Suddenly, the door to the salon burst open. Sydney checked the clock on the wall.
“I know, I know,” Violet said as she hurried in, an adorable moon-faced one-year-old boy on her hip. She had a plastic thrift-store bag over her shoulder that Sydney knew didn’t have enough diapers in it to get through the day. “I’m late. Sorry.”
Sydney did a few quick twists with her hair and secured the twists with clips so that she could go take the baby from Violet.
“No one would baby-sit him,” Violet said when Sydney took him in her arms and snuffled his dark hair, which made him laugh. “My neighbor across the street, who usually takes him, went to Dollywood this weekend. I had to bring him.”
“It’s okay,” Sydney said, even though it wasn’t. But Violet knew how much Sydney loved baby Charlie. She knew she had something Sydney wanted. Young girls always know. They know older women look at them and see what they’ve left behind and can’t get back. It’s a truth everyone knows but no one acknowledges: There’s nothing more powerful than an eighteen-year-old girl.
Violet had dropped out of school when her mother, a Turnbull—a family known for their wild ways and unparalleled ability to have children at the drop of a hat—left town with her latest boyfriend. Violet partied all the time, did some drugs, and soon got pregnant. If she knew who the father was, she never said. Charlie looked every bit like his mother with his dark hair, widow’s peak, and coffee bean–colored eyes.
Sydney had met Violet a few months ago when Sydney had taken her lunch break and grabbed some orange juice and yogurt at Fred’s market, intending to sit on the green and eat. It had been prom season and her arms had ached from creating all those updos.
Sitting cross-legged on the green in her tie-dye harem pants and black racer-back tee, she’d put the OJ and yogurt on the ground between her legs, then closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, soaking it in.
A few moments later, she’d felt something tug at her leg, and looked down to see a dark-haired baby in an unsnapped onesie trying to crawl into her lap. She’d remained perfectly still, the way you do when you realize you have a bee on you, waiting to see where it was going before you overreacted. She’d finally had to reach for him when he’d crawled over her knee and was about to go face-first into the ground.
She’d stood and put him on her hip as she looked around the green. There hadn’t been a lot of people around that day, but she did see a teenager with long, stringy hair on a bench near Horace J. Orion’s half-buried bust, the one college students would pass and joke, “Horace may be dead, but he’s not buried.”
“Excuse me,” Sydney had called to the skinny girl in oversized sunglasses. “Is he yours?”
The girl hadn’t moved.
“Excuse me?” Sydney had called, louder this time.
The girl had startled awake and turned her head to Sydney.
“Is he yours?”
She’d nodded and yawned, but made no move to get up, so Sydney bent to get her OJ and yogurt, then walked over to the bench. As she’d gotten closer, she realized she recognized the girl, who was just a few years older than Bay.
“You’re a Turnbull, aren’t you? Your family lives near the mobile home manufacturing plant?”
“We used to,” Violet had said, not taking the baby from Sydney when she sat down beside her. “My mom left. I had to move out.”
Sydney had discovered that Violet now shared a trailer with a woman and her old common-law husband, who were on disability and had plenty of prescription pills to give to those in need, for a price. Violet had been looking for a job, but said no one would hire her. “My mom was right,” Violet had said when Sydney had given her the OJ and fed the yogurt to the baby. “When she left, she said there’s nothing good here.”
Sydney’s old receptionist, Amber, had just gotten married and had immediately gotten pregnant (of course) and was moving to Fayetteville, where her husband was stationed at Fort Bragg. So Sydney had offered Violet the job. She’d recognized something in Violet, something Sydney had felt at the same age. Violet wanted to leave. She almost vibrated with it. She looked at life outside of Bascom as the promised land. She thought everything wrong with her life was the fault of this place, therefore happiness would surely be hers if only she could escape.
Sydney had left at eighteen, feeling the same way. She’d wanted so badly to escape the burden of her family’s name and reputation. Out there in that big wide open was where she’d met Bay’s biological father, and escape had taken on an entirely new meaning. It had taken her a long time to realize that a prison sometimes isn’t a prison at all. Sometimes it’s simply a door you assume is locked because you’ve never tried to open it.
The job was like throwing Violet a lifeline. Violet needed something to tether herself here. Without this job, it would only be a matter of time before Violet left and took Charlie with her.
Violet dropped the plastic diaper bag as soon as Sydney had taken Charlie, and made a beeline for the coffeemaker and cookies. “Can you watch him while I do my hair?” Violet asked, spitting crumbs. “I didn’t have time before I left.”
“Use my station. The curling iron is already hot.”
“Thanks.”
People wondered why Sydney put up with Violet.
Sydney held the baby in the air above her and looked up into his sweet round face while he smiled and curled his toes and stuck his fist in his mouth.
It was because of this.
5
Bay slept late into Saturday morning at her aunt Claire’s house. When she woke up, she immediately knew Claire had been making her lavender candies that day. The scent spread through the house like a long, soft blanket, settling over everything, calming all worries.
The labels on all the honey-lavender candy jars read:
Lavender essence is for happiness,
with a touch of honey to raise your spirits.
A joyful attitude is ravenous
consuming everyone who is near it.
She got dressed and went downstairs to help. A day spent here, away from the world, would get her mind off the Halloween dance at school that night, wondering who Josh was going to bring. His group of friends included a lot of girls, but Bay couldn’t discern an attachment he had to any particular one.
Bay walked into the kitchen, shoving her long hair under a ball cap, prepared to put on an apron and get to work. Instead, she found the honey-filled lavender candies already on the counters, ready to be funneled into jars. It surprised her because the honey-lavender hard candies were the hardest to make and took the longest. Claire must have gotten up very early. The lavender candy had to be worked constantly, rolled into long strips after it was poured from the sugar pot, then threaded with local honey from the farmer’s market, rolled again, cooled, and cut by hand, instead of just using the molds like with the other two flavors, rose and lemon verbena. Claire used just the right amount of organic food coloring to make the candies the color of springtime. Today’s candies looked like purple flower buds.
There was a single plate on the stainless steel kitchen island and Claire turned from the stove and slid pancakes onto it from a skillet. “Breakfast is served,” Claire said. Once she’d put the oatmeal pancakes on the plate, she drizzled some syrup on them, then sprinkled the last of the yellow and orange calendula flowers she’d picked from the garden before it went dormant. It was from a stash she’d been saving in the refrigerator.
“You cooked!” Bay said.
“This was what my grandmother used to make for me and your mom on Saturday mornings.”
“I didn’t mean to sleep so late. Are you all done for the day?” Bay asked, pulling a stool up to the island. “I was going to help.”
“I got up early. Your mom wants me to drop you off at her shop as soon as you’re finished eating.”
Ah, now Bay understood. “She doesn’t want me working here today.” Thus the reason for the calendula flowers. They were supposed to remove negative ener
gy. Claire didn’t want Bay mad at her mother.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Claire said, looking out the kitchen window. “You shouldn’t be cooped up here.” Bay studied her aunt’s profile while she ate. With her dark eyes, elegant nose and olive complexion, Claire looked timeless, old-worldly.
“What are you going to do today?” Bay asked.
Claire shrugged. “Tyler took Mariah to gymnastics, then she’s going to spend a few hours with him at his office. I have paperwork to catch up on, but I thought I’d pick up some things at the market while I’m out. I’m feeling cooped up, too.”
Now that was unusual. Claire never felt cooped up here. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Claire said.
“Do you actually like making candy?”
Claire hesitated, then said carefully, like it was rehearsed, like she’d been expecting someone to ask, “It’s a little monotonous, and it’s not what I imagined I would be doing when I started my catering business, but I’m good at it, and there’s a big demand for it right now. And it’s padding Mariah’s college fund.”
“I miss your cooking,” Bay said, looking at her plate, not wanting to finish, not wanting it to be gone. “Especially this time of year. Are you going to cook for first frost?”
“If I have time.”
Bay nodded, knowing that meant no.
Still, the tree was going to bloom, and that alone was always reason to celebrate, food or no food.
Bay looked at the kitchen wall calendar.
Still one week to go.
Bay hoped they all could make it until then without doing anything crazy.
* * *
After breakfast, Claire drove Bay downtown. When they got out of Claire’s van, Bay happened to look across the street to the green and saw Phineus Young there with some of his friends, sitting in a group in the grass, playing a complicated flip game of cards and dice.
It looked like she wasn’t the only teenager in town whose parents wanted her out of the house for some fresh air.
Claire started walking to the White Door, but Bay said she’d join her in a minute, and ran across the street to the green.
“Hey, Phin,” Bay said as she approached them, playing in the shade of Horace’s half-buried head. “What are you doing?”
Phin didn’t look up as he tossed another card onto the pile. “Losing.”
“Big-time,” Dickus Hartman said, throwing down his winning card and laughing. Dickus was fat and oily and crude but, truthfully, he belonged right here with these other boys. They were the only ones who would put up with him.
“Are you sure you’re not going to the dance tonight?” Bay asked, aware that she’d asked him before, but she had to make sure, even if it meant Phin’s friends would make fun of her. At this point, it wasn’t like she could make it any worse. She wanted an inside informant who would tell her on Monday who Josh took to the dance, what he wore, how he acted.
“No,” Phin said as Dickus snickered and dealt the cards again. “Are you?” Phin looked up at her, squinting his pale green eyes at the sunlight like a mole.
Bay shook her head.
“Then some people are going to win a lot of money tonight,” Dickus said.
“What are you talking about?” Bay demanded. Dickus just looked smug. Bay nudged Phin with her foot. “Phin?”
Phin looked embarrassed. “There’s a bet going around about whether or not you’re going to the dance to try to bewitch Josh,” Phin made twirling motions with his fingers, “and create some big drama.”
“A bet,” Bay repeated evenly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Phin said, playing a card. “They’re just being stupid.”
“Is Josh in on this bet?” Bay asked.
“He thinks you won’t come,” Dickus said.
“That’s just what he said,” Phin said, trying to soften the blow. “He’s not in on the bet.”
Why was Josh even talking about her? If he wanted her to go away, if he wanted all this teasing about her letter to go away, he should just let it go. He should tell her to her face that she was wrong and he didn’t want anything to do with her. He should stop acting so awkward around her, avoiding her like a bad smell. He certainly shouldn’t be chiming in on whether or not Bay would show up at a stupid dance to … do what, exactly? Cast a spell? Is that what he really thought of her? “Phin, be ready at six tonight,” she suddenly said.
“Why?” he asked.
She walked away, her hands fisted at her sides. So much for not doing anything crazy. “Because you’re taking me to the dance.”
* * *
Claire was standing at Sydney’s station, thinking about things that needed to be done at home, while Sydney gave Madison Elliott’s hair a blowout.
“Charlie said my name this morning, didn’t he?” Sydney said, yelling over the blast of the blow dryer. Baby Charlie was by Sydney’s station in a bouncy swing that Sydney had bought for him. He had a smile on his fat little face as he babbled to everyone who passed by. Charmer. He was already learning that the lone guy in a beauty salon is always the center of attention.
Violet Turnbull, skinny in a way that made her look like all points and knobs, looked up from where she was surfing the Internet at the reception desk. “I think it sounded more like ‘kidney’ than ‘Sydney,’” she said.
“Why would he say ‘kidney?’” Sydney asked, giving Charlie an affectionate look that made Claire feel scared for Sydney, scared she was going to get hurt, that she was too enamored of this baby. “Either way, he’s such a smart boy.”
“I need to go,” Claire said. “Do you want me to pick you up some lunch?”
“That would be great,” Sydney said, palming the brush and blow dryer in one hand, the dryer still going, and handing Claire some cash out of her hip apron. “Would you get me an olive sandwich and a caramel apple latte at the Brown Bag Café?”
“Anyone else?” Claire asked the other stylists.
One of them, pink-haired Janey, said, “A café americano.”
“I don’t have any money,” Violet said woefully from the reception desk.
“You got paid yesterday,” Janey said, clearly not Violet’s biggest fan.
“I’m saving,” Violet said.
“I’ll get it,” Sydney offered. “What do you want, Vi?”
Violet perked up and said, “A club sandwich, chips, extra pickles, and two cans of Coke.”
Janey gave Violet the stink eye from across the salon.
“What?” Violet said. “I didn’t have breakfast.”
Sydney nodded to the cash she’d just given Claire. “Would you get some bananas and Cheerios at Fred’s market, too? I usually keep some for Charlie in the break room, but I think Violet ate the last of them yesterday.” Claire must have given Sydney a look she’d seen before. “Don’t say it.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Claire said.
Sydney turned off the blow dryer. Madison Elliott hadn’t heard a thing. She looked up from the magazine she’d been reading and smiled. Her hair looked stunning. Sydney was always booked. She could do magical things with hair. When someone got a cut by Sydney, it was always a perfect day—DMV lines were always short, bosses gave raises, and kids made their own dinner and went to bed early. Claire felt a pinch of envy. Sydney never had to work very hard for her gift. She’d worked harder at denying it when they were younger. It seemed to come so easily to Sydney and Bay and their old cousin Evanelle. But Claire worked tirelessly. She always had. And it felt even more difficult lately.
Claire had just collected the money for the rest of the lunches when Bay walked into the salon. Her pale skin was shining, her cheeks pink, as if she’d swallowed something bright and it was now glowing from within. Everyone stopped what they were doing, knowing something was up.
“I’m going to the Halloween dance,” Bay announced.
Claire almost laughed at her sister’s reaction. Sydney’s arms fell to her sides, as if in defeat. �
��You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No,” Bay said. “I’m not kidding.”
“You’ve known about this thing for weeks, and now you’re deciding to go? You don’t even have a costume!”
“I don’t need a costume.”
“Of course you need a costume!” Sydney said. “Girls, do any of you have a Halloween costume Bay could use tonight?”
“I have a slutty vampire costume,” Janey said.
“No.”
“Slutty nurse?” Janey said.
“No.”
“Slutty—”
“Nothing slutty,” Sydney interrupted. “Oh, God, this is a disaster. Come here. Maybe I can do something with your hair.” Sydney patted her chair as Madison Elliott left, and Bay walked over to her, head down, beyond embarrassed. She didn’t meet Claire’s eyes as she passed, and Claire suppressed a smile. Once Bay sat, Sydney whipped off her baseball cap and Bay’s long, dark hair cascaded down. Sydney ran her fingers through it, watching her daughter in the mirror.
Lined around the mirror in front of Sydney’s chair were photos of Bay. One when she was six, lying under the apple tree. One from her ninth birthday party when Claire had made her a blackberry cake. Another from when she was twelve, standing beside Phineus Young at the bus stop, the first time Sydney had let them wait alone. And now here Bay was in the middle of the mirror, fifteen and getting ready for her first dance.
Sydney seemed to sense the moment Bay was going to say something about her mother’s banjo eyes, so Sydney cleared her throat and called to her receptionist, “Violet, when Mrs. Chin comes in, have her wait a few minutes, then shampoo her for me.”
First Frost Page 7
