just drop that at the desk on the way out.” He turned to leave.
Jamie Sue burst into tears.
“Excuse me.”
Dr. Bushnell turned, and I held up one finger.
“May I have a word?”
He nodded, and I gestured toward the opening in the curtain. He stepped through without hesitation.
“My cousin is terribly upset. She’s sobbing uncontrollably, and she’s not talking sensibly. I don’t mean to question your diagnosis, but she’s really not acting like herself. Are you sure she’s okay?”
Dr. Bushnell flashed a smile of understanding. “Physically she’s fine. Actually, she’s a very lucky woman.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You never really know how someone will react to having been in an emergency situation. Some cry. Some get angry. It’s different for different people.”
I accepted his explanation, thanked him, and quickly got back to Jamie Sue, who was sitting in the original position I’d found her, staring blankly into space.
“Okay, honey,” I said, deliberately making my voice light. “Let’s get you home.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can.” I moved a few steps closer.
“The range is completely destroyed. Oh, God…” She paused, swallowing a sob. “Most of the kitchen is ruined,” she finally finished, her voice only a whisper.
“Honey, none of that matters. You could have been killed.” I hugged her close. “But you’re okay. That’s all that matters. Be grateful the kitchen was destroyed and not you.”
“It would have been better that way.”
My patience snapped. “Don’t you talk like that. Do you hear me? The Dew Drop Inn is a building made of lumber and brick. It’s completely replaceable. You are not.”
Jamie Sue raised her bloodshot eyes, her gaze locked on mine. “But I’m insured.”
“What’s going on?” I slumped down on the bed next to my cousin.
“I made a mistake. I’ve had to juggle so much lately. I just forgot to pay the premium.”
Jamie Sue’s verbal dam collapsed, and the words surged forward faster than I could process them. I caught “mortgage” and “loss of income” before I held up one hand.
“Wait. What mortgage? What are you talking about?”
They were fair questions, and I hoped a good starting point. So far as I’d known, both the building and lot it occupied had been owned, free and clear, by Uncle Jimmy since the early seventies. One of my happier childhood memories had been the huge bash he’d thrown, a real mortgage-burning party complete with bonfire and toasted marshmallows.
“I took out a mortgage to cover the medical bills.”
“What medical bills?”
“The fortune it cost when Daddy had his heart attack.”
“When did this happen?”
“A few years back.”
This was news to me. And surprisingly enough, instead of shock I was feeling anger. “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“What were you going to do? You were busy living the high life in California.”
“So freaking what? I was still a family member. For God’s sake, he’s my uncle. He had a heart attack. Didn’t you think I deserved to know?”
“You left.”
Ah, yes. The old family punishment factor was once again at work. I did something they didn’t like, what now felt like a hundred years ago. So naturally this justified any nasty behavior on their part toward me. The consequences of my defection from Buckston County clearly could only have been worse had I grown up to vote Republican.
Jamie Sue was speaking again. “I handled it just fine. You had your perfect life out there, living your dream—”
My anger burst forth. “Damn you! As you’ve seen for yourself these last few months, my life in California was a far cry from anybody’s idea of perfection. You want the truth? Fine. It was a dream. A damn delusional one. And I’ve paid a damned high price for it. You want me to apologize for leaving? Well, the hell if I will. I did what I thought I had to do at the time. Damn you for—” I stopped abruptly. What was the point?
Several minutes of silence passed before Jamie Sue spoke. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Wanda Jo. I know these last few months haven’t been easy for you. I treated you badly.” She dragged in a ragged breath. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“The bottom line here is that there’s no money to rebuild. We have no savings. None of us do. And I don’t know where I’ll find more work now that BackHill’s is in their slow season.” She looked at me. “I have no idea what we’re going to do. Or how we’ll survive.”
In a way, she was right. Jobs were a very scarce commodity in our neck of the woods.
I took a breath and clutched my keys in my fist. I could feel the Lexus’ ignition key cutting a perfect imprint into my palm. I opened my hand slowly, my gaze riveted to that single key. Here was the solution, I slowly realized.
“I’m so afraid. I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, I do.” I stood and pulled Jamie Sue from the bed. “You are going to let Ray take you home—”
“But—”
“No buts. You are going to let Ray take you home. Then you’re going to clean up, take your medicine, and go to bed.”
“I can’t. I have to fix this mess I’ve made.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“You can’t—”
“Remember Annie?” I asked, referring to one of our rare childhood moments of bonding over a much-treasured rag doll.
Jamie Sue’s features softened. “It’s much harder to fix a restaurant. It’s been destroyed by a fire, not chewed up by an over-anxious puppy. You can’t sew on new arms and embroider a new face for it.”
“True, but I can handle it. Give me two weeks, and I’ll have the Dew Drop ready to open.”
Jamie Sue looked me squarely in the eye. “I still have her, you know?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“But seriously, Wanda Jo. You don’t have any more money than the rest of us now. There’s nothing you can do.”
“Think so?” I steered her through the curtain. “You just watch me.”
****
For once, it was a pleasure to be wrong.
“Ten days,” Doug Simpson, Donnie’s electrician cousin, announced as he turned in a slow circle, critically examining the damage to the Dew Drop’s kitchen. “It’ll be a done deal in ten days. Tops.”
I grinned. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all morning. You all are the best.”
And I meant it. Dottie and Donnie, along with what appeared to be the entirety of their combined families, had responded to my call for help seconds after our phone conversation. Now, from the smallest to the largest, each was busily pitching in to clean up and rebuild.
Dottie hugged me with her right arm while she balanced Susie, who was now almost completely recovered from a successful surgery, on her left hip. “We think you’re pretty darned great, too.”
I returned the gesture and then took a quick glance around. Uncle Jimmy, who had taken the news in stride, was busy hauling tables outside for a thorough cleaning in the parking lot, with the aid of Uncle Claude. Mama and Nettie, their hair tied back beneath matching scarves, were busy cleaning soot stains from the walls and floor. Even Mr. Loudermilk, dressed in sturdy work clothes, was helping Ray cut out the badly damaged kitchen drywall.
The place was a veritable beehive of friends and family. It seemed as though everyone had shown up to help in any way they could. Everyone except for one particular one.
“Sam’s not here.” Dottie echoed my thoughts.
I nodded.
She gave my arm a squeeze. “No. I mean he’s really not here. As in, not in West Virginia.”
“What?”
�
��He’s taking his extended vacation time. I guess he’s been saving up for a long while.”
“But how—”
“Donnie found out about it at work. I’m sorry, Wanda Jo.”
My mouth felt dry. “Where did he go?”
“Florida. To visit his dad.”
I felt my stomach drop a notch but was thankful Doug chose that moment to turn his attention back to me. He drummed his pen on the clipboard he held. “So we’ve just about got a list of parts and materials together. I can use my contractor’s ID. It’ll give y’all a break on the price.”
I handed him a check. “Just make sure the range is a good one.”
He glanced at the amount. “No problem there.”
After a quick round of goodbyes, I was behind the wheel of my used, yet assuredly dependable, Jeep Liberty four-wheel-drive SUV. Amazing thing how my sparkling new Lexus had morphed into not only a more practical mode of transportation but replacement appliances and building materials as well.
Of course, “amazed” didn’t begin to describe the look on the salesman’s face when I’d rolled onto the dealership lot early this morning with my request. And by the time the paperwork had been completed and I was driving the Jeep off the lot, a sizeable check in my pocket, I was certain he’d have had me committed if it would have been in his power.
I tried not to think of Sam and his spontaneous extended vacation as I drove to the beauty school. So naturally I thought about him the entire time. Florida? No return date in sight? It was such an un-Sam-like thing for him to do.
And it hurt like hell.
But I realized, as I slid the Jeep into a space, hurt feelings or not I had to deal with the task at hand. Namely, facing whatever music might be playing for me here, compliments of the Whopping Green Fiasco.
Lord. Had that only been a mere three days ago?
Hard to believe so much sheer life could happen in a tad over seventy-two hours, I thought as I entered through the back door. All normal conversation ceased the moment I entered the clinic. I sucked in a breath and began the trek across to my station; student and client heads alike swiveled to follow my progress.
Well, the hell with it.
“Good morning.” I smiled and continued with a round of hi’s and how are you’s to each person I passed.
In response, heads bobbed slightly and mouths hung open. A few brave souls lifted a tentative hand in greeting.
As I rounded the corner leading directly to my station, the silence was almost deafening. I think I would have screamed had it not been for the near constant ringing of the phone up front, interrupted only by the low, harried voice of Molly the receptionist. Neither Val nor Mitzi were bustling about as usual. But, on the bright side, neither was Bitsy.
Hoo-Kay. I stopped in front of my station to stare in wonder at the huge arrangement of golden fall mums and evergreens perched there.
Sam—it just had to be, I thought as I reached for the thick cream-colored card discreetly tucked beneath a saucer-sized flower. My heart leapt to my throat as I opened the card.
Dearest Wanda Jo,
Thank you so much, you clever girl.
Kisses,
Mrs. H
My heart, cushioned by a cloud of bafflement, slowly returned to hover in the vicinity of its normal location.
“Howdy-hey, girlfriend,” Val called as she popped around the corner, two coffee mugs in hand. Mitzi, wearing an enormous grin, followed.
I held up the card and gestured toward the mums. “What’s going on?”
Val extended a mug, and I took a grateful sip. “Suck it down quick. You’re going to need the caffeine.”
“That bad, huh?”
Val shook her head. “That good. You are really going to love it.”
“What?”
“This.” Mitzi passed me a copy of the local paper. “Front page at the top.”
I set the mug down and unfolded the paper.
Val pressed the mug into my hand. “Slurp it down while you read.” I raised a questioning brow, and she added, “Trust me.”
The front page headline, in bold black letters, screamed: And The Winner Is…
Beneath was a nearly full-page color photo of Mrs. Habersham dressed in a below-the-knee-length green toga with a saw-toothed hem, matching booties, and her brilliantly green hair teased and sprayed into a poofy green pixie cap. She was wearing the largest smile I’d ever seen, one arm cradling an equally enormous bundle of deep red roses while her other hand was wrapped around a bronze loving cup.
I looked up at Val. She motioned toward my coffee. “Slurp. Slurp, already. We’re fixing to be stampeded. Molly’s not going to be able to hold them back much longer.”
“Now, there’s my girl,” a familiar voice from the past called before I could demand an explanation from Val.
Mama Dove, dressed in a spotless taupe linen skirt suit, walked toward us with her arms opened wide.
“It is so good to see you, honey,” she said as we hugged. “It’s been much too long.”
I agreed, amazed at how little she’d changed over the years.
Molly skidded around the corner, her rubber-soled shoes screeching on the tile. She carried the appointment book in one hand, a pencil in the other, and had a nearly berserk look in her eyes. Even her extraordinary hair seemed a few inches higher.
“Wanda Jo. Thank God you’re finally here,” she panted, bringing a hand to her chest. “We’re about to be overrun, my dear.” She flipped open the book, her pencil poised above. “Just how quickly can you do a complete color service?”
“Huh?” I quickly made eye contact with Val, who lifted one shoulder, then with Mitzi, who lifted both. And then with Mama Dove, who simply smiled broadly.
The phone rang, and Molly jumped. “Please, dear. We’re practically under siege.” She bounced from foot to foot.
Fortunately Mama Dove, every inch the poised southern belle, stepped in and took over. “There, there, Molly. Just give us a moment to sort things—”
Molly interrupted with a squeak and frantically waved the appointment book.
Dove patted her back. “Yes, I know. Just field the calls for now. Tell them it’s a standby basis at the moment.” She made a shooing motion, and Molly darted back toward the ringing phone.
“What is going on?” I asked.
“You, my darling girl, have created something of a rage. And now, as trendsetters always are, you’re very much in demand,” Dove replied.
“Huh?” Lord, was I articulate today, or what?
“All any one can talk about, since Saturday night, is Mrs. Habersham’s costume coup at the ball. And since you created the perfect hair, naturally you’re very much in demand.”
“Are you telling me there’s a flock of women here”—I paused, pointing toward the reception area—“who actually want green hair?”
“Not specifically. The reasoning here is that if you can take a client from faded champagne to brilliant green, you must be an incredibly gifted colorist.” Dove chuckled. “And naturally, your future salon partners will be equally talented. Therefore, at this very moment, at least half the society ladies in Worthington are up front waiting for a color makeover by one of you three.”
I leaned close; Val and Mitzi closed our circle. “Problem. I was following your formula and expecting ash blonde. I have no idea why she went green.”
“You have our friend the drugstore version of Lady Clairol to thank for that,” Dove began in a whisper and finished with a full explanation of not only why I’d arrived at green but also solved the mystery of Mrs. Habersham’s missed color appointment for last month.
I nodded in understanding. “She did her own re-touch last month, using a gold base.”
“Yellow and blue make green,” Val sing-songed.
“As I always taught my girls.” Dove proudly gazed at Val. She picked up the paper and tapped the picture. “And what else did I always say to my girls?”
“If you really screw up roya
lly, you can always pass it off as a new fashion trend,” Val and I repeated in unison, ending with a giggle.
“There’s my darlings. I’m so proud.” Dove beamed. “And I must say, this is a rare moment.” She pulled a large manila envelope from seemingly nowhere. “I know you both have a few more hours yet to log. But it’s such a rare occasion. I never thought I’d have the honor of this moment twice.”
Dove extracted two oversized sheets of parchment, handing one to me and the other to Val. I blinked back tears as I stared at my name written in flowing calligraphy above the words “has successfully completed this certified cosmetologist’s refresher course.”
“Thank you so much, Mama Dove.” I hugged her close, and then it was Val’s turn.
Dove took a step back, her arms including Mitzi as well. “I’m very proud of you all.” She sighed, much as she had at our last such moment. “My girls.”
“Oh, but I’m not—” Mitzi started.
Dove brought her hand to Mitzi’s cheek. “Oh, but you are now. And I know you’ll make me proud.”
Molly screeched around the corner a second time. “I can’t hold them off much longer!” She paused to catch her breath. “The phone is ringing off the hook. The waiting area is overflowing.” She grabbed Dove’s arm, sheer panic dancing in her eyes. “I think they’re going to storm the clinic.”
“Molly!” Bitsy barked, hastily turning the corner. “What are you—” She stopped abruptly, kicking her entire personality in a turn about 180 degrees. “Why, Mrs. Lockley. What a pleasure. I just had no idea you’d be stopping by.”
Dove raised a brow. “So I see.” She turned away from Bitsy and looked toward the appointment book Molly held. “Okay, here’s what we do,” she began, and while Molly scribbled frantically, she divvied up the waiting list between us.
Mitzi and I nodded.
Val spoke up, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “We’ll be needing some shampoo help.”
Dove’s smile took on a canary-eating-cat quality. “How true. Oh Bitsy, do come here. I’ve got a special little job for you.”