Every styling chair, hood dryer, and washing station in the Primp ’n Perm was occupied by women in various stages of washing, cutting, curling, teasing, spraying, dying, and drying and every single one of those women, as well as the other beauty operators who oversaw these renovations, were talking. The din of their collective voices, competing to be heard over the whine of blow dryers and a plodding version of “The Little Drummer Boy” coming from the radio, was beginning to give Velvet a headache.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. She started to move quietly toward the door but Hazel Dawn saw her and lifted her index finger, signaling that she’d be with Velvet in just one minute. And so Velvet waited. It would have been rude not to.
Hazel Dawn flipped a page in her big appointment book and scanned the page, frowning.
“I’m sorry, hon, but we just can’t today. I know. But we’re booked solid. We could squeeze you in on Tuesday—or almost any day besides Saturday.”
Hazel Dawn wrote something in the appointment book and nodded sympathetically while the person on the other end of the line talked.
“Yes, I know. This time of year, everybody has the same idea. I know. Don’t worry. We’ll get it done in time for the Christmas Ball. Uh-huh. Sure thing. Yes, I’ll call you back if anybody cancels before then. All right, Missus Pickens. Yes, ma’am. We’ll see you Thursday at 11:00. Thank you!”
Hazel Dawn put the phone down. “I’m sorry, Miss Velvet. Saturday is always our busiest day of the week, but Saturdays in December are just crazy! Every female in the county wants her roots done and her perm freshened in time for the big ball and they all want it done on Saturday. But we’ve only got four chairs. And I’ve only got two hands! And the receptionist called in sick so, on top of everything else . . .”
Hazel Dawn lifted her hand and let it flop. “Anyway, you didn’t come in here to listen to me gripe. Are you out doing your Christmas shopping? I’m sure Mary Dell and Lydia Dale would love a couple of gift certificates. Were you thinking of a manicure or a full-out day of beauty?”
“No. I . . . well . . .” Miss Velvet said, backing away from the counter. “I was really hoping to get an appointment for myself. But . . . another time. You’re so busy.”
Hazel Dawn made a sympathetic face. “Are your calluses bothering you, Miss Velvet? It’s the heels. They’re murder if you’re not used to them . . .”
“No, it’s not that . . . It’s just that . . .” Velvet took a deep breath. “Mary Dell bought a table to the Christmas ball, a gold sponsorship for the Patchwork Palace.”
“Is that right?” Hazel Dawn said innocently, though she already knew all about the stir this had created and was not at all displeased to see Marlena Benton outflanked by Mary Dell. She knew all about the Secret Admirer, too, and why Miss Velvet was wearing a pink dress and pumps. But she would never dream of commenting on either subject.
Hazel Dawn was the closest thing to a therapist that most women had in Too Much. They told her everything about themselves and their families, things they wouldn’t have dreamed of sharing with their closest relatives or best friends. Hazel Dawn wasn’t sure why—perhaps the sensation of having the scalp lathered and massaged helped people relax, or maybe the smell of permanent wave solution acted like a truth serum on certain parts of the brain—but she knew from experience that even the most tight-lipped women will open up to their hairdresser more willingly than to their minister, and that the styling chair is not far removed from the confessional. And though there is no code of secrecy or silence required on the part of hairdressers, Hazel Dawn behaved as if there were. She heard a lot of gossip but she never repeated it. The secrets of Hazel Dawn’s clients were safe with her and they knew it. Her discretion, coupled with her ability to re-create any celebrity hairdo found in People magazine just by looking at the picture, was what kept the Primp ’n Perm in business.
“Yes,” Velvet replied. “So I’ll be going to the ball this year, the whole family will. And, I was thinking that, maybe, since we’ll be sitting up front and all . . . Maybe I should . . . but . . . Never mind. You don’t have time today.”
Hazel Dawn stepped out from behind the desk, rested her fingers gently on Miss Velvet’s bony shoulder. “Never mind what, Miss Velvet? You can tell me.”
Velvet shrugged, nonchalantly. “I was just thinking about getting my hair trimmed and colored, that’s all,” she said and then tried to go on, to explain that it wasn’t really important and could wait for another day, but she didn’t have the chance.
Hazel Dawn let out a whoop of joy and wrapped her arms around Miss Velvet’s thin frame, actually lifting her from the ground.
“Stop that! Put me down, Hazel Dawn!” Miss Velvet cried, squirming and repeating her demand until the overjoyed hairdresser turned her loose.
“For goodness’ sake,” she grumbled, running her hand over the skirt of the pink dress to smooth out the wrinkles. “What are you getting so worked up over? You’d think you’d never done anybody’s hair before.”
“I’ve never done your hair before, Miss Velvet! But I’ve been dying to, for years and years!” Hazel Dawn placed her hands on Velvet’s shoulders and steered her into the salon. “Right this way, darlin’.”
“But,” Velvet protested, “I thought you didn’t have time for another customer today. I thought you said you couldn’t squeeze in one more person . . .”
“I did,” Hazel Dawn replied. “But to get my hands on that head of yours, Miss Velvet, I’m willing to squeeze a little tighter. Now you just sit right down here and make yourself comfortable. And let me ask you something; have you ever thought about going red?”
Miss Velvet would not consider the possibility of going red, or even auburn. But she did allow Hazel Dawn to return her coloring to the soft chestnut brown of her youth. And, after several minutes of consultation and coaxing, she also consented to having her tresses cut, rather than trimmed, to remove the scraggly ends and extra weight.
When Hazel Dawn went into the back room to mix up her color, Velvet waited nervously in the styling chair. She felt so conspicuous sitting there and worried that the other customers of the Primp ’n Perm would go home and tell tales about old Miss Velvet’s foolish and hopeless attempt at beautification. When she realized that the woman sitting under the hood dryer with her eyes closed was Marlena Benton, she considered getting up and walking out the door. But Hazel Dawn returned just then, applied a coat of brown-colored paste to her roots, and started combing it through so Miss Velvet had no choice but to stay put. She couldn’t very well run into the street with a half-dyed head of hair.
The dye smelled awful but the application was painless and Velvet realized it felt nice to be fussed over a bit. Hazel Dawn worked quickly and efficiently, keeping up a steady and distracting stream of chatter. After a few minutes, Velvet started to feel less nervous. No one was paying her any mind, she realized. They were all too absorbed in their style magazines or conversations with their own hairdressers to notice her. And Marlena, still sitting under the dryer and lulled by the steady white whoosh of warm air in her ears, seemed to have fallen asleep.
“Happens every time,” Hazel Dawn informed her. “Two minutes under the dryer and she’s out like a light, dead to the world. I’ll have to give her a good shake to wake her up but she’ll be under there for a good while yet. Marlena has the thickest head of hair in Too Much. Takes forever to dry.
“Speaking of people with good hair,” Hazel Dawn said casually, while guiding Velvet to the washing station, “have you met that nice Mr. Delacorte yet? Well, of course you have, him being the history teacher and all. He’s a handsome thing, don’t you think?”
Velvet had not had her hair washed by someone else since her mother had done it when she was a little girl. Reclining in the wash chair, soothed by the streams of warm water, the clean scent of shampoo, and the gentle massaging of Hazel Dawn’s fingers on her scalp, she felt her body relax and her tongue loosen. Before long, she was telling H
azel Dawn all about the Secret Admirer, which was not news to the hairdresser or anyone else in town, and also about his most recent letter and the manner by which he would reveal his identity to her on the night of the Christmas Ball.
The last part, of course, was news to Hazel Dawn, and to Marlena Benton, who, with eyes still closed and feigning sleep, quietly switched off the hair dryer and reached up with stealthy fingers, raising the hood to a spot just above her ears, enabling her to hear every word Miss Velvet said.
Chapter Eight
The more pious citizens of Too Much took great pride in the fact that their town had only one bar, the Ice House, but four churches, Baptist, Methodist, Episcopalian, and Catholic.
The Catholic congregation was the oldest, the Baptist the most numerous, and the Episcopalian the wealthiest. But it was the Methodists who hosted the town’s annual outdoor Christmas Nativity, partly because they thought of it first and partly because the church stood adjacent to a vacant lot. This was essential because of the considerable square footage required to accommodate the temporary stable, the animals, the Holy Family, plus as many shepherds, drummer boys, and angels as there were children between the ages of three and twelve in the Methodist congregation, not to mention the crowd of onlookers who came to sing “Silent Night” and be reminded of the original Nativity as well as the many commemorative ones they had observed and celebrated in that same place in that same way, for as many years as they could remember.
As lifelong Methodists and one of the church’s founding families, the Tudmore-Templeton clan had always been instrumental in organizing and staging the Nativity, sewing costumes for the cast and loaning livestock for the stable. And this year, the three youngest family members would actually take part in the tableau. Jeb, Lydia Dale’s eldest son, would be a shepherd. Her daughter, six-year-old Cady, was a junior angel. Mary Dell’s baby, Howard, would play the part of the Holy Child, an honor bestowed upon him by virtue of being the infant most recently born among the Methodists.
Given this, it was understandable that Mary Dell and Lydia Dale arrived on the scene an hour early, wrapped up in sweaters and scarves, carrying a thermos of cocoa and three cameras, to claim a spot in the front row and secure a little extra room for Silky, Velvet, and Taffy, who would arrive later, bringing baby Rob Lee with them.
“I wish they could have had two Baby Jesuses this year,” Mary Dell said to her sister. “It doesn’t seem fair that Rob Lee isn’t part of the Nativity. After all, he was born just a few hours before Howard. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” Lydia Dale said sincerely. “And who better to play the miracle baby than Howard?”
Mary Dell smiled, her features softening and eyes glistening, as they so often did when she thought of her baby, the child who after thirteen years of prayer and tears, of hopes raised and dashed again and again, seemed like a gift from above to her. Others might look into Howard’s little face, with those almond eyes and slightly flattened features, characteristics of a child born with Down syndrome, and see nothing but his disability but when Mary Dell looked at her baby, she saw the answer to her prayers. She never looked at Howard with anything less than complete pride and unquestioned love.
“Well, I know he’s not the miracle baby,” she said softly, “but he’s my miracle baby.”
Lydia Dale put one arm around her sister’s shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze.
“Besides,” she said, “Rob Lee doesn’t know the difference. And it isn’t like he won’t get his chance. He’ll have eleven whole years to be part of the pageant.”
Lydia Dale grinned. “Remember how sick we got of it when we were little? I couldn’t wait to turn thirteen! And how cold we used to get? You got bronchitis that one year, remember? You had to spend the whole of Christmas in bed.”
“That’s because the angel costumes were so thin,” Mary Dell said, “nothing but white cotton sheets and cardboard wings with glitter. I added some white flannel lining to them this year, but it doesn’t help much. The shepherds have it easier. They just put on a bathrobe over their blue jeans and they’re good to go.”
“Well, you won’t convince Jeb of that,” Lydia Dale said. “He’s only ten but he did not want to be a shepherd this year. After Graydon talked to him, he settled down, but until then? No, ma’am. He wanted no part of it.”
“Graydon sure is good people,” Mary Dell said, touching her sister lightly on the shoulder. “He really makes you happy, doesn’t he?”
Lydia Dale nodded and smiled. “And the kids are just as crazy about him as I am. Jeb would do anything for him, which is a good thing. That boy can sure be a handful. I don’t know what gets into him sometimes. Must be those Benton genes.”
“Speaking of which,” Mary Dell said, casting her eyes to the far side of the crowd, her voice suddenly ominous, “Don’t look now, but I see your in-laws.”
Lydia Dale craned her neck and saw Jack Benny, with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip and his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at her. Marlena was standing next to him, wearing a fur coat. She smiled acidly and raised her hand when she spotted Lydia Dale looking at them.
“Ex-in-laws,” Lydia Dale muttered. “And thank heaven for that. Do you see that smile? You could freeze ice on Marlena’s face. What do you think they’re doing?”
“The same thing we are,” Mary Dell said, stamping her feet in a fruitless attempt at keeping her toes warm. “Freezing our kiesters off and waiting to see our kids in the Nativity. You may be divorced, but Jack Benny is still the children’s father. And Marlena is still their granny.”
“I don’t mean what are they doing here; I mean what are they doing? Marlena is up to something. She’s been going around telling everybody in town about Aunt Velvet and the Secret Admirer; how he’s supposed to unmask himself by coming to the ball with a yellow rose in his lapel and then asking Aunt Velvet to dance.”
“So what? I mean, it wasn’t nice of her to eavesdrop when Aunt Velvet was talking to Hazel Dawn but half the women in Too Much would have done the same if they’d had the chance. Everybody in town is talking about Aunt Velvet’s Secret Admirer. And Marlena has always been a gossip. There’s nothing new about that. It isn’t like she’s been mean about it or made fun of Aunt Velvet. She just tells the story like it’s kind of sweet—which it is.”
“I know. And that’s what has me worried. Marlena doesn’t have a sweet bone in her body.”
Mary Dell shrugged. “It’s Christmas; maybe she’s trying to turn over a new leaf.”
“Marlena doesn’t have new leaves,” Lydia Dale replied, shaking her head. “She is nasty from bark to trunk. Seriously. If she was saying anything mean about Aunt Velvet, or making fun of her new clothes and hairstyle, that would make sense. At least for Marlena. But being all sweet and saying how precious Aunt Velvet looks . . . that’s not like her. Marlena’s up to something. I’m sure of it.”
Mary Dell rolled her eyes. Lydia Dale always did have a dramatic streak.
“Only you would be worried because somebody wasn’t acting nasty,” Mary Dell said.
Mary Dell looked at her watch, and then rose up on her toes to see if Velvet, Silky, or Taffy were coming their way. The crowd was starting to press in on them. They wouldn’t be able to reserve the extra space much longer.
“Aunt Velvet does look precious and everybody knows it,” Mary Dell continued. “The clothes were one thing, but the hair? Never in a million years would I have thought Aunt Velvet would cut her hair and wear it loose, but those waves around her face make her features look so much softer. And she looks about ten years younger with the gray gone, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Lydia Dale concurred. “Not even Marlena can deny it, but . . . I don’t know. It makes me nervous. You don’t know how vindictive my dear old ex-mother-in-law can be. She never did like me, but since the divorce . . . I’m telling you, Mary Dell. There are no depths that Marlena wouldn’t stoop to if she thought it would hurt or embarrass
our family.”
“Well, even if that’s true, I don’t think Marlena is up to anything this time. Everybody in town knows that Mr. Delacorte is the Secret Admirer.” Mary Dell grinned. “You remember how cute he was when he came in the shop and dropped off the canvas for his tent, don’t you? How he kept talking about that article Aunt Velvet wrote and saying how much he admired the work she’d done with the historical society and all?”
“But is admiring a person’s work the same thing as admiring the person? And I still say Marlena’s up to something. Look how happy she looks,” Lydia Dale said, looking to the opposite side of the lot. “Marlena is only ever truly happy when she’s about to make somebody else miserable.”
Mary Dell, who was starting to become worried that her mother, aunt, and grandmother were going to miss the start of the Nativity and baby Howard’s big debut, let out a happy hoot when she saw Silky pushing her way through the crowd, and waved her arms over her head.
“Yoo-hoo! Granny! We’re over here!”
Silky saw her, waved back, and headed toward her, looking a little irritated.
“Hey, Granny. Where’s Momma and Aunt Velvet?” Mary Dell asked, pulling her camera out of its case. “They’d better hurry up or they’ll miss the start. I can see the kids lining up around the back of the church.”
“They’re still at the car. Your momma is trying to figure out how to unfold the baby stroller and Velvet is putting on more lipstick.” She sighed. “It sure was easier to get places on time before my sister got to be such a fashion plate. How’re you two? Probably about half-frozen after standing here all this time.”
“We kept warm arguing about Marlena,” Mary Dell said. “Lydia Dale thinks she’s up to no-good.”
“That’s a bet worth taking any day of the week,” Silky replied. “When has Marlena Benton been up to anything else?”
“But Lydia Dale thinks that Marlena is in cahoots with the Secret Admirer, hatching some kind of scheme. Which is silly,” Mary Dell said, giving her sister a pointed look, “because Mr. Delacorte is much too nice a man to do anything like that.”
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