by Karen Booth
Gray Hair Don’t Care
Karen Booth
GRAY HAIR DON’T CARE
Copyright © 2021 by Karen Booth
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover illustration Copyright © 2021 by Leni Kauffman.
For more information about Leni Kauffman, visit lenikauffman.com.
Created with Vellum
For anyone who decided to own their gray.
Especially Ashley.
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About Karen Booth
Also by Karen Booth
Excerpt: Secrets of a (Somewhat) Sunny Girl
Author’s Note
Donovan, the hero in this story, ignores (more than once) pain in his chest and shoulder. If you experience symptoms like Donovan, don’t be like him—please see a physician. These symptoms could be signs of a serious underlying condition.
Chapter One
Three years ago
Despite her 0-1 record with marriage, Lela Bennett was kind of a sucker for a wedding. There was something so recklessly optimistic about it—two people lashing themselves to each other, hoping it would last for eternity.
Lela’s love affair with nuptials was born at the age of eleven, when she watched two epic weddings on TV. In July of 1981, Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles of Wales were wed in London. Back home in Wisconsin, Lela watched every minute of it with her mom, perched on the edge of their brown pleather sectional. Then, in November, fictional couple Luke and Laura tied the knot on every teenage girl’s favorite soap opera, General Hospital. Actress Genie Francis wore a bizarre head-hugging veil and a dress that looked like a marshmallow. Her groom, Anthony Geary, rocked his deceptively fluffy ‘80s hair. Lela couldn’t help but be transfixed. It all felt larger than life. And her little eleven year-old heart gave into it lock, stock and barrel.
Even now, more than thirty years later, Lela’s reaction would have surprised exactly no one when she stepped out of the Japanese stationery store near New York’s Bryant Park. Minding her own business on a Friday afternoon, she spotted a bride and flower girl standing in the cathedral of trees across the street. Like a well-tested reflex, she instantly knew she had to go. Even though she wasn’t a guest. Even when she was newly divorced and likely to ugly-cry if she subjected herself to vows, the exchanging of rings, and ‘I do’. Still, a wedding was a wedding, and at forty-seven years old, Lela didn’t get invited to many.
There was no time to waste. Not only did she have no idea when the ceremony would start, the Belgian waffle stand on the corner of the park had no line, and that almost never happened. She had extensive experience attending weddings to which she had not been invited. This was a spectator sport. She needed snacks.
Fast-walking her way along the bustling city sidewalk, she managed to hit the signal with a few seconds to spare, and her feet flew through the crosswalk and up to the order window. “One, please.” Lela handed over her credit card and peeked around the tiny outbuilding to make sure she wasn’t missing anything. It looked as though this was going to be a quickie ceremony. Most likely the couple hadn’t taken the time to get a permit from the powers-that-be. She liked the idea of getting married like a rebel. Now that she was free of her husband and staring down a wide-open future, coloring outside the lines held a certain appeal.
Hot and tasty treat in hand, she jogged up the stone steps, past the forest green bistro tables teetering on gravel, and ducked under the dappled shade of a looming tree. It was a gorgeous early May day, with New Yorkers starting their weekend early by picnicking and sunning themselves on the impressive expanse of the park’s lush green lawn. The couple hastily assembled in front of the woman officiating, who wore a deep purple robe. The bride took the flower girl’s hand, then the groom did the same. Lela’s heart lurched. A plot twist. She’s their daughter. Another middle finger to convention. Lela was all-in for that.
She took an eager bite of her waffle, crispy on the outside, yeasty and chewy on the inside with sweet bursts of pearl sugar lacing the batter. She couldn’t hear what was happening with the ceremony, but she simply liked watching the bride and groom and imagining their story. Maybe they met at work. Or at school. Or perhaps they’d literally run into each other on the subway, knocking foreheads, just like in a movie. Lela dismissed the idea that they might have used a dating app to connect. Lela had tried them for one week—last week, to be exact—but couldn’t hack it. Too many fifty-something men looking for twenty-something hook-ups. Such utter bullshit. The whole thing made her feel old and she was not old. On the inside, she felt almost exactly like she had when she was in her twenties.
Other people were taking notice of the proceeding, looking up from their conversation or their coffee—or, unbelievably, their phones. Love was at center stage. It was worth rubbernecking. A few more onlookers gathered, including a tall man, who had stepped into Lela’s peripheral vision. He had a spectacular head of thick and shaggy brown hair and was wearing dark jeans and a black blazer, but his back was to her and she couldn’t see his face. From behind, he looked exactly like someone she’d once cared about a lot. It was a distracting thought, so much so that it was hard to focus on the reason she’d stopped in the park in the first place. “Damn, that looks like Donovan,” she muttered to herself, taking another bite of waffle.
He turned to the side and she immediately knew it was him. Holy crap. She hadn’t seen him since the end of her junior year of college. He hadn’t been sporting the beard back then, but everything else was the same. The posture, with his hands jammed into his pockets. The propensity for wearing black. The aura of a person who wasn’t like everyone else.
In fact, it had been twenty-six years since she’d last seen Donovan. They met when she was a freshman and he a sophomore, both at NYU. They became instant friends, primarily bonding over music, particularly anything of a 1980s vintage. They gloated about liking The Pixies before anyone knew who they were, spent entirely too many hours dissecting the lyrical poetry of The Smiths, and decided there was no way Prince wasn’t from another planet or at least another time—he was too singular an artist. They gobbled up The Beastie Boys and U2. Public Enemy and The Clash. The Cure and INXS. Their scope was broad, and they listened to very few things ironically. Everything was fair game.
For three blissful but super confusing years, he was her best friend. Then they crossed that invisible line one night, the one that always seems to be there when men and women manage to forge a friendship. Donovan freaked out, Lela
wanted to shrink into nothing, and the next thing she knew, he was graduating and getting married to someone he’d dated off and on—Genevieve, easily the most beautiful woman Lela had ever seen.
That had been an all too common refrain in Lela’s life—being set aside in favor of something or someone more sparkly. Not that she had zero appeal. By this point in her life, she was confident she was smart, talented, and decent looking. She just wasn’t sure she was smart, talented, or decent looking enough. Divorce did that. It rattled your foundation.
Donovan turned to the side again, but this time, he actually looked at her. As his gaze met hers, his face lit up with recognition. She didn’t want to overstate the importance of the moment, but the clouds over Bryant Park did part. Hell, he had biblical sunbeams shining down on him. He adopted his predictable and potent self-satisfied smirk, the one that was certainly on his face the moment he left the womb. If she ever met his mom, she would have to ask.
“Lela?” he mouthed as he marched in her direction, answering his own question with forward momentum. He knew it was her. Earwormy strains of You Make My Dreams Come True popped into her consciousness. Not Hall & Oates’s deepest song, but a true hallmark of pop music. It worked. And it was making one million memories rush back.
Lela realized she had the remnants of her waffle in her hand and something told her she had to get rid of it. There was no trash can in sight, and she didn’t want to put it in her purse. Only old ladies put half-eaten bread products in their bag. So, she shoved it into her mouth.
She instantly regretted the decision. She felt like a hamster. Chew faster. She wanted to avert her eyes, but she couldn’t stop looking at him. All while her mouth was working hard on that waffle. This was such a perfect illustration of their entire friendship—Donovan floating through life like Mr. Perfect while Lela was knee-deep in some half-baked plan she hadn’t taken the time to think out.
Luckily, she choked it down just as he arrived with open arms.
“Lela,” he said. “I cannot believe it’s you.”
She went in for what she thought would be a quick hug, but he wasn’t about to let her off the hook so easily, holding her tight. Part of her wanted to push away. All these years later and she already felt herself falling under his spell. Still, she soaked up his embrace, the side of her head against his solid chest. Funny how so much early-twenties longing still resided in her body. Donovan was stirring it up like a wizard over a cauldron. “Donovan. Wow.”
“Let me guess.” He released his rein, but his gaze locked in on her. “Spotted the wedding and had to stop?”
“Old habits die hard.” It was almost annoying how well he knew her. “What’s your excuse?”
“I enjoy being reminded of my personal shortcomings.”
Oh, right. His marriage to Genevieve hadn’t lasted. Nor had his second. Or third. At least according to Facebook. “A divorce isn’t necessarily a failure. Lots of people get divorced.” Lela struggled to get the word out. Her split was a recent thing. As in two months. The only person she ever talked to about it was her best friend, Tammera. “Like me.”
Donovan’s eyes went wide with shock. “No. You’re one of the most loyal people I’ve ever met.”
“To a fault. I didn’t have the guts to walk away even when I knew neither of us were happy.”
“Hey. It takes two to tango. He could’ve walked away, too.”
“Oh, he did.” She spotted the pity on Donovan’s face. If anything killed a conversation, it was a discussion of the many ways love could die. She was desperate to change the subject. “You’re still in San Francisco, right? What are you doing in town?”
“I’m seeing my daughter, Echo.” Lela had forgotten Donovan and Genevieve had named their daughter after his favorite band at the time—Echo and the Bunnymen. “She went back to school and is about to get her master’s. She wants to start a business and was hoping for my insight.” Donovan was a marketing genius. Companies all over the world hired him to reposition or rebrand all sorts of ventures.
“She was going to F.I.T. the last time I saw you post about her. Did she stay in fashion?”
“She did. Now she’s hoping to build her own little empire.” His eyes found hers again. The whole world seemed to stop turning. “Care to talk about it over dinner?” He shifted his glance to the rumpled napkin in her hand. “Tell me that wasn’t your dinner.”
A blustery breath left her lips. “Pfft. No. Just a wedding snack.”
“Come on. I’ll take you for a real meal. So we can catch up.” He reached for her hand, but took only the very tips of her fingers. Yet another perfect example of their dynamic—he’d give Lela just enough to leave her hungry for more. “Unless you have somewhere else you need to be.”
Lela wanted to hate the excitement bubbling up inside her, but it was nice to have the attention, especially from Donovan. Especially out of the blue like this. They’d been so close at one time. She’d never thought she’d see him again, let alone share a meal. “I have no plans. I’d love to go.”
The crowd in the park began to clap. Donovan and Lela turned and joined in as the bride and groom kissed, then scooped up the little girl into their arms.
“I don’t believe in happy endings, but that looks like a pretty happy beginning.” Donovan’s comment came as no surprise. He’d taken his dismissiveness of love to near-academic levels when they were in college. Apparently some things never changed.
“I see you haven’t lost your sunny disposition.”
“Never.” He delivered one of his penetrating glances. “You, Lela, seem exactly the same.”
She choked back a sigh. Was she supposed to be radically different? Was she supposed to have let life, love, and divorce change her? Maybe. Probably. “Thanks. I guess.”
“I mean, way less eyeliner. Obviously.”
“What can I say? My eyelids were getting droopy.” Lela laughed. He wasn’t wrong about that. “Where should we eat? You’re the visitor. I get to eat in the city all the time.”
“John’s?”
Lela and Donovan had frequented the Bleecker Street location of John’s Pizza countless times when they were in college. Even though they didn’t sell slices, it was the best pie in the city and not far from campus. But now there was another, closer option in midtown and Lela wanted to keep herself wedged in the here-and-now. “We can walk to the Times Square location.”
“Not quite the original, but I’m game if the pizza is just as good.”
“It is. The bonus is there’s usually less of a line.”
He bounced his expressive eyebrows. “I’ve always liked the way you think.”
Lela’s traitorous cheeks flamed, but it was nice to feel alive. She’d been mostly numb for the last two months.
They walked down the promenade on the north side of the park and if Lela hadn’t been wearing a dress and a pair of shoes that cost several hundred dollars, she would’ve sworn they were back in college. There was something so familiar about strolling along with him again, striking out on an adventure. Of course, Donovan was dressed quite differently now, too. Gone were his ripped jeans, dingy white Converse high tops, and distinctly untidy hair. He also hadn’t come to scoop her up on his mint green Vespa, the sort of scooter that begs to be stolen in NYC, although Donovan managed to zip around the city for years with nary a problem. No, today he was wearing a jacket that cost more than her mortgage, his hair was nearly respectable, and this little jaunt was on foot.
But he was still just as mesmerizing, more than twenty years later.
Chapter Two
I’ll be damned. Lela still wandered into Donovan’s thoughts every now and then, but today, she’d wandered into his life. In a city filled with millions of people, they ran into each other at Bryant Park during the wedding of strangers? How did that even happen?
John’s pizza hummed around them, a cacophony of chatter in the echo-prone restaurant, which had once been a church. A heartbeat away from the chaos of Times Squ
are and surrounded by off-Broadway theaters, it was an eclectic space, with a fresco ceiling and brick pizza ovens crammed into the corners. “So. The wedding today,” Donovan said. “Is this still a normal thing for you? Because it seems a little weird given recent events in your life.”
Lela wiped her mouth with a napkin. Even in the room’s dim lighting, her deep blue eyes were as bright as ever. He had a lifetime of memories of looking into them, late at night when they were in her dorm or his apartment. He and Lela used to sit up for hours listening to music and talking about everything. She’d always been so earnest, and her eyes had always reflected it. “Not really. I sort of OD’d on it for a while there. I started my career in makeup with bridal work. It is possible to get sick of weddings.”
Lela had been an art history major when he first met her, but after he graduated, she dropped out of NYU and went to beauty school in the Bronx. In the days before the Internet, he’d had to hear about it through friends. He hadn’t entirely understood the shift at the time, and a huge part of him had wanted to call her and ask what the hell she was doing, but it clearly worked out for her, so it was best that he’d kept his mouth shut.
Plus, he’d also had his own stuff going on. He was married to Genevieve just one month after commencement, then their daughter arrived six months later. He was trying to start his consulting business. Life was crazy, and not always in a good way. “Now you’re doing more high fashion work, right?”