by Tamara Leigh
Wondering how God feels about someone attaching Bible to a work of vanity, I peer at the bald guy.
“Hmm,” Maia murmurs.
Coffee cup perched before my mouth, I watch her drag the ponytail band from her hair, give her head a slow-motion shake, and go from beautiful to gorgeous.
So much for coy …
Not that I’m surprised. Maia and I may not spend much time together, but when we do socialize, it’s always the same. If her flirtations were done with a view to replacing her current love interest, it wouldn’t be so bad, but it’s all fluff. Though Mr. Unhappily Married has yet to deliver on the divorce he assures her is in the works, she’s holding out for the two-timer.
“Think he’ll ask me out?”
Did I hear Maia right? I lean across the table. “I thought you were taken.”
Her eyes snap. “No, Kate, my boyfriend is the one who’s taken.”
Do I detect bitterness? Have they had an argument? Perhaps she’s finally realized that unhappily married doesn’t necessarily translate to happily divorced.
“Yes, he is.” I take a sip of coffee only to grimace when the artificial sweetener hits my taste buds. “Yuck!” I push my chair back.
The group at the counter steps aside to allow me past, and I catch sight of the bald guy’s left hand. Not married. Could be just what Maia needs.
“Sorry, Jo Jo.” I set the cup on the counter. “Gotta have the real stuff.”
She tsk-tsks, and I snatch a biscotti. As I swing away, The Makeup Bible guy’s eyes meet mine. And he smiles again.
Nice smile.
I head back to Maia. “He’s good-looking.”
She shrugs and stares out the window.
“And he’s not married.”
She jerks her chin around. “Oh? And where did you come by that information?”
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “No wedding ring.” Duh!
Her brow buckles. “Wake up, Kate. Maybe your padded world excludes you from men who pass themselves off as single, but in the real world, they exist.”
Oh.
“Unfortunately, by the time a woman pieces the puzzle together, she’s hooked.”
Guessing she’s talking about Mr. Unhappily Married, my heart constricts. “I hadn’t considered that.”
As she buries her nose in her coffee cup, I look to the opposite side of the shop where Michael Palmier sits. Is he married? Surely not.
When I turn back to Maia, she’s staring out the window at a curbside municipal bus that shrills as it raises its front end. Hate that obnoxious sound. Shortly it pulls away, and I’m relieved that we have ten minutes before a repeat performance.
When my replacement drink arrives, I sigh over genuine, unadulterated sugar—worth every single calorie.
Maia pushes her cup away. “Almost done?”
“Done? I just got my coffee.”
She sinks her chin into an upturned palm and looks toward the makeup artist. For the first minute or so, she drums her fingers on the table, but then she smiles almost shyly, which is so not Maia. Sending up a silent prayer that Michael Palmier’s ring finger doesn’t lie, I sip the hot liquid. However, it’s not long before Maia starts frowning and glancing between me and the other table.
I shake my head. “What?”
“Feel as if you’re being watched?”
“Uh … no.”
She relaxes into a smile. “For a second, I thought it was you he was interested in. Funny, huh?”
I nearly nod. True, it would be surprising if a man preferred me over Maia, but funny? That hurts. Why do I persist in concerning myself over her well-being when I could use a little attention myself? A hot bath, for starters! I lower my cup. “Ready to go?”
Her eyes widen. “Um …” She glances across the room.
I pull a five-spot and a single from my fanny pack and drop them to the table to cover our bill and a tip. “Coming?”
“Oh, all right.” Like a nymph rising from the surf, she stands.
I step ahead of her and call, “See you, Jo Jo.”
“See you, Kate. And you, Maia.”
Outside the shop, I draw up short at the realization Maia is no longer following. I peer over my shoulder at where she stands before the shop door. “What?”
“I … uh … need to run to the market to pick up a few items.”
Is this her way of getting rid of me so she can pop back in and introduce herself to Michael Palmier? Fine.
I shrug. “See you later then.”
“Kate!”
“Yes?”
She juts her chin in the direction of the studio. “Same time tomorrow?”
I shake my head so hard my neck twinges. “In case you didn’t notice, yoga doesn’t agree with me.”
Her jaw drops. “Surely you’re not going to walk away from your membership? That wasn’t cheap.”
Remembering the one-year contract, membership fee, and monthly draft out of my checking account, my resentment over her “funny” comment deepens. “I know.”
“What about Pilates?”
“Pilates?” Not that I haven’t heard of it, but I know little more about it than yoga.
She nods. “The studio also offers Pilates. In fact, I sometimes alternate between the two.”
Might I possibly salvage my membership? Moreover, do I even want to? After all, my poor fit with yoga could be the perfect excuse to back off this whole self-improvement thing.
“At least give it a try.”
I start to shrug off Maia’s plea only to realize that it is a plea, that she’s anxious for me to accompany her. Me—an out-of-shape wuss who usually warrants little more than a passing wave. Am I finally reaching her? Have I become more to her than a tenant whose monthly rent allows her to afford a house in San Francisco?
“What do you say, Kate?”
Stirred by joy, I blink. “What?”
“Pilates. Puh-LAH-teez.”
“Oh. Do they use words like nah-mah-STAY?”
She rolls her eyes. “No.”
“Well, maybe I could—”
“Great! Let’s get together again tomorrow.”
“But we worked out today.”
She gives me the once-over. “And a lot of good that did.”
That was below the belt. However, despite the uprooting of my joy, I manage to respond with, “They say it’s best to give your body a day to recover from a workout.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Look, Kate, if you’re going to shed the weight you’ve piled on—”
Piled on! It is not piled on!
“—you have to commit. So tomorrow it is. Bright and early.”
I struggle to hold back words I’ll regret. In the end, my best defense is that tomorrow is Sunday. Meaning I have an excuse, a legitimate one. Ha!
“Sorry, Maia, but tomorrow’s church.”
She groans. “Don’t you ever get tired of that Holy Roller garbage?”
Tongue, Kate! Tongue! “We’re not Holy Rollers, and there’s no garbage about it. You know, if you’d attend a service with me, I think you’d be impressed.” Hopefully not by the number of wedding bands in the pews.
Ooh, that was an ugly thought.
Maia makes a gagging sound. “Oh, please. Do you honestly think I have some kind of death wish to be stoned?”
Her choice of words surprises me, as it reveals she’s not unaware that what she’s doing is wrong. “No one’s going to stone you, Maia—literally or verbally. We all do things we—”
She throws a hand up, but before she can admonish me, the shop door opens and Bald and Good-Looking and his companions step to the sidewalk. “Ladies, may we have a word with you?”
Maia drops her arm to her side and smiles. “Of course.”
However, it’s me he’s staring at. Funny …
“Michael Palmier.” He thrusts a hand forward. “My assistant, Trish Jacobs.” He nods at the young woman. “And Changes magazine’s photographer, Arnie Simpson.�
�� The bearded guy.
As I stare at the hand he extends, Maia claims it. “Palmier … uh …” She taps her lips with a manicured nail. “Makeup artist, right?”
Is she good or is she good?
“That’s right.”
“A pleasure. I’m Maia Glock, stockbroker.”
“Nice to meet you.” He disengages and returns his attention to me. “And you are?”
I meet his warm, green eyes and slide my hand into his. “Kate Meadows.”
He squeezes my fingers. “I thought so.”
“Huh?”
“Last month’s article in Upscale: The Bay Area’s Finest Homes.”
He recognized me from the stamp-sized picture at the bottom of the spread of the children’s library?
“Fantastic work you do.”
My business sense kicks in. “Are you interested in making over a room, Mr. Palmier?” I start to withdraw my hand, but he closes his other hand over ours to hold me there.
“Actually, it’s you I’m interested in making over.”
“What?”
“You’re perfect.”
The last person who called me perfect was my fiancé, shortly before he asked for his ring back. I tug at my hand, but the man holds firm.
“I’m sorry.” I give another tug. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re out today searching for mismatched girlfriends to make over for the anniversary issue of Changes magazine.”
“Huh?”
“You and Ms. Glock. Mismatched girlfriends.”
Guessing this is about to turn into another “funny, hmm?” comment, I try again to release my hand.
“One tall, one short,” he continues. “One light, one dark. One thin, one—”
“Thick?” I supply with not just a little animosity. And another tug.
He laughs. “Hardly, Ms. Meadows—er, Kate. I can call you Kate, can’t I?”
Forget the tug. I jerk hard, and if not for his quick reflexes, the freeing of my hand would have set me on my tush. He grips my arm and, once I regain my balance, has the good sense to release me.
“No offense, Kate.” He flashes a boyish smile. “It’s just that you have incredible potential. You know, you’re really quite pretty.”
“Which is what I’m always telling her.” Maia steps alongside and loops an arm through mine. “We’ll do it.”
We’ll do it? “I don’t think—”
“Here.” He thrusts a business card at me, which Maia swipes. “Call me this week, and we’ll set up a time.”
I take a step toward him. “But—”
“Will do,” Maia purrs.
The bearded one raises his camera. “All we need are a few pictures.”
Before I can protest, or at least run a hand over my mussed hair, he snaps a half dozen pictures of beautiful Maia towering over pitiful, shell-shocked me.
“Nice to meet you, ladies.” Michael gives me a parting smile. “I look forward to seeing you again.”
As I watch him and his companions head away, I grumble, “Well, I don’t.”
Maia snorts. “Believe me, if anyone needs a makeover, it’s you, Kate.”
That cuts, especially as she said Palmier is the one talk shows call in to transform the impossibly unattractive, which I’m not! Beginning to boil, I reflect on Beau’s “not much to look at” comment, then Maia’s “you’re really out of shape” comment, next her “funny” comment, followed by her “piled on” comment, and now this. It’s—
Maia sighs. “He was nice.”
I follow her gaze, which is following Michael out of sight.
She sighs again. “And quite the flirt. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was flirting with you.”
Wait just a minute! That was another slam! And I’m not taking it anymore. “Are you saying there’s no way he would flirt with me?”
“Well …”
I open my mouth. “You know—”
Tongue! Guard your—
“—stoning might just be too good for you.”
Though normally I’d immediately wish back such un-Christian words, I’m too riled to force an apology. Which is just as well, as the anger that flashes in Maia’s eyes evidences that no amount of groveling will mend what’s broken.
“Have a nice day,” she growls and turns on her heel.
I watch her go from sight, then glance heavenward. “We’ll talk later.” Beginning to feel the first pangs of regret, I head home.
Saturday, March 17
Oh Lord,
I botched it, didn’t I? But how can she say things like that and expect me to turn the other cheek? Okay, so I should have turned the other cheek, but I’m not perfect, You know. Of course You know.
In the future, please help me guard my tongue better, help me make amends and become an effective witness, and help me discern between right and wrong (sorry about the namasté thing—I didn’t mean it). Help me find a way out of this makeover gig without further alienating Maia. As for this achy-breaky back—help! Above all, please continue to keep Belle and Beau’s baby safe and healthy.
Yours,
Almost forgot—thank You for dogs with wagging tails and lolling tongues that no more attempt to imitate humans than we should attempt to imitate them (downward-facing dog!). Thank You for great java, old coffee shops, and nicely shaped bald heads.
Sorry about missing my Bible time again. That yoga really took it out of me. Tomorrow night! Promise.
Yours,
Kate
t least Maia’s talking to me again. No more of the silent treatment I’ve been subjected to these past four days, despite my attempts at reconciliation. Not the least of which was accompanying her to that blasted Pilates class. No namasté, but plenty of ungodly torture. Of course, I’d be a fool not to realize that Maia’s sudden thaw has everything to do with this makeover fiasco—which I really don’t want to do. And if not for our run-in outside the coffee shop, I wouldn’t. Hence, punishment for not guarding my tongue.
“Ow!”
My squawk causes Michael’s assistant to grimace in the mirror I’ve been seated in front of this past hour while she and Palmier consult over the transformation of Kate.
Trish tries again to draw the comb through my hair. This time when the teeth snag, I come up out of my seat.
“Sorry,” she mutters, and I just know she’s guarding her tongue.
I rub my temple. “Believe it or not, that hair is attached to my head.”
Nodding wearily, she urges me back down.
As she aims the comb at my hair once more, I pull my arm from beneath the plastic cape and glance at my watch. “How much longer is this going to take? I have a four-thirty appointment on the other side of town.” With Dr. Clive Alexander, no less, whose secretary called this morning before Maia and I blew out the door to catch a city bus.
“Not to worry,” Trish says. “It’s only noon now.”
Maia swivels her chair around. “Honestly, Kate, must you carry on so?”
Easy for her to criticize. When she settled in for Palmier and his assistant to work on her, they pronounced her perfect: hair, makeup, and clothes. Then they turned to me …
Trish glances over her shoulder. “Arnie, I’m ready to make the first cut.”
Brandishing his camera, the photographer appears.
Snap, snap, snap.
Snip, snip, snip.
Snap.
Snip.
Snap, snap.
Snip.
Having accepted that I’ll walk out with a minimum of four inches weed-whacked off my hair, I watch as she lops off my dark curls.
Arnie sticks his lens in my face, only to scoff at my feeble smile. “Come on, Miss Meadows. You can do better than that.”
“Of course, she can.” Michael reappears after a phone call that pulled him away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maia straighten. She’s definitely attracted to him, even though I’ve yet to see any reciprocity. Despite her
assertion outside the coffee shop that Michael was flirting with her, it’s me he keeps smiling at, my shoulder he keeps touching. Of course, it’s also me who requires all the work. He’s probably just trying to put me at ease.
A moment later, Michael bends near. “Give it up, Kate—for me.”
I really don’t want to, but it’s been so long since a man looked at me with a twinkle in his eye that I can’t help myself. Thus, the smile I flash is genuine and is captured by Arnie.
“Great!” Michael smiles but then frowns when he zooms in on my mouth. “Have you considered bonding, Kate?”
Bonding? Is he trying out some new line on me? “Uh …”
“That gap between your front teeth.” He taps his own perfectly joined teeth.
Think I would have preferred it to be a line.
“Nowadays, with bonding and laminates, dentists can do wonders with such imperfections.”
Imperfections! A far cry from our meeting outside the coffee shop when he pronounced me perfect. Behind pressed lips, I slide my tongue over the gap that has never bothered me much. Why do I suddenly feel self-conscious? After all, it’s a very small gap.
“Never miss an opportunity to shine.” Michael pats my hand, causing Maia to stiffen.
And my self-esteem, which is still walking around in a sling fashioned by my housemate, goes up a notch.
While Trish continues to snip and Arnie to snap, Michael leans against the counter and surveys me. “Glasses have to go. Have you tried contacts?”
First my teeth, now my eyes. “No.” I peer at him through the rectangular specs I insisted remain on despite Trish’s protests. “Glasses suit me fine.” Especially since a side effect of taking estrogen can be an intolerance to contacts.
Michael shakes his head. “No, they don’t.”
I grit my teeth. “Easy on, easy off. Works for me.”
“They clutter your face, Kate. And you have a pretty face. A pity to hide it behind frames.”
“I agree,” Maia puts in. “I wear contacts myself.”
Michael looks to her. “Yes, I noticed.” Back to me. “Think about it.”
I push the glasses farther up on my nose. “I like my specs.”
A frown nudges his eyebrows. Does he regret choosing me for the makeover? “All right, but take them off for the photo shoot, hmm?”