The Summer House

by Lauren K. Denton

  Hazel’s bedtime was set at seven thirty, as dictated by Rawlins, who, Rose was happy to note, had developed into a very conscientious father. Having no parenting history of her own, Rose had no experience with bedtimes, early or late, but she was sure she would have been the type of parent who enforced a similar strict bedtime schedule.

  That being said, Hazel was a very persuasive little girl. Each night she stayed with Rose, Hazel came up with a new reason why she couldn’t go to bed at the appropriate time, and each night Rose practically broke a sweat trying every which way to get her to agree to go to bed. But this evening Hazel wasn’t having it.

  “I’m not tired! I promise. I’ll just lie there and lie there and lie there, and then I’ll get lonely.”

  “You won’t be lonely,” Rose reasoned. “I’ll be right downstairs.”

  “But can I just stay with you for a little bit longer?”

  Rose checked the clock on the mantel: 8:12. She sighed. How was this small five-year-old wide-awake when Rose was exhausted?

  “Can you turn some music on?”

  “Music?” Rose almost laughed. Music at this hour? She sighed. “I’ll tell you what.” She stood and crossed the room to where her little radio sat on the kitchen counter. “I’ll play you a song. Then you go to bed. Deal?”

  “Deal!”

  Rose turned on the radio and set it to the local station, Sunny 102.8. Most music these days made Rose’s toes curl, but Sunny 102 played old Motown favorites, music she’d grown up with and would never, ever tire of.

  A commercial ended and the next song started—“Heat Wave,” one of her favorites. The minute that toe-tapping beat began, Rose was back in her childhood bedroom, only a mile or so from where she stood right now. She was sixteen years old, practicing her dance moves in front of her mirror, her desk chair pushed up under the doorknob to keep her brother from bursting in and catching her mid-dance. She’d just seen Martha and the Vandellas on American Bandstand, and visions of those short sequined dresses glimmered in her mind.

  Rose heard a noise behind her and turned. Hazel was standing next to her smiling.

  “What is it?”

  “You were dancing!”

  “No, I wasn’t. I was just setting up the radio.”

  “Yes, you were. You were doing this.” And Hazel started swiveling her hips like a little dashboard Hawaiian dancer.

  “Let’s go, little miss.” Rose took Hazel’s hand and led her to the open space behind the couch. “Now, here’s how we used to do it.” Rose pinched her nose and did the Swim. “This one’s called the Mashed Potato.” Hazel laughed and copied the move. “Then there was the Twist.” She held her arms out and twisted her hips, lifting one heel, then the other.

  Rose showed Hazel everything she knew, and by the time the song was over, they were both laughing and out of breath.

  “Okay, fancy pants. Upstairs with you.”

  After using the potty and climbing into bed in Rose’s spare bedroom, Hazel flopped back on her pillow. Freckles had popped out on the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks like little flecks of cinnamon. Her red curls fanned out on the pillow. She yawned, then settled farther into the quilt. “Aunt Rosie, you said a lie.”

  “I did?”

  She nodded. “You told Mr. Coach you’re not a dancer, but you are.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m not really a dancer. I just . . . well, I just really like that song.”

  “But you’re a good dancer. Maybe you should be one.”

  Rose smiled and kissed Hazel on the forehead. “I think I’ll reserve my dancing for you.”

  By the time Rose made it back downstairs, it was almost nine o’clock. After picking up a few stray cups and napkins in the kitchen and turning on her dishwasher, she eyed the radio that sat on the counter acting all innocent, like it hadn’t just unleashed Rose’s shoulders and hips and knees in alarming ways. In fact, she hadn’t felt so unleashed in a good long while.

  Without so much deciding as giving in, Rose turned the radio back on. This time it was Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, “You Really Got a Hold on Me.” She let her feet guide her back to the den, where now only a single lamp illuminated the room. The curtains covering her back windows were wide open, but it didn’t matter—nothing was watching her but the wide blue water and the inky dark sky.

  She closed her eyes and exhaled, long and slow, and let her mind travel back to that pink-walled bedroom with the gauzy curtains and the four-poster bed. The old transistor radio on the windowsill, diary open on her bed, and her heart aching as only a sixteen-year-old girl’s heart can ache. Unless you’re sixty-eight and your heart still aches just as much, only now it’s tuned to a different pitch.

  It started with her head gently swaying side to side, then her shoulders, her hips, her arms held outstretched. Rose’s bare feet slid across the cool floor, moving her through the space like a puff of air. She wasn’t thinking of anything but the lilting music, the soul-stirring words, the yearning in the voices. But after a few moments, her mind’s eye filled with image after image, and she danced for them all.

  For her brother and his once-fierce protection of her and her shining adoration of him . . .

  For her friend she’d never see again, the woman Rose lost when Rose chose her man, thereby severing much of what was good in her life . . .

  For the land she’d forsaken, and her remaining family with it . . .

  For Coach Beaumont and the peculiar way he made her stomach tie itself up in knots despite her best efforts to stop it . . .

  But mostly Rose danced for the little girl she used to be, the one with the bold heart who was told again and again to stay in her place, safe on the shore. She danced for the young woman standing in her bedroom holding all her hopes and dreams in shaky hands. She danced for the old woman she was now and the woman she’d be going forward, for as long as she had breath to live.

  When the music ended and the station went off the air for the long overnight hours, Rose kept dancing, her eyes closed, her face to the wide water and endless sky on the other side of the windows. She imagined all manner of faces pressed against the glass, watching her, ghosts of her past peering in to see what she had made of herself. But when she opened her eyes, all she saw was her own reflection. A woman swaying alone to an audience of none.

  When she stopped swaying, her face and neck were warm and flushed. She put a cool palm to her cheek, then cleared her throat as if to assure herself she was still in control of all her faculties, though she felt as dazed and loose-limbed as if she’d had two glasses of Toots Baker’s Alabama Slammer.

  In the kitchen she turned off the radio, twisting the dial harder than necessary to make sure it wouldn’t surprise her in the morning when the station kicked back on again. She turned off the single lamp in the den, darkening the memory of that restless dancing, of her flushed cheeks and racing heart, and tiptoed up the stairs, careful not to awaken her grandniece, sleeping peacefully in the spare bedroom.

  Eighteen

  Back in Fox Hill Lily had her own pair of scissors for cutting hair. It was impractical for her and her mom to share a pair, so when she graduated from washing and sweeping hair to actually cutting it, she used some of her tip money to buy her own. They never felt right in her hands, though. They made her fingers cramp, and she always felt like she was holding them incorrectly.

  After her mother’s death it felt almost disrespectful to use Lillian’s scissors, as if by doing so she was assuming her mother’s role in the salon and in Fox Hill, which everyone knew was impossible. There was only one Lillian Chapman, and Lily couldn’t be her, even if they did share a name. But she had to admit, her mother’s scissors felt good in her hand. They fit her fingers, didn’t pinch her skin, and generally let her do her work effortlessly.

  She may not have been able to take her mother’s place in Fox Hill, but this village was a new place. A new beginning. And pulling her mother’s scissors out of the red velvet case where they’d spen
t the majority of the last year and a half felt like bringing her mom along with her.

  As Rose had predicted, Lily’s schedule didn’t stay open for long. It turned out that the residents of Safe Harbor Village had very needy hair—hair that had to be washed, trimmed, dyed, fluffed, combed, and styled on a regular basis. And some even more than that.

  Janelle was one of her clients who came faithfully every week; twice a week, in fact. It was hard not to laugh with Janelle, if only for the outlandishly scandalous things that escaped her lips when she was draped in a smock and preening in front of a mirror, and Lily was grateful for her shapely appearance in the doorway again this morning.

  Janelle always requested Lily’s first appointment of the day—“Before your arms get tired”—but today Ida Gold was up first. Her husband, Peter, had called the day before to schedule an appointment for her, and Janelle had, after much urging on Lily’s part, agreed to be seen second, a demotion that was only partly assuaged by the glass of passion fruit La Croix Lily poured for her as soon as she walked in. That and the chocolate muffin Peter brought on a plastic-wrapped plate. She had still come in at ten, though her appointment was now at eleven.

  “Peter, honey, you’re about the only person who could convince me to give up my slot in that chair,” she said, pointing to the black swivel chair that Ida now occupied. “You’re lucky you’re such a handsome devil.” She took a bite of the muffin, groaning in bliss as she chewed.

  Peter laughed. “I appreciate you taking one for the team, Janelle. Ida likes to be home by the time her shows start.”

  He caught Lily’s gaze in the mirror and raised his eyebrows just a hair, and Lily nodded to show she understood. Peter had explained on the phone the day before that Ida grew agitated if she got off her schedule. That schedule included specific daytime TV shows that began at eleven. Lily had promised to have her out of the salon well before any agitation set in.

  “And don’t do anything wild and crazy with her hair,” he’d said. “Lord knows what that would do. She’s had the same hairstyle for too many years to count.”

  Lily stood behind Ida, combing her wet hair, trying to ascertain where her natural part was. She bent down to study the ends of Ida’s hair, how they fell against her neck and across her forehead. Each time she’d seen Ida—usually when Ida and Peter would pass by her cottage on their daily fast-walk—she’d noticed Ida’s striking dark silver hair. But her cut was severe for such a petite, sweet lady—blunt at the ends and angled down toward her chin. Lily wondered if maybe Ida had kept that style for so long only because no one had tried anything different.

  Back home, clients had asked Lillian for the cut they thought they wanted, but she regularly sent them out the door with the cut or style they needed, the one that made them feel even more like the person they wanted to be, or the person they felt like on the inside. Lily never tried that particular trick of her mother’s, mostly because she didn’t have the confidence. So far, Lily had done exactly what each client had asked as they settled down into her chair. But maybe now was the time to try a little of her mother’s magic.

  With a glance at Peter, who was flipping idly through a back issue of Ladies’ Home Journal, Lily swiveled Ida’s chair and stood in front of her.

  “Ida, would it be okay with you if I tried something a little different today?” she asked quietly.

  “How different?”

  “Just a little. I’ll . . . well, I’ll need you to trust me.” She hoped she wasn’t pushing too far.

  Ida hesitated, then sat up a little straighter in her chair and nodded.

  Lily’s mother’s scissors were light as air and so sharp she barely needed to apply any pressure as she cut. Small clumps of silver hair fell across the smock and slid to the floor. Lily didn’t need to cut much—she just needed to cut thoughtfully. She softened the ends, changing the lines so the hair didn’t angle so sharply, and created some layers around Ida’s face.

  Ida didn’t say a word, but she kept her eyes on the mirror, watching Lily’s every move and turn. A few minutes later Lily set down her scissors and picked up a round brush and the hair dryer. Ida closed her eyes. When Lily finished drying Ida’s hair, she held the dryer out to the side, its warmth still seeping into her hand. “You can look now, Ida,” she said quietly.

  After a small hesitation, Ida opened her eyes, but then she froze, her eyebrows arched, her lips pulled into a thin line. Lily smoothed the hair around Ida’s face, finger-combing it a little, trying in vain to figure out what specifically had so alarmed her client.

  What was I thinking? She’d tried to channel her mother, but instead she’d upset a sweet woman who didn’t need to be distressed about her hair, of all things.

  “Oh dear,” Ida murmured.

  “What is it, Ida?” Ever attuned to his wife’s emotional state, Peter hopped up from his chair and walked over. “Oh,” he managed, his brow furrowed. “That’s not quite what we talked about.”

  But now a smile danced on Ida’s lips. She turned her head to one side, then the other, then reached up and felt the ends of her hair between her fingers. “How do you like it, Peter?” Her smile was wide, the apples of her cheeks pink and round.

  Peter looked at his wife—really looked at her. He walked around the chair and stood in front of her, taking in the style, the way her hair lay softly against her neck and framed her face.

  “I think you look lovely. Pretty as a picture.”

  Ida turned in her chair and peered up at Lily. “Thank you,” she whispered. She reached and took Lily’s hand, squeezing it with strong fingers. “You made me look so pretty.”

  “You are pretty, Ida,” Lily said. “The haircut didn’t do that.”

  Over Ida’s head, Peter’s smile was both sad and grateful. After helping his wife out of the chair and paying Lily—tipping her generously—Peter found Lily’s hand and gave it a squeeze before bustling out of the salon. “Thank you for making her so happy.”

  Lily watched as they ambled down the front walkway, Peter’s hand on Ida’s lower back, Ida reaching up to feel her hair. Lily could tell she was smiling even though she couldn’t see her face.

  When she turned around, Janelle was already across the room, draping herself with a smock. “I hope your arms aren’t too tired,” she called as she perched in the chair in front of the sink. “My Summer Surprise Sale begins tomorrow and I need to look perfect.” She settled into the chair and rested her head on the lip of the sink. “If customers find me looking unkempt, it reflects poorly on my business.”

  Lily had yet to step inside Janelle’s business, the Pink Pearl. Honestly, she doubted she’d find anything that suited her tastes, if Janelle’s clothing choices were any indication of the type of clothes she kept in stock at the Pearl. But a handful of women in the village frequented the shop anytime they needed a little retail therapy, as did many “outsiders” who drove from as far away as Perdido and Robertsdale to find “Sensible yet Sensual Attire for Seasoned Southern Women,” as Janelle advertised on the front window.

  Today Janelle was wearing a sunshine-yellow top with pressed white capris and white strappy sandals. The outfit was mild compared to the tight pink marvel she’d worn to the Summer Kickoff party, though in keeping with her “sensual” preferences, she’d left the top two buttons on her yellow blouse open.

  “I’ll make sure your hair does nothing to detract from your business,” Lily said. “You have my word.”

  “Good. Do your thing then.”

  Lily bit back her smile as she washed and conditioned Janelle’s hair. A few minutes later, Janelle sat in the swivel chair with her hair hanging in wet waves down her back.

  Last week when she’d washed and styled Janelle’s hair, she just barely trimmed the ends to keep the locks “long and luscious,” as Janelle specified, and touched up her roots with her preferred shade, Electric Blonde 103. Not wanting to disappoint her very first customer, Lily had done just as Janelle had asked, leading Janelle to book t
wice-a-week appointments for the foreseeable future. Today, though, Lily felt she’d be doing her client a disservice if she didn’t at least suggest something a little mellower.

  She brushed Janelle’s hair, letting it fall into its natural part, and pulled it down alongside Janelle’s cheeks. “May I make a suggestion?”

  Janelle arched an eyebrow. “What kind of suggestion?”

  “Well . . .” Lily walked around the chair and leaned against the counter in front of Janelle, looking her in the eye. She chose her words carefully. “I think we may be able to find a shade of blonde that suits you better. Would you be up for trying something a little special today?”

  “Something special?” Clearly she was skeptical. “My blonde is fine. It’s very close to my natural hair color.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Lily reached into a drawer and pulled out a color card, pointing to a shade several levels below Janelle’s Electric Blonde. “I think something in this range—a warm caramel or honey—would really highlight your eyes and skin tone.”

  Janelle tilted her head, and Lily slid to the side so Janelle could better study her reflection. Janelle held the card up to the side of her face, narrowed her eyes, and pursed her lips. After a moment, she handed the card back. “Lily, I have a certain . . . reputation to uphold. A fantasy, if you will.”

  “But can’t you still be a . . . fantasy with warm caramel highlights instead of electric blonde ones?”

  Janelle hesitated.

  “The caramel and honey are both very luscious,” Lily said. “Captivating. Maybe even a little mysterious.”

  “Mysterious.” Janelle drew the word out slowly. “I like that. All right, missy, you win. Let’s go with the caramel.”

  What should have been a quick appointment turned into almost two hours, but Lily didn’t mind. Her next appointment wasn’t until one o’clock anyway, and going through the whole process of wash, trim, color, set, and style gave her a chance to work through her repertoire of skills. Instead of feeling overwhelmed, she was in her element, her arms and hands and fingers doing exactly what they were meant to do. And the dawning joy on Janelle’s face when she first saw her new ’do—all dried and curled and sprayed into place—combined with Ida’s earlier delight, was a boost to Lily’s confidence. She wasn’t her mother, not exactly, but she wasn’t the old Lily either. She was a new creation.