by Carr, Suzie
Staying True
By Suzie Carr
Edited by Trish McDermott
Copyright © 2013, Suzie Carr. All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Also by Suzie Carr:
The Fiche Room
Tangerine Twist
Two Feet off The Ground
Inner Secrets
A New Leash on Life
The Muse
Keep up on Suzie’s latest news and projects:
www.curveswelcome.com
Follow Suzie on Twitter:
@girl_novelist
Cover photography by Trisha McDermott
For you, Grampa. Bless your sweet soul.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to everyone who had a part in this book, particularly Joanna Darrell and Cassie Davis for your insights, support, and trust. This story would not have been possible without your contributions. Also, to Bethany Meservey and Felicia Haggerty for your advice, generosity and incredible gift to see what my eyes didn’t see. I’d like to thank JG for helping me to brainstorm the title of this book. I will never forget the day you tossed out those two words, staying true. They clicked and became the central force in telling this story. I also want to give enormous thanks to my editor, photographer and best friend, Trisha McDermott, for your inspiration, intelligence, and patience. I am also grateful to my Grampa for your wisdom and advice. Thank you for teaching me some of life’s most valuable lessons and for encouraging me many years ago to go write a book. This one’s for you! And lastly, I’d like to thank my special love, for putting up with my crazy addiction to the written word.
Chapter One
Ruby
I never set out to be ‘that girl.’ You know, that girl who lived out of her car, borrowed money from her grampa, or fell in love with a married woman.
Yet, there I was, all of that and more.
I curled up next to her, admiring the way her hair fell in gentle waves over her tanned shoulders and spilled onto the mattress. I should’ve run away. I should’ve torn myself from her, gotten dressed, picked up my pocketbook and gone to the other room at the other end of the hallway. Instead, I swept my leg around hers and inhaled her delicate scent. My inner voice screamed at me to back away. I ignored it. I justified that we deserved this moment, that we could control our emotions, and that we could frolic in freedom within this wind tunnel and then fly away from it all at will, like free birds.
Chasing freedom in a wind tunnel played tricks and created illusions though. Just like in life, our desires tossed us around and landed us in these unimaginable places where we risked all for the sake of love.
* *
Many Months Earlier
For several years, I worked as a masseuse at an upscale spa. Then, one Thursday morning, I walked into work, and my bosses fired me.
I loved being a masseuse. I loved my bosses. I loved my coworkers. So this hurt.
The spa, with all of its richly-textured walls, amber-hued lighting and museum-quality art, comforted me. My bosses never failed to spoil us with pastries, bonuses, and flattery. They grew this little hair shop into a full-scale, destination spa, and welcomed us all into their business, mentoring us, educating us, and creating many opportunities to grow.
I considered them my family, and never expected they’d turn their backs on one of their own.
Then one day Mrs. Jean Nuay entered. She was a regular pain in the butt. She always complained about stale bread, sour fruit, old coffee and the cold air. Usually, I could calm her down and bring a smile to her face by the time she left her visit. Not this particular day. I could not please the bitch.
The session started on this day just as any of them did. She questioned if I washed the linens and my hands. She insisted on Bach music and fresh sage to be lit. Once I got started on her shoulders, she barked out orders on how I should slow down, speed up, dig in, and lighten up. She tossed out gripes, smacked my hand away when I hit a nerve, even cussed when I told her I ran out of her favorite massage oil. Then, she brought up my predecessor, the infamous Lilly who picked up and moved to Hawaii one day and left everyone sad and shocked. She said, “Lilly massaged so much better than you.”
Bells rang in my head. Then, things got fuzzy. I dug into her shoulders so deeply that she screamed out and called me a bitch.
Well, I snapped. I flung a towel at her and walked out on her.
She rushed out with a towel around her body screaming at me. I headed for the break room, passing my two bosses. Then, I heard a gasp and some giggling. I sneaked a peek over my shoulder at a naked Mrs. Nuay bent over, red-faced, squirming for the towel that had fallen to her stubby feet. My bosses scurried to her side, wrapping her in the towel and hugging her like a child rescued from raging waters.
“If you don’t fire that Ruby girl, I’ll be sure to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau,” she said.
My boss, Betsy, turned to me and asked me to go home for the day.
“But, I have a full appointment load.”
“I know, honey,” she said. “We think it is best.”
I walked out of the spa that day feeling justified in my reaction, confident my bosses had my back on this. They just needed to calm down and digest the disaster. The next day, I’d go in and explain my side of the story. Simple as that.
So, there I stood the very next morning, not at all prepared to have to defend myself.
“Ruby, we need to let you go,” Betsy said.
“But she bordered on abusing me,” I said.
Betsy cradled her arms around her chest. “She’s threatened us. We can’t take that kind of chance.”
I turned to Janet, my other boss. “But, she was out of line. She cursed at me. She whacked my hand. She insulted me. She was wrong.”
Janet avoided me, shuffling her eyes down to the floor.
“We can’t risk our spa over this,” Betsy said.
Just like that, because some snobby lady threatened them, they turned their backs on me and tossed me into the wild.
I should’ve stepped back from them, smiled and been straight on my way out of their spa, leaving with a shred of dignity. Their blessing didn’t cross my mind. My rent did. My utilities did. My car repairs did.
Anger overthrew my sense of sanity. I tossed their hot waxing machine off its trolley table, and it splattered all over their granite floor, and on the bottom half of Betsy’s Paul Mitchell apron.
I ran out on them. I swept past the clients with foils in their hair, past the product displays, and past my friends, Marcy and Rachel, at the receptionist desk.
A moment later, I climbed into my bright yellow Camaro with its new tires and transmission, and settled into its black leather seat. The needle on the gas gauge teetered on the empty line. I had five dollars and eighty-three cents in my pocketbook. I had drained my bank account reserves on repairs just the other day. Now I didn’t even have enough gas to break away from this neighborhood. I sat for several minutes staring at the willow tree in front of me. A bird sat lonesome on a drooping branch. She chirped in vain, probably hoping for a friend to join her, but instead remained alone amidst a flurry of sad weeping willows. We were one in the same, both hanging around in a big world to fend for ourselves.
Fear sucked. I would never choose fear over a friend. Ever.
Marcy opened the spa door and walked toward my car. Her wild, curly hair fought with the strong summer wind. She lit a cigarette mid-gallop and flipped off a truck that
sped by her and beeped the horn.
I lowered my window.
“Are you okay?” She hugged herself in the breeze. Her cigarette dangled from her long fingers.
“No need to worry about me.” I shouldered a smile. “I’m free now. I hated my long days and strict schedule, anyway. I needed this change.”
Her face brightened. “You are so much better off.”
“Yes.” I smiled to mirror hers. “I am.”
“We should celebrate.” She took a long drag. “Rachel and I will take you out.”
Rachel and Marcy were the only couple I knew who could work and live happily together. I could never stand to be around someone every hour of the day like that.
I smiled up at her. “Sure, give me a call.”
She kissed my cheek. “You got it, friend.” Then, she ran off.
A few nights later, I sat in a booth at the lounge of the Gateway Suites, across from Rachel and Marcy. They treated me to a Cobb salad and a glass of Merlot.
Our waitress walked past carrying a tray full of fresh burgers and golden french fries over one shoulder. She smiled and rushed past. Lots of men with graying hair huddled around cocktail tables, one elbow bracing their overweight bodies, the other cradling the neck of a beer bottle or glass of whiskey. The stress they carried right between their husky shoulder blades hurt me.
“Janet and Betsy feel so bad,” Marcy said, forking a mouthful of brown rice between her chubby lips.
“They said they didn’t have a choice,” Rachel said.
“That’s because they live in fear.” I stabbed my romaine lettuce. “It’s better for me. I have time to read now and get through some cleaning. I can catch up on lots of things now.”
Marcy pointed her fork at me. “I envy you. And not just because of your long, wavy blonde mane.” She winked.
I arched my eye at her. “My hair is a mess. I need a trim and a highlight.” I tossed it over my shoulders and shrugged, then fought with a cucumber. “The timing of getting fired couldn’t have been any worse.”
“So, what are you going to do now?” Rachel asked, flipping her long red hair over her shoulder.
“You should reinvent yourself.” Marcy sat up tall. “Go out there into the world and spread your wings. Freestyle it for a while.”
“Freestyle it?” I swirled my glass of Merlot and inhaled its oaky aroma.
“Yeah, just freelance your services. Be like one of those “ten-minute massage” girls in the middle of the mall. Take a client when you want one and walk away when you don’t.”
I considered this and loved the idea. I continued to consider this idea even later on as I entered my apartment. Why not?
Freestyle masseuse. It had a nice ring to it.
I flipped through my mail and landed on my electricity bill. I panicked when I saw how much the bill had increased over the past sweltering month.
Fuck freestyle anything. I needed a job.
The next day I dressed up in a pretty sundress, curled my hair in big waves, dabbed on some bronzer and lip gloss and started hitting the streets.
I filled up my gas tank with the little I had left on my credit card and drove around all day, completing applications in countless reception areas across the greater Providence area. How could I explain why I left my previous place of employment? Not one good reason came to mind. So, I settled on the vague ‘seeking a better opportunity.’
Well, twenty three spas later, an empty tank of gas, and a maxed-out credit card, I panicked again. What if no one called me?
I pondered a Plan B. When I lived with my Grampa, I would walk dogs for ten dollars. I could walk dogs if I had to. I could walk three or four at a time. I could make up flyers and pass them out to people in my neighborhood. Better yet, I’d be better off in a wealthy neighborhood. I could charge more and walk two dogs at a time instead.
I could do this.
I chopped a tomato and salted it. “I could definitely do this if I wanted.” I bit into the sweet and salty fruit and contemplated my future.
Who was I kidding? I didn’t want to walk dogs.
I wanted to massage.
Days passed without a ring. I checked my phone every five minutes just in case by chance I had missed a call. I paced my living room. I broke out into yoga poses. I rearranged my couch and end tables. Then on the fourth day, I walked into my kitchen, and my phone rang. Marcy. I flung the phone at the couch and stomped back off to the kitchen to make some tea.
I filled my teapot and pulled out my box of green tea. “Freestyle masseuse or dog walker?”
I loved the idea of saving worthy people from demise, of taking their wilted souls and of bringing them back to life. I’d love to offer this kind of relief to hard-working people who never considered treating themselves to such luxury because they couldn’t afford to take the time to indulge.
But what if they could?
I poured some honey into my teacup.
Success in life didn’t come from taking, but from giving people something of value, something intangible that would leave them spellbound.
No one needed hour-long massage therapy to benefit. A ten-minute massage could offer equal value. I could charge a fraction. I could work on volume instead. Who needed a spa with a waterfall, marble, and custom drapery? I just needed a portable chair and some willing clients.
I took to the streets the next day and considered this more. I sat on a park bench in downtown Providence and people-watched. Potential massage clients lurked everywhere. Turn a busy street corner, and faces swollen from too many tears stared back. People needed to unwind. They needed to have their knots kneaded out of their bodies before the stress wreaked havoc on their health.
The world overflowed with stressed-out people in need of my services. They carried boulders on their backs, worrying about deadlines and client satisfaction and all of that yucky stuff business people worried about.
I could open up a portable massage business right here in the middle of town. I could start off working corporate wellness fairs, ushering people to my portable chair where I worked out the kinks in their necks. In ten minutes, I could potentially earn the same amount of tips I earned from the rich spa snobs after kneading them for an hour. These ten-minute clients would breathe sighs of relief and ease out of the chair with relaxation dancing on their faces. My job would be to sweep in and dislodge them from this misery and leave them refreshed in just ten short minutes.
I could add real value to people’s lives.
Right there on that park bench under the hot, sizzling summer air, I determined my future.
I would become the ten-minute masseuse.
I would seek adventure. I would run from routine. I would charge towards change. I would blossom under the glow of fun. I would breathe energy into this life.
I understood that freedom could never be captured. I couldn’t run up to freedom, grab it and constrain it. I had to go with the flow of it. I had to be willing to view the world from a different perspective, like from the inside of a raindrop hanging on the tip of a leaf. Life’s surprises happened in places like this, places where no one else had thought to venture.
* *
I arrived at my grampa’s apartment at dinnertime. He spooned chicken noodle soup into a bowl. I walked up to him and kissed his cheek. “Smells heavenly.”
“You know back when you were a little girl, I used to cook this for you, and you used to hate it.”
I grabbed a bowl from his cupboard. “I’d love some now, though.”
He handed me his bowl, and I sat down with it at the kitchen table. He joined me a moment later. “So to what do I owe the pleasure?”
I would ease into the real reason behind this visit soon enough. “I just wanted to catch up.”
He slurped some soup, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and squinted. “Well, I’m stuck on my latest story. But, it’ll come to me.” He bit into a peanut butter cracker. “I’ve been watching television instead.”
He l
ooked so feeble, so bored with his present life. This apartment swiped away his humor, his agility, his smile, at times. The oldness of the place had settled into his bones and stole his active spirit.
“Do you remember when we used to watch The Price is Right together?” I asked.
His eyes brightened.
“And Wheel of Fortune?” I asked.
“Yes, and Wheel of Fortune,” he said.
Some soup dribbled down his chin. I wiped it.
“I used to love that old console television. It took up the entire living room.”
The color returned to his cheeks. “Yes it did, dear.”
We ate our soup reminiscing about the days at our old house, the bed and breakfast called The Rafters. By the time we finished, he sat back and drew a relaxed sigh, one that sparked some life.
“Grampa,” I said, reaching out for his hand. “I need to ask you a favor.”
“Anything, dear.”
I bowed my head and squeezed his hand. “Can I borrow some money?”
He braced his hands on the table and lifted himself off with a groan. He shuffled over to his cabinet and took out a coffee container. “Just one of the several places I keep some loose cash,” he said. He shuffled back to me and handed me the container. “You take what you need.”
I reached into it and took three hundred dollars.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“I taught you well,” he said cradling my shoulder. “I’m not worried.”
* *
For my first order of business, I purchased a portable massage chair with the money I borrowed. Then, I drove around to office parks asking to speak with human resource managers about the benefits of ten-minute massages. They met me with a polite ambivalence, leading to a string of excuses of why they would have to pass.
I lasted two weeks on the streets before agreeing to meet up with Rachel and Marcy again at the Gateway Suites Lounge. “They have the best happy hour specials here,” Marcy said, stuffing a chicken wing in her mouth.