by Debby Mayne
“And I’ll be there for you, you know that.”
“Yes, shoogie, I do. You’re a good girl, in spite of your rebellious nature.” I know she’s thinking my profession is the ultimate rebellion, but we’ve gone over that so many times, even Mother knows there’s nothing she can do to change things at this point. “At least you’re working. I was just wondering if you should be away from your office for so long.”
I hope this is a sign that Mother’s coming around after all. I’ve got to improve my attitude.
“It’s fine,” I assure her.
Next I call Laura Moss. She sounds frazzled as she answers her phone and annoyed when I tell her who I am. “Are you planning to get to town early, or are you too busy with your successful hair salon business in the big city?” She doesn’t even bother to disguise her sarcasm.
I force a laugh and try to sound friendly, but it’s not easy. “I’m already booked with appointments in Piney Point, so it looks like I’m getting there early.”
“How early?” she asks.
“Three weeks.”
“That’s pointless, don’t you think? Why would anyone want to get her hair done three weeks before the reunion?”
“There’s more to beauty than hair,” I say.
She snorts. “Oh really? I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
I realize I have just offended the organizer of one of the biggest events this year in Piney Point, and I feel terrible. “I didn’t mean anything by that, Laura. You know how I can stick my foot in my mouth.”
Silence falls over the line, until I hear her take a deep breath. “I know you didn’t, Priscilla. And I’m sorry for being so snippy. It’s just that, well . . . this whole reunion thing involves way more planning than I realized, and after I gave a royal blessin’ out to the original committee for not doing their jobs, most of ’em quit, and no one else has offered to help . . . well, besides Celeste and Jimmy, but you know how useless they can be.”
Before I take time to think, I blurt, “Since I’ll be there early, why don’t I give you a hand?” I do a mental palm to forehead. What am I thinking?
“Are you sure?” The elation in her voice is reward enough for me—at least for the moment.
“Yes, but just remember, I have appointments throughout the day, so I’ll have to work everything in.”
“Oh, it won’t be much. Probably just a little bit of cutting and gluing and putting things together.”
There’s got to be more to it than that. I’ve known Laura practically all my life. She’ll definitely have more for me to do, and most of it will probably be unnecessary. That girl has always chased her tail staying busy, but I know now it makes her feel important. I’ve often thought that Laura cares too much. If she’d let go, even just a little, she’d be a whole lot more pleasant to be around.
Next I call the orthodontist. The receptionist says I can come in to have my braces removed tomorrow. After I hang up, I close my eyes and mentally picture a perfect smile framed by dark coral lip gloss. These past two years of aching gums and cut lips will be so worth it.
A few more phone calls confirm a long stay in Piney Point will be worth it. By the end of the day, all my arrangements are made. This is going to be fun! I hope.
6
Laura
I can’t believe Priscilla Slater has volunteered to help out with the class reunion. That girl is the busiest person I’ve ever known—always has been. I wonder if she’ll try to look over my shoulder the whole time. Even if she doesn’t say a word, I’m sure she’ll know a better way to do everything. And as much as I hate to admit it, she’ll most likely be right. But this is my committee, and right or wrong, I can’t stand it when things don’t go my way. Which is why it’s so small. I’m not so sure having Priscilla involved is a good thing, but it’s the best I can do. No one else who actually wants to work has risen to the occasion, and I’ve tossed out enough hints.
Oh, Pete thinks he’s helping since he planned the preparty and the pre-preparty, but in reality, that only makes my job more difficult since I have to go back and make sure he didn’t miss anything. It also stresses me out to no end, since I know he’ll be all liquored up by the time the main event starts. Mama used to tell me that for a smart girl, I sure did some dumb things. I think she might be right, and the first of those dumb things might have been marrying Pete.
I gather up all the papers and charts and put them in stacks—one for the big reunion party in the school gym, one for the preparty, and another for all the other stuff, like mailings and RSVPs. Before long, there will be more stacks of people who plan to attend than those who don’t. I’m feeling a load of pressure to look organized. I don’t want Priscilla to know all my business, and I certainly don’t want her to see what a mess I’ve become. With each young’un went a brain cell or two . . . or maybe a thousand. I can’t remember much of anything anymore, which is why I should be writing it down . . . but most of the time I can’t find a pencil, and when I can, I don’t remember where I put my notes.
Pete has been home for a half hour now. After peeking his head in to see when supper would be ready and seeing that I haven’t even started it yet, he said he was going to go take a nap. I tiptoe into our bedroom to check on him. He’s sprawled out across the king-size bed, on top of the comforter Mama bought us for our anniversary with the grocery money she saved from clipping coupons. He’s awfully cute when he’s asleep.
But I’d better get some supper started. I’ve spent so much time on the reunion I haven’t been to the grocery store in a while. I open the refrigerator and pull out some possibilities. Unfortunately, all the produce is wilted, so I dump the contents of the drawer into the garbage can and turn to the freezer section. There’s a pack of chicken wings I bought for Pete to use as bait next time he goes crabbing. It’ll have to do. I pull it out and shove it into the microwave to thaw. I combine the contents of several partially full boxes of pasta in a pot filled with water and pray that the imitation cheese hasn’t gotten all moldy. Lifting the corner of the wrapper, I see that it’s a little crusty in the corner but still bright orange. Good, that works. I go back to the freezer and dig past frozen pops and venison we’ll never eat to find a single pack of frozen butterbeans handpicked by my grandma who lives on a farm near Bay Springs. We can have a decent supper, but tomorrow I have to go shopping.
About an hour later, I call the family to the kitchen. Pete’s the last to arrive. The young’uns are all seated around the table, waiting for me to fill their plates. Pete glances over at the stove, where I have everything laid out.
“Chicken again? We keep eatin’ like this, won’t be long before we’re all layin’ eggs.” He turns to the kids, makes a face, and flaps his arms, making a clucking sound.
Way to go, Pete. Real mature.
The kids howl with laughter, while I quietly stew. Times like this I feel like the only adult in the family.
“Mama, tell Daddy to make like a chicken again,” Bonnie Sue says, giggling so hard her eyes are watering.
“Calm down, y’all.” I move over to behind my chair at the table. “Bow your heads so Bubba can say the blessin’.”
“Aw, Mama, I said it last night. It’s Renee’s turn.”
I start to order him just to be quiet and do as I say, but Renee jumps around in her chair. “I’ll say it, I’ll say it!”
With a deep sigh of resignation, I nod. “Okay, Renee, you can say the blessin’.”
“And don’t make it a long one like you did last time,” Bubba says. “I’m starvin’ half to death.”
Pete winks at me as he reaches over to feel Bubba’s ribs then starts an impromptu tickle session. I want to smack Pete, but with our heads bowed in reverence to the Lord, I’m thinkin’ that might not be a good idea.
Bubba takes one bite of his chicken wing then starts flapping his arms like his daddy did. “Looky me, Daddy, I’m turnin’ into a chicken.”
“Stop actin’ out, Bubba, and eat your dinner,�
�� I say. I have to reprimand all the young’uns, including the overgrown one, a couple more times while we eat. I used to think he’d be a bad influence, and I tried to fix him, but I got over worrying about that because there’s not a thing a woman can do about a man who refuses to grow up, except have a talk with his mama, and I’ve figured out it’s best to save that for the big things.
“What’s for dessert, Mama?” little Jack asks before he’s done. He’s still shovelin’ food into his bow-shaped mouth.
“Nothin’ if you don’t eat your butterbeans,” Pete says and in the same breath asks me, “What’s for dessert?”
I give him one of those wifely looks that make a husband cringe. He closes his mouth, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Once everyone finishes eatin’ supper, we go ’round and ’round about dessert since there’s not enough of any one thing. We eventually decide they’ll each get something different. One kid gets a gooey, stale Popsicle, one gets half a frozen cupcake, and the other two have to share the crumbs from the bottom of a box of vanilla wafers. When Pete says, “What about me?” I just give him that look, and he gives up.
After the kids are bathed and in bed and Pete’s in his La-ZBoy with the television remote, I go on into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. This reunion is taking its toll on me and the rest of my family, so I vow to never take on such a project again, knowing I’m just setting myself up for a major backpedal. I know there’s no one else who’ll take on such a monumental task, and I also know I can’t turn down anyone who truly needs me. And let’s face it. They need me. In spite of my bone-weariness, I smile. I do like to be needed.
I settle down to working on the reunion. I pull up the list of classmates and make notes beside the names of people who have already responded. There aren’t many, so it only takes about five minutes. I find myself staring at the names and wonder how it will all play out. I predict Trudy and Michael will face off, but they’re both too proud to make too much of a scene. Then there’s Maurice. I smile. It was never any secret that Priscilla had the biggest crush on him. The way I see it, he lost out big-time when he gave her the cold shoulder. I can just see it now, Maurice lookin’ at Priscilla, wishin’ he’d taken the bait when she cast her line. I suspect she’s moved on and hasn’t given him a second thought in years.
I get up and pour another cup of coffee before I make the dreaded call to my mother-in-law. Asking her for anything is like pokin’ at myself with a needle. It’s painful, and I know there’ll be blood, but when it’s over, everything will be just fine as long as I apply a little salve. Mama Moss likes my lemon pound cake, and she’ll do just about anything if I promise her enough cake to get her through however long I need her to watch the young’uns. Yeah, she’ll give me some flak because my kids are a handful, but I know she loves ’em.
“I don’t know, Laura,” she says. “I been mighty busy lately, and I’m not gettin’ any younger.”
“But you’re so good with them.” I pause. “And of course, I’ll bring you some lemon cake.”
“Well . . . in that case, sure, I’ll do it.”
At least I have one thing nailed down. Now for the other ninety-gazillion things on my list.
7
Priscilla
If you’re willing, I can have you booked up through the first chorus of the class song at the reunion,” Sheila says when I call to find out how the appointment book is looking.
I run my tongue across my braces-free teeth and sigh. Then I make a mental note not to do that anymore, or it’ll become a habit.
“Priscilla? Did you hear me about how busy you want to be?”
“Yes, and that’s crazy. I’ll need some time to get ready too.”
“Wanna know what’s really crazy? Celeste’s mama has asked for three appointments . . . just for Celeste.”
Mother and Celeste’s mom have been busy. “Back to back?”
“You’d think, but no. She doubts Celeste can sit still for a manicure, eyebrow wax, and an updo all done on the same day, so you’ll be seeing that girl three different times.”
It could be worse. I could be stuck with three days of having to look at Trudy Baynard’s flawless skin and out-to-there eyelashes. That girl is the quintessential beauty who continues to dwell on the fact that she was once Miss Piney Point. She’s not mean, but she is all about Trudy.
Sheila continues. “You have an appointment with Tiffany Snow, Michael Baynard’s latest, so when Trudy called—”
“Trudy called?” I ask. “For an appointment?”
“Can you believe it? Then she wanted to find out if we knew what all the plans were for the reunion. All she got from Laura was a bunch of snarky comments.” Sheila clears her throat. “Anyway, I had to get someone to switch times because the only slot left was right after Tiffany’s.”
Sounds like the Piney Point I know so well. “Good. We don’t need any catfights in the salon. Has Laura Moss booked yet?”
Silence falls between us for a few seconds, alerting me that I just said the wrong thing. “Um . . . I have an appointment with Laura. She wants me to do her hair. I hope that’s okay with you.”
“Of course it’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“No reason. Just sayin’.” Her voice is nearly an octave higher than usual.
Okay, so now I know something’s up. It takes at least two minutes of cajoling to the point of almost threatening before Sheila blurts, “She said she wants anyone but you to do her hair.”
“Oh.” That’s odd. I’ve always done Laura’s hair when I’m in town, and based on the condition of her hair each time, I suspect she doesn’t step foot in the salon when I’m not there. “Probably good for you to take the appointment anyway, since I’ll be so busy.”
“Priscilla, I hope you’re not upset with me. I could have turned her away when she said that about you.”
“What did she say about me?”
I hear her groan. “I better shut my mouth before I lose my job.”
“Just tell me, Sheila, and everything will be just fine.”
“Well . . .” I can imagine Sheila looking around the salon trying to find ideas to help her explain.
“Tell me exactly what was said,” I say firmly.
“Okay, she said last time you did her hair, Pete didn’t like it. Something about it being too much like how the girls in New York wear their hair.”
I laugh. “I did exactly what she told me to do. In fact, she came in with a picture from a magazine.”
“I’m sure you did a good job, Priscilla.”
“It’s what she wanted.”
She sighs. “Your feelings are hurt, aren’t they? I feel awful. All I can tell you is—”
“No need to explain, Sheila, and my feelings are just fine. I’m just glad you’re there to take care of things for me.”
“My two o’clock just walked in, so I better go.”
After I hang up, I stare at the phone and wonder why I feel so let down. It’s not like Laura Moss and I are all that close or anything. She doesn’t owe me a thing, and I certainly don’t get a kick out of listening to her complain about how busy and put-upon she is. In fact, most of the time I can’t wait to finish with her hair so I can move on to a client with a positive attitude.
And yes, my feelings are hurt.
I have a bunch of loose ends to tie up in the office, and since Mandy hasn’t been with me long enough to handle everything on her own, I write everything down for her. Then I head downstairs to let Rosemary know she’s in charge of all salon business while I’m gone. When I go back up to the office to inform Mandy, a pained expression replaces the usual cheery smile. Maybe I need to go home and avoid contact with people if I keep having that effect on everyone.
“What’s wrong, Mandy?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She sniffles and starts rummaging through her in-box.
I carefully place my hand on hers to make her be still. She looks up at me with a curious expression.
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��Tell me what’s going on. Why did you get upset just now?”
Her chin quivers as she slowly shakes her head side to side. Mandy has never been able to hold back the tears, so I pull a tissue from the box on the corner of her desk and hand it to her. She takes it and blows her nose.
After she tosses the tissue into the trash can, I lean toward her. “What just happened, Mandy?”
She nervously looks around the room then settles her gaze on me with a slight jut of her chin. “I don’t know why you don’t trust me. It’s not like I haven’t been working here awhile.”
“You’ve only been here for six months. That’s not exactly a long time.”
“It’s the longest I’ve ever worked at a job.”
Case in point. “So what would you like me to do?”
“I think you should give me more responsibility . . . and at least let me make decisions when you’re not here.”
I ponder my dilemma—continue to upset my assistant at the risk of her walking out, which I know she’ll do based on her job history, or make her feel needed. She’s not anywhere near perfect, but she’s the best assistant I’ve had.
As I’m thinking, I pull away from her desk and take a couple of steps back. Her eyes widen as she watches me, almost as though she’s afraid of something. Then it dawns on me. She’s been fired before. This girl needs an ego boost, and in spite of some powerful voices screaming in my head, I’m about to give it to her.
“Tell you what, Mandy, you and Rosemary will be comanagers. I’ll put you in charge of all the administrative decisions, such as placing all the orders when the salons fax or call. You can handle all the phone responsibilities, do the bookkeeping, take deposits to the bank, and make sure the bills are paid.” In other words, everything she already does.
She nods and fights back the urge to smile, but her lips turn up slightly at the corners. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.” At least I hope she can. “Rosemary will be in charge of everything at the salon.”