A web of mucous covered my lips, flapping as I spoke, “Helga!”
My savior responded with a low chuckle. Using a walkie-talkie, he told the front desk to send someone to the mud wrap room, ASAP.
“I think one of our guests is … uh … finished with her treatment.”
“Huddy,” I said, which he translated for me kindly.
“Hurry,” he added. Peering through the cracked window with one eye, he asked, “You okay in there?”
“No. I can’t hold on much longer. My feet are getting tired. They’re all that’s keeping me from joining you on the lawn.”
“Come on down.” He chuckled. “Man. That. bites. Seeing how you’re dressed and, and covered with … with I don’t know what. Can you hang on? I guess you have to, huh?” Crinkles in the corners of his eyes told me he was smiling.
Smiling? Strike that. He was grinning like a fool.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss, that baby-baba brown? It ain’t your color.”
41
Some people are like toilets: you need to jiggle their handles to get them to work properly. Helga appeared, pronto, uttering a series of guttural noises I translated as abject apologies. Her touch was gentle as she hoisted me, steadied me, unwrapped the plastic, and sponged the goop off of my body.
I’ll give her this, my skin was soft as a baby’s backside. She helped me into my robe and slippers.
By my calculations I’d lost a half a pound of skin, thanks to Helga’s ministrations. One quarter came off as she scoured my body, and the other peeled away with the mud. Evidently the coating that Lawn Boy had named “baby-baba brown” had both defoliated me and exposed a fresh layer of skin. But not for long. As my daughter had suggested, I needed a tan. Helga used an airbrush and sprayed color on every inch of me. After waiting for it to dry, I put my robe back on and followed my torturer to a small room. A huge magnifying glass hung over this table, but gamely I climbed up and lay down. There I gave up an ounce of oil and gunk to a woman in white who squeezed my blackheads. Who knew that could be a career?
Yet another ounce was torn away by the cheerless gal who’d waxed my eyebrows, my legs, and my girlie bits.
Having hot beeswax spread in places only my gynecologist had ever seen was a frightening experience. Having the bandage of solid wax and cotton ripped off, hairs intact, was a shock to my system. Afterward, the technician used tweezers to pluck stragglers, thus prolonging my agony.
Let me say this: After a bikini waxing, there’s nowhere your day can go but up. Nothing else could be that painful or embarrassing. It’s right up there with getting a mammogram from a cold-handed sadist, who uses a heavy foot on the compression pedal.
Here’s the worst of it: I had no idea what was coming next. Obviously, when Sheila decided I needed polish, she had an exhaustive regiment in mind. Heck, most of these “treatments,” I’d never heard of. Did women really pay to have all this torture inflicted on them regularly? How do you talk shop when you are a hair-plucker for people’s privates? What did she put as occupation on her credit card app? Bush whacker? And the other lady wielding the metal tool with a nasty ring at the end? What was her job description? Pimple popper?
Ugh.
Suzanne showed up and directed me to the dining area.
There they served lunch.
Ha-ha-ha.
What a joke!
Three lonely leaves of lettuce, a half a slice of cantaloupe, a chunk of honeydew melon, twin sticks of braised asparagus, a mound of scrambled egg whites, and a bowl of parsley soup sat proudly on a white china plate.
Of course, I’d already had my appetizer: All you can eat grass.
“Ugh.” I made a face at Suzanne. “Could we order out for a pizza?”
She chuckled. “I love your sense of humor. Pizza? Heavens, no. This special offering by our chef will help you shed toxins. These foods are natural diuretics.”
In other words, I was on the “pee your way to weight loss” plan.
“Right, but I already lost a gallon of fluids with all that sneezing.”
Suzanne shook a finger at me sternly. “You should have listed your allergies on our intake form.”
How was I to know that grass clippings were on the docket? Geez.
I knocked back my “hearty” lunch. By my calculations, I downed a whopping 200 calories. Hardly enough to restart hair growth.
Suzanne led me to a quiet room where New Age music played. This, I was told, was where I’d receive my foot massage. Her name badge read “TiffanY.”
I wondered, did she hit the shift key by mistake or was she really graced with a capital letter at the end of her name? While TiffanY arranged her ointments and scents, she repeatedly referred to a typed sheet of paper.
The foot massage felt good. Really good. In fact, it was the first wonderful experience I’d had. Maybe she was doing it wrong, I wondered. “Are you a beginner?”
“No. I am Bulgarian.”
That explained something, but I wasn’t sure what.
“This is wonderful. Too bad the morning wasn’t great like this. I’ll be leaving after the pedicure and manicure.”
TiffanY cast a worried glance at her paperwork, “Ne! Na kukovo ljato.”
“In English?”
“Not in a cuckoo summer. You need hair highlighted, cut, and styled. Then must have makeup done. Mrs. Lowenstein said this. We do as she say. She is big tipper.”
The afternoon dragged on ever so slowly. I hurt in areas I couldn’t touch in public, my tummy rumbled in protest and my nose was still raw from sneezing.
42
As a distraction, I meditated on the past week. What a wild ride it had been. The CAMP meeting I’d carefully planned had gone all wrong. I’d watched a woman die, practically in my arms. Our store had been targeted by anti-Semites. I’d been kissed by the guy of my dreams. Here I was, getting primped and polished for a fancy evening with the cream of the St. Louis crop. And tomorrow, I’d be attending a barbecue at the other end of the social continuum. Wasn’t life grand?
The lemon-scented cream TiffanY stroked and kneaded into my calves was so soothing. The crisp fragrance invaded every tense muscle in my body—even ones my masseuse wasn’t rubbing.
“What is that stuff?” I asked.
“Melissa.”
“Melissa Who?”
Seeing my confusion, she handed me the bottle. I read the label and learned it’s another name for lemon balm, a member of the mint family.
“Good for sleeping, too,” TiffanY said. “And for upset tummy, gas, and monthly cramps. One cup makes you calm. Here, I make you some.” She returned with a warm drink that tasted like lemonade.
“More please?” As the clock ticked down for the night ahead, I felt antsy. Would I look ridiculous in my expensive gown? Would I even be able to walk in my new shoes? What would I say to Sheila’s friends? Was this a set-up, designed to expose me as being hopelessly lower middle class? My nerves were kicking in, big time.
Bless her heart, TiffanY brought me a small pot of the brew.
What I really needed was a good old-fashioned hit of Valium. There are moments in one’s life where having a drug dealer in your Rolodex would be a grand idea. Instead, I contented myself by sipping an herbal brew. By the gallon.
After the reflexology treatment came the pedicure and manicure. Sheila had thoughtfully already selected natural colors for both my hands and my feet.
Next came hair and makeup, treatments that required me getting up and walking to the “salon.” As I sipped more tea, a stylist brandishing a rat-tail comb divided my hair into small sections. Each area of hair was painted and wrapped in tin foil, leaving me looking like a dream date for a 1970s robot.
While I “cooked,” a makeup artist applied “permanent” false eyelashes, one by one to my eyelids. Next, she smoothed on moisturizer and foundation. It tickled when she lined my eyes with a dark gray pencil. Studying me, she decided to darken my brows. Her work was finished with a dus
ting of face powder.
The hair stylist checked her work and pronounced it “good.” My hair was rinsed, washed, cut, dried, and blown out, only to be curled loosely with a hot iron.
Throughout all this, no one offered me a mirror. I caught glimpses of myself as the various stylists turned me around. At first this increased my anxiety. Eventually, I decided that since all this was on Sheila’s dime, and since I hadn’t been allowed any input, the outcome was out of my control. Which it was.
Suzanne led me back to the dressing room. “Please hurry. Howard is on his way.”
Inside the bag I found a long-line Spanx. Spanx, I discovered, is the modern version of your mama’s girdle. Only bigger. The trick was cramming all of me into that tiny little tube.
Another woman in the locker room noticed my struggles. “Ever have a Barbie doll? Remember how she always stepped into her clothes?”
I thanked her and did just that. Sort of. I think I dislocated my thumb yanking the stretchy undergarment up over my legs. However, the final effort proved why Spanx are so popular. The garment covered—and corralled—a lot of territory. It tamed my wobbly bits into a smooth, taut line. I wasn’t exactly sure how I would handle the need to tinkle, but that was a problem for later.
Suzanne reappeared to help with my gown and shoes. There was one more tissue paper wrapped lump inside my shopping bag. Inside was a small beaded purse in shades of gold that matched my dress perfectly.
“Let’s go into the reception area,” Suzanne suggested. “There’s a three-way mirror there.”
The woman who stared back at me was absolutely beautiful. Her skin glowed, her hair framed her face, and her eyes shone with excitement. Everything about my reflection was polished to a classy perfection.
Could that person really be me?
“You was like loser from Survivor,” said Helga in her thick accent. “Now you Swan. Gorgeous! We do this good work.”
Suzanne, TiffanY, the manicurist, the hair stylist, the makeup artist, and all the other workers gathered to approve the finished product—me!
“Wow, I didn’t even look this good on my wedding day.”
“We know,” sighed Suzanne. “Mrs. Lowenstein showed us pictures.”
It should have offended me, but I knew it was true. Even Howard did a double-take as I walked to the Lincoln. Halfway there, I realized I’d forgotten the contents of my locker. Howard opened my door, handed me in, and scurried away to find a spa employee. A moment later, he hustled his way back and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Not to worry, Miss. Someone is bringing your things.”
I waited in the air-conditioned car, twisting my hands with nervousness.
The car door opened across from me. A masculine arm handed in my pale pink shopping bag. The handles on it were now festooned with ribbons. To make sure I claimed my belongings, the bearer leaned inside the limo.
It was Lawn Boy.
And oh, golly. Up close and personal, he was an absolute stud. A sort of younger Billy Ray Cyrus, complete with long dark hair, stormy eyes, and a chiseled chin. This was the face of a man who’d seen it all--and right at this moment, he liked what he saw.
“Hey, there. That gold you’re wearing, that’s definitely your color, babe. Definitely.”
43
The ride to Sheila’s was much faster than the trip to the spa had been. When Howard pulled into the drive, Anya came skipping out to the limo. She made a beeline for the open door of the stretch automobile. “This car is cool. Really cool, and the fact you have a driver makes it the bomb, Mom.”
Only then did she stop to take a really good look at me.
“Gee, Mom, you look awesome.” Jumping back out onto the driveway, she yelled, “Gran? Linnea? Come see! Those people are miracle workers!”
Linnea clucked over me and admired me greatly. She also slipped me a foil-wrapped pack of sugar cookies. “To keep your spirits up, baby girl.”
The maid and my daughter stepped aside to allow Sheila entry. As I’d expected, my mother-in-law was elegance personified. Her silvery-white hair and denim-blue eyes were perfectly complimented by her turquoise silk gown.
With a few final instructions to Linnea, we were off. I felt like Cinderella riding in her pumpkin coach.
“Sheila, could you take a photo of me with my camera phone? I’d like to send it to my mom.” I handed her the Katana that George had given me the year before last for Mother’s Day.
After a brief tutorial on how the gizmo worked, my mother-in-law was good to go. She snapped my photo. I approved it and sent it to my mom. Because Mom doesn’t always check her phone for images, I followed up immediately with a phone call.
“Hi, Mom. Did you get the photo? Great! Yes, that’s me. I spent the whole day getting ready for a fancy event with Sheila. Don’t I look nice?”
Sheila turned her head to watch the scenery. It was a small gesture designed to give me a bit of privacy. I listened to my mother, before saying goodbye and closing the phone.
“What did she say?” Sheila’s eyebrows lifted. “She must have commented on how lovely you look.”
I swallowed hard and bit my lower lip. I snatched a tissue from my new gold purse and dabbed my eyes. I lifted my chin and did my best to smile. “Uh, she, uh … she said you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
44
Howard pulled up to a walkway, defined by bollards strung with tiny white fairy lights. This led us to a party tent decked out in more little white lights, white floral arrangements in silver bowls, and white table cloths. A greeter checked us in and gave us tiny envelopes. Inside these were white cards. Our names and a table number were embossed on heavy linen stock.
“Remember two things: You look fabulous, and you belong here.” Sheila tucked her card into her purse, a signal for me to do the same.
Her kind comment caught me off-guard, but I took courage from it. I squared my shoulders and stepped into the crowd.
Around us swirled women in fairytale gowns and men in statesmanlike tuxedos. I couldn’t help but be impressed by the sight. Sheila and I could barely make it through the crowd for people stopping my mother-in-law to chat. “Photo, please,” interrupted a man carrying a large camera with an industrial-strength flash. “Of course, I recognize you, Mrs. Lowenstein,” he said, pausing to jot our names in a notebook, “but this is?”
“My daughter-in-law, of course. This is the famous Kiki Lowenstein, scrapbooker extraordinaire. Mother of my adorable granddaughter.”
Turning to me, she whispered, “Don’t stand there with your mouth open. Smile.”
I told myself that I shouldn’t be taken in by her praise. This was about Anya, about making sure I made the right impression so Anya could follow in her grandmother’s footsteps socially.
The photographer took two more photos of us. Sheila lifted the notebook from his hands to make sure he spelled my name correctly. (I guess she was concerned he’d spell it KINKY. That’s happened before.)
When she handed the notebook back, she said, “You will have copies of the photos delivered to my home. In fact, please take several more.”
This time, she posed next to me, whispering, “Chin down, lick your lips, tuck your tummy in and buttocks under, one hip forward, stand up straight.” The flash went off enough times to temporarily blind me.
As the cameraman moved away, I blinked and tried to get my bearings. Evening had blanketed us in a robe of black velvet. I wished I was a firefly, looking down on the scene. I could imagine how lovely all this looked, glowing brightly in the dark.
Serena Jensen joined us. We chatted in a desultory way until she said, “Speaking of scrapbooking, did you hear about that scrapbooker who was murdered? Wasn’t it at a what-do-you-call-it?”
“A crop,” I offered, “and unfortunately I was there.”
“Really?” She shook her head. “I hadn’t paid any attention to the fact that Yvonne was a scrapbooker.”
“You knew her?”
“Is this common knowledge?” Sheila asked.
“Unfortunately, yes. My husband plays golf with the human resources director at RXAid. My Donald says the HR director is fit to be tied. Mr. Gaynor hasn’t been at all discreet in his dalliances. That sort of behavior is simply unacceptable. Especially with a subordinate. People sue so easily, you know.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know the name of the young woman he was involved with, would you?” I smiled conspiratorially. “I’m wondering if she also attended our crop.”
“Let me think. Hmmm. Look! There’s Nancy Parkington. Excuse me. She and I need to chat about an upcoming fundraiser. Nancy, darling!”
Sheila put her lips to my ear, “Do the police know about this relationship?”
It tickled me she was so interested. Me thinks my mother-in-law was happy to play amateur sleuth. “I can’t be sure. Detweiler’s part of the Major Case Squad. I’ll certainly pass it along to him.”
Her mouth tightened. “Your detective friend? He’s involved in this investigation?”
“It’s an honor to be assigned to the Major Case Squad.”
A waiter bowed to us and presented a silver tray full of water chestnuts wrapped in bacon. Yummy, but barely enough to tame my growling tummy.
A second waiter followed the first. This one bore a tray filled with bubbling glasses of champagne. Sheila handed me a flute.
“Maybe I shouldn’t. I didn’t eat much today.”
“You’ll be fine. Remember, Howard will be driving us. Don’t make a fool of yourself, but enjoy the bubbly. These events cost enough—and free-flowing liquor is part of the expense.”
She sipped and winked at me. “I guess the regime I set up for you was rather Spartan.”
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 35