Fault Number Three: massively egocentric. I returned to Marsha, who was deeply engrossed in conversation with Lucy.
“I just said to Marsha, Anna, that she needs to jazz up her wardrobe with some color. Marsha, honey, you’re too pretty for beige! You remember that Color Me Beautiful thing? Well, if you had on a hot pink knit shirt . . .”
“What’s Color Me Beautiful?” Marsha said.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said to Marsha. “Lucy? Her whole appearance is about to morph so don’t waste your breath! Come back after I color her hair, okay?”
“Oh! Silly me! Who knows? You might come in as a Winter and turn yourself into a Spring!”
“What’s she talking about?”
“Ancient history,” I said, smiling at her in the mirror. “Okay. Are you ready to change your life?”
“Without a doubt,” she said.
Standing behind her to her right, I continued to stir the color like it would eventually become mayonnaise. I was trying to think of the most exciting thing I could do to her head without her having a nervous breakdown. She needed her hair cut off at the roots, it was so fried. But she had good cheekbones and a nice jaw. With some makeup, we could bring out her eyes. I was itching to get started.
“All right,” I said, the professional in me kicking in at last, “tell me about your lifestyle. Are you in the sun a lot?”
“Are you kidding? We live in Florida! I play golf, tennis, and the rest of the time, I’m on a boat. We’re in the boat business, you know.”
“Right. So you need a low-maintenance style.”
“Yeah, I don’t have a lot of time to fix hair that’s gonna blow all over the place anyway.”
I began to section her hair and paint her roots with a medium blond color. I knew it looked brown to her, but she didn’t say a word. Her eyes went from the mirror and back to her magazine with a genuine smile for me, every time she looked up. I liked this woman and wanted to make her look beautiful.
“So, what are we doing today?” Brigitte said to Joanne.
“Just a blowout,” she said. “I don’t need a makeover.”
Everyone who heard her hated her guts.
Neither one of us would have admitted it, but Marsha and I were listening to Joanne Fairchild’s chatter with Bettina and Brigitte. Bettina sat by her side, doing her fingernails.
“That’s a gorgeous stone,” Bettina said, remarking on Joanne’s paperweight, while she removed her old polish. “Your husband must be a pretty fabulous guy, huh?”
“Yeah, sure,” Joanne said, “he’s all right. I’m terrible. I mean, after fifteen years, I’d probably get sick of Brad Pitt.”
“Not if he gave me rocks like that, hon!” Bettina said and I shot her a look. She recovered by saying, “But I know what you mean. My husband, Bobby? He ships out for months at a time, so we don’t get tired of each other. But if he was around all the time, he’d make me crazy. I’m sure of that!”
“That’s why I’m single,” Brigitte said, coming to the credibility rescue. “I never have dated anyone who didn’t eventually bore me to tears. Who needs it? I have my nice house, my nice car, and nobody tells me what to do. Life’s good.”
“Well, my husband can’t tell me what to do. Rhett, that’s my husband’s name—short for Everett—”
“Jeez! Rhett Butler! I knew he was alive!” Bettina laughed and snorted, making everyone giggle just at the noise she made, if not the joke.
“Oh, no! Puh-leese! Everett Fairchild is no Rhett Butler! Are you kidding? When Mr. Fairchild is selling a boat he is the most utterly charming man you can imagine, but that’s because his livelihood is involved. But when he comes home? Boor-ing! He’s too tired to do anything except eat dinner and fall into bed. Anyway, the house is my business, not his. I do what I want.”
I’ll bet you do, I thought, and looked at Marsha in the mirror, who raised her eyebrows and twisted her lips to one side in agreement.
“Well, that’s how it should be,” Bettina said, adding, “another French?”
Joanne said, “French is fine.”
“So, where do ya’ll live?” Brigitte said. “Got kids?”
“No, no children, but that’s okay. We live right outside of Clearwater.”
“Kids are a pain in the behind,” Brigitte said. “But, I love kids, don’t get me wrong—I have a ton of nieces and nephews and they’re fabulous. But they go home at night, you know?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you something else,” Joanne said, “we have a lot of friends who don’t have children and they are quite happy, thank you. I mean, you have kids and you have to give up your whole life!”
San Andreas Fault. Doesn’t like kids? That did it.
“Well, I’d like to have six,” Bettina said. I sent her a death ray and she caught it, coming back to her senses. “But I can understand why someone like you wouldn’t want to be tied down, because you’re right. Kids are nothing but a noose!”
“Exactly! I mean, I’m on the go all the time and I like my life like it is.”
“Me too,” Brigitte said, smiling. “So what do you do for fun?”
“Oh, the usual stuff. I like to shop and have lunch with my friends, but I play tennis for our club and that’s a pretty big deal. I belong to a book club and an investment club and I volunteer for different things around town. This year I’m chairing the fund-raiser for our library. It’s going to be fabulous. Pat and Sandra Conroy are coming.”
“No kidding,” Brigitte said, honestly impressed.
My timer went off and I combed the color in Marsha’s hair out to the ends.
“Five more minutes,” I said.
“No problem,” Marsha said. “I’m taking this quiz in Cosmo on how you can tell if your lover is cheating on you.”
“Come on,” I said, “wait till he sees you tonight! He’s gonna drool!”
“Good!”
Brigitte was finished with Joanne’s perfect hair, spun her chair around, and handed her the mirror to check the back.
“Fine,” Joanne said, without a trace of gratitude. “Thanks.”
Bettina and Brigitte held their breath for a moment, sort of not believing the tone of Joanne’s voice. She had delivered that fine and thanks as though she was picking up a burger at a drive-thru. Fault? She was an ingrate.
“Okaaay!” Bettina said. “Let’s wax next.”
“I’ll follow you,” Joanne said, “maybe someone could ask that lazy kid over there to get me a Coke from next door?”
“Sure,” Bettina said.
My face was burning. That lazy kid? That kid was her stepdaughter and that kid was my family. I said nothing. Fault? Ungracious and thought herself to be the queen, that’s what.
“Come on,” I said to Marsha, “let’s get you rinsed.”
I put her in a seat by the sink and motioned for Emily.
“Whatcha need, Mom?” she said. “I’m helping Lucy address postcards for the mailing.”
I reached in my pocket and handed her a dollar. “Run next door, baby, and bring me a Coca-Cola in the can, okay?”
“Sure,” she said and left.
Marsha had a funny look on her face. “Is that your daughter?”
“Yes, that’s Emily. She’s home for the summer from school.”
“Oh.”
I realized that she had seen Emily’s eyes and, knowing Everett as she did, she was startled but didn’t ask any more questions. I wondered what she thought but I wasn’t about to ask her. All I could think was, Oh, no, what if she blows this before we can play our cards? My heart began to beat a little faster and I could feel the back of my neck break out in beads of perspiration.
In a few minutes, I had Marsha back in her chair and Emily had returned with the Coke.
“Whaddya want me to do with this?”
“Put it over ice in a glass and take it to the lady in the waxing room. Knock first, okay? Thanks, honey.”
“ ’Kay.”
Marsha now had a look
of complete disbelief in her eyes, as though she’d seen a ghost.
I just ignored it and said, “Okay, now we’re gonna highlight your hair and cut the dickens out of it.” I should’ve been a poker player.
Marsha wound up with a precious, short, layered haircut that took ten years from her face. I made the back sort of flipped and gave her long thin straight bangs.
“God! I love it!” Marsha said. “How can I thank you?”
“Tell your friends,” I said. “You really do look wonderful. Now let’s do some makeup.”
Joanne Fairchild hadn’t noticed a thing at all about Emily’s eyes and apparently Marsha had decided to keep it to herself. By the time they left, both of them buying one of Angel’s baskets and tons of skin care and hair products, I was completely wrung out and could’ve slept for a month. Joanne tipped no one.
Final Fault? Tightwad.
Marsha, on the other hand, tipped until she ran out of cash, even giving Emily five dollars.
“What’s this for?” Emily asked.
“Because you’re a great girl,” she said and smiled at her.
When they went out the door, we all heaved sighs of relief. Three people came in without appointments. The phone rang. It was David for Emily. She took the portable phone to the back of the salon. The rest of us whooped and slapped each other on the back, relieved that our charade was ended. The clients were waiting, looking at us like we were crazy. Brigitte was right. I knew we needed another stylist as soon as possible. Maybe two.
Emily returned, all smiles. David had apologized for whatever infraction had been committed and wanted to catch an early movie.
“Can I go?”
“Sure. Get home at a decent hour.”
“You’re the best, Mom. Thanks.”
We closed at six and hung around for half an hour, cleaning up and getting set up for Monday.
“So what’d y’all think?” Lucy said. “I didn’t like that Joanne much.”
“She’s never touching Emily,” I said, “not in a million years.”
“I hated her guts,” Bettina said. “Know what she said in the waxing room?”
“Tell it,” Brigitte said.
“So she says to me, ‘You ever have an affair?’ I said, ‘What do you mean an affair? You mean, since I married Bobby?’ She says, ‘Yeah.’ I says to her, ‘Whaddya crazy? You don’t know Bobby! He’d break every bone in my body!’ Then she laughs, this weaselly little sneaky laugh, like, heh, heh, heh, and I say to myself, Oh, brother! Then I say, ‘What? What’s funny? Did you ever have an affair?’ And you know what she says?”
“What?” Brigitte, Lucy, and I said all at once.
“She said, ‘Who, me? Why, I’d never do a thing like that.’ All innocent and everything. So right there I decide that she’s a lying piece of adulterous shit. If you ask me, I think she’s sleeping with that nice lady Marsha’s husband because she all but said so.”
“Who cares,” Brigitte said. “I didn’t like her way before you waxed her.”
“She’s got pubes like an animal,” Bettina said. “Disgusting! Right outta the zoo. I waxed her but good! Then I plucked the strays with the tweezers. That always gets them.”
“Good!” Brigitte said.
“Bettina! Good Lord! Well, I don’t like her either,” I said, thinking I would go to bed as soon as I got home. “She’s horrible.”
“Worst of all, no tips! What kinda woman takes a manicure, pedicure, bikini wax, and a blowout on the house without tipping the help? She’s tighter than a bee’s butt, honey,” Lucy said, “and y’all know me. I hate cheap.”
I started turning out the lights and then I completely freaked out.
“Oh, no!” I almost screamed it.
“What?” Brigitte said.
“She’s got the picture of Emily! Shit! If Everett sees it, then what? I have to deal with her? Emily gets tangled up with her? I don’t want that woman to ever get near Emily!”
“It can’t happen!” Brigitte said.
“You don’t know my luck!” I said.
“Anna? Quit worrying! She probably already threw it in the garbage,” Lucy said.
“Yeah,” Bettina said, “she probably kept the frame and dumped the picture.”
“God. I hope you’re right,” I said.
What had I done?
When I got home there was a message from Jim on my voice mail. He couldn’t come. Gary’s parents had called and said Gary was asking for him. He said he’d call me as soon as he could.
Thirty-three
Love’s Labor Found
BUSINESS was fabulous but August was a bummer. It was hotter than it had ever been in the history of mankind. Even the weatherman on television had joked that the only thing that separated Charleston from the fires of hell was a screen door. Think about that for a while. We’re talking scorching, blistering, oppressive heat with humidity that made even my hair look like Don King’s. There was a thunderstorm every afternoon and then the mosquitoes would rise from their fortresses and swarm the islands. You’ll never hear that from the Department of Tourism, but you can take it from me. If you ever decide to vacation here, leave all perfume at home. And that SSS stuff from Avon? Ha! Lowcountry bugs guzzle that stuff like bubbas at a kegger.
So, on yet another hot-off-the-charts, manless night, I was stretched out on my old sofa, shoes off, watching Saturday Night Live reruns. Steve Martin and Dan Aykroyd were doing the Wild and the Crazy Guys skit and there I was all alone, laughing my guts out, thinking I’d love to cut their hair. Emily was out with David, but I expected her soon. The phone rang. It was Jim and his voice was cracking, heavy with emotion.
“Gary’s gone.”
My heart sank. I couldn’t stand it that Jim was so sad and even though we knew Gary was going to die, it was somehow still surprising that he had.
“Oh, Jim. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
We talked for a long time about everything—his parents, how they were handling it and how it had been at the end. Gary was angry about dying and didn’t want to let go. Jim had held his hand, telling him over and over that it was all right, that he would help his parents with his estate or anything that needed to be done. He had fought for his last breath and the trauma of being a witness to his friend’s death had a profound effect on Jim.
“It was the most awful thing I’ve ever seen,” Jim said.
“Not everyone has a peaceful death. I am so sorry, Jim.”
“Yeah, well, poor bastard. His body just stopped and you know what? No matter how strong his will was, and it was strong, there was nothing to stop the inevitable. He was nothing but skin and bones, Anna. It just broke my heart to see him like that. He was a good guy, you know? Nobody deserves to die like that. I just feel so bad.”
“Shit. I wish I could do something, Jim.”
“Oh, hell, what can anyone do? But thanks. I feel better just talking to you.”
We talked for a few more minutes and then I said, “So do you want the dirt on Joanne Fairchild or what?”
“God, yes! I was just going to ask you about that. What happened?”
We wound up giving only a few minutes to the subject of Joanne Fairchild. A rehash of her visit was unimportant in light of Gary’s death. Besides, there wasn’t much more than fizzle to be said.
“Oh, God, Jim,” I said, “you know how we all plot and scheme? We think we’re so smart and we’re gonna fix everything with the truth? In this case, the truth is that his wife is a self-centered, materialistic snob. You and I wouldn’t want her in Emily’s life for love or money. And, she’s probably running around on him anyway. At least, there was some allusion to her extramarital sporting events.”
“Great, that’s just great,” Jim said. “Well, we tried. But, you know what? It doesn’t change the unfortunate fact that, as long as you know who Emily’s birth father is, she has some right to know as well. Even if his wife is a cheap and tacky bitch. Don’t you think?”
/> “Yeah. I mean, I guess I’m trying to figure out the details of how we should tell her. And when. But, thank God, Emily’s not asking, so what’s the rush?”
“I don’t know. God, I’m not looking forward to the next few days.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Tuesday.”
“Do you want me to come?”
For me to offer to attend a funeral was a first, but I would’ve done anything for Jim.
“No. I’m okay.”
“Do you want to come here afterwards for a few days? To sort of decompress?”
“Nah, thanks. I gotta go back to work, which I am completely not in the mood to do. Why don’t we call Frannie and see if she wants to come Labor Day? I have to be in Burgundy on September fifth for a tasting, so I’m flying over on the third.”
“Come here first!”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. I could fly to Charleston first. Probably should see Trixie too. She hasn’t been feeling so great.”
“Oh? What’s the matter with her?”
“Who knows? Probably done in by the heat. Or lonely. She’s always complaining about something. That woman is a bona fide conundrum. With all she’s got, you’d think she’d find a reason to celebrate something every five minutes. But not her. I don’t think she’s got a note of music in her soul. Anyway, I could stay for a couple days and then head to France from there.”
I assumed that Trixie didn’t know about Gary yet and that when she found out, she would find it beneath her interest. I told Jim he could come when he wanted and stay as long as he liked. I’d be his brick.
When he asked about Arthur, I told him he’d escaped without a good-bye and he said, “Honey, there are a million Arthurs out there. When I get to town, we’ll go trolling together.”
“You know what? You are some kinda guy, Jim Abbot. Even in your lowest moments, you find a way to make me feel better. I still can’t believe I haven’t even heard a word from Arthur, though. Isn’t that a little screwed up?”
This unleashed some shadowy thoughts in Jim’s mind.
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