I’d seen Hannah all right, and nothing had gone as I planned.
7
Hannah
For the seventieth time in three minutes, I check my makeup in the rearview mirror.
The hair salon doesn’t open for another fifteen minutes, but I arrived extra early with butterflies in my stomach because that’s what you do when you land a job after being out of work for six years.
My day started at five a.m., when I awoke with nervous jitters and couldn’t let my head hit the pillow again. I showered, took time for the first time in weeks to actually style my hair, clothes, and face, and then spent an hour with the girls before I had to get in the car and go.
Technically, the salon doesn’t open to the public for another hour, around nine a.m., but the owner asked that I get here at eight to learn some of the basics. With no leg, or license, to stand on, I had no problem doing that. After all, she was taking a chance on me when there was no logical reason why she should. But they’d just had another apprentice leave to move across the country and were in a bind when I called to inquire about the job.
I look calm and cool on the outside, with winged eyeliner and a vintage Beatles T-shirt Dahlia lent me. I hope my outfit and style choices read both relaxed but edgy, and that they’ll fit right in at Siesta Salon, the boho-chic salon I googled pictures of before my first day.
The pay is minimum wage, and I’ll make no tips due to the fact that my first few months will be spent sweeping up hair and giving shampoos, but I am actually pretty excited about being back in the hair world. Once upon a time, I loved this space, had spent every waking hour in it. It was my passion, and though I wouldn’t be working on actual highlights or cuts for a while, I couldn’t wait to perform that art again.
Exiting my car with my purse slung over my shoulder and my heart two-stepping with anxious energy, I make my way to the entrance of Siesta.
It’s only about two minutes that I wait outside the front door of the salon before a woman with purple-gray hair comes to unlock the front door.
“You’re Hannah?” she asks, a warm smile stretching her mauve-painted lips.
“Yes. Ginny? Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand, hoping it isn’t sweaty.
“That’s me. Though I’m not really Ginny until my third cup of coffee, but it’s still nice to meet you. Thanks for coming in early.”
The woman I interviewed with, a co-owner of Siesta, is the size of a toothpick soaking wet, but has on jeans with a swirl of caftan and jangling bracelets preceding her every step as she beckons me into the salon. I can’t tell if she’s older or younger than I am, which I feel like is part of what she’s going for, but she’s beautiful in a way I’ll never be able to pull off.
The place is a work of art, with gigantic dream-catchers hanging from the black-beamed ceiling, exposed brick, vintage gilded mirrors and an olive and beige aesthetic that I’m sure puts every guest at ease. The front desk is made of a large slab of concrete, with flowering plants installed in little cubbies on its facade. The product wall is set up on glass shelves from floor to ceiling next to comfy cognac leather chairs, and the sink setup in the back is all flecked gold bowls and farmhouse pendant lights hanging above.
“Wow, it’s gorgeous in here.” I breathe, kind of mesmerized by the whole effect. “And while we’re on the topic of thank you’s, I really appreciate this chance. I know I’ve been out of the salon business for a little while. I’m grateful you took a chance on me.”
Ginny throws me a smile over her shoulder. “The other owner, Cassandra, is a bit of a decor freak. But I agree, it definitely makes it easier to come to work.”
She stops right in front of a coffee bar with several pots, an espresso machine, and a sign about cold brew in the mini-fridge below, and turns her amber gaze on me.
“As for the chance, don’t thank me. Full disclosure, I recognized your name. Who wouldn’t with how much it’s been repeated over and over on the news. And as someone who has been through that, we have to stick together. I know I could have used an outstretched hand when it was me. All I ask is that you work hard and take care of those girls.”
My heart plunges into my stomach. So, she’d given me the job because she knows I am a domestic violence victim.
I should have guessed that I wouldn’t be able to hide my identity for five minutes in here, especially with clients from the surrounding area, but I didn’t think I’d be addressing the elephant in my life this quickly.
“I … uh …” I’m stuttering and most definitely blushing.
Ginny reaches out to pat my hand. “I didn’t mean to be blunt, or embarrass you. I’ve just stood in your shoes. It gets better. That sounds so damn cliché, but it really does. So, let’s get started! I want you to shampoo me, show me your technique so we can talk about the products and method we use here at Siesta.”
She blows over the awkwardness so easily that I feel like I have whiplash, but I’m happy she doesn’t want to dissect my life. If anything, I feel a little comfort in knowing that I stand in the room with a fellow victim. I haven’t met many, mostly because who wants to talk about this? But the fact that Ginny extended me this job because of what I’m going through and who I’m married to, instead of denying me altogether because of it, speaks volumes to her character.
Trust doesn’t come easy for me these days, but a small part of me gives that trust to Ginny as she walks me over to the sinks.
After pointing out the new line of products they’re using, she sits in one of the seats and leans back, while I turn the water on and test it. As I watch the stream of water and smell the bottles of products, I’m transported right back to something I’ve always loved. This is like riding a bike, as I dig my hands gently into Ginny’s hair, massaging her scalp, lathering and rinsing. I take a chance and select some of the products I think might work well with her hair texture and color, and she guides me with a willowy-soft voice as she goes over protocol and training.
“You could have easily put me to sleep there.” She sits up and stretches as I wrap a dry towel around her neck.
“Now I feel like bringing you over to a chair. I’ve missed this,” I admit, laughing at myself.
“I’m all for a test blow-dry if it means I don’t have to use the curling iron on myself. You up for it?” Her eyes challenge me.
“Of course.” It’s the first time I feel truly confident about something in a very long time.
We walk over to what I assume is Ginny’s station, and she sits. Lining the antique wood table below her gilded mirror is a frame with her license, and then another frame containing shots of her and a burly man locked in each other’s embrace in front of the Eiffel Tower.
“That’s my Joey.” She smiles dreamily at me in the mirror.
I nod, trying to look happy for her, but the expression comes off as a weird half-sneer.
“You’ll find it again, you know. Not that you need to for a long time. But love, the real and true kind, will come,” she says sagely.
I shrug, and in a moment of vulnerability, my mouth opens. “I’m not even sure I want that.”
Ginny nods understandingly. “You don’t have to talk about it. Hell, it took me years.”
She leaves it at that, and I’m grateful. One, to be in the presence of someone who understands. And two, to be understood enough that I don’t have to talk it out. I don’t even know how to talk this out, or where to start unraveling my thought process.
I’m also grateful that she wants me to style her hair, because it’s kind of therapeutic and the whir of the blow-dryer while I use the round brush drowns out any conversation we could have. So, my thoughts drift to what’s been happening the last week.
Shane’s statement to the media still sticks in my mind, concrete and unable to be removed like a piece of hardened gum on the bottom of your shoe. I wade through it, the emotions swamping me in disgusting, stringy forms. The first time I saw it, sent to me via text message by my mother with a bunch of cursing emo
jis, my jaw almost dropped onto the floor.
Those words he said, written in to a news station rather than addressing directly to me or his family, were pure manipulation. He had private ways of getting a message to me, through the lawyers or even my sister after picking the girls up from a visit. But he chose a public sports news broadcast, because that’s how narcissistic he is. He put me in the hospital, and I still haven’t gotten a direct apology. And instead of focusing on the most important things to repair, he also begged for his career back.
Each word in that statement is like one more punch, or another pound of flesh added to the scales of justice tipping against him.
Divorce is on my mind more often than anything else, even the domestic violence trial. With each passing day, I feel my resolve strengthen more, that I can really do this on my own if I had to. Now I have Dahlia here for the foreseeable future, and I have a job. Colleen won’t have to help me with the house forever, and there is one thing Walker is right about; I’m pretty sure since we’ve been together before he signed his big contract, and the fact that the girls are half his, Shane would have to give me a pretty big monetary settlement. That alone could help us get on our feet, though it makes me feel a whole heck of a lot of shame.
The look on Walker’s face plays in my mind more often than not, when I told him I hadn’t filed yet. He looked so disappointed and confused at my words, and now I kind of understand why. What kind of woman stays with a man who hurt her? What kind of woman stays with a man so focused on his own agenda in this public scandal, that he’d put out a bogus apology like that but deprive his children of the budget they needed to live?
As my hands curl around the brush, teasing and styling Ginny’s hair into a smooth masterpiece, I chew over the thought of divorce, tasting it in my mouth and testing it as my new label; Hannah Giraldi, divorcée.
The salon opens an hour later, to at least a dozen people, half hairdressers and half clients, filling the space. My anxiety is through the roof, being in a space so public, but I seem to just fade into the background.
I’m the shampoo girl, the apprentice sweeping and taking coffee orders. Most everyone is cordial, nice even, but I’m not paid a lot of attention. And I get to focus on work.
It’s the first time in a month, probably even years, that I feel useful and productive.
And that makes a small flower of hope begin to bloom in my chest.
8
Walker
Most people might think I’m crazy, but I drive with my windows down as late as January.
Being from a small town in Northern Pennsylvania, that means I’m cruising around in my truck while air sinking below thirty degrees circulates through the cab. It’s frigid, even now, a week before Thanksgiving, and my teeth are nearly chattering as I whip through Packton.
But there is something about the clarity this winter air gives me. I’ve always been a homebody in a way, never straying far from the town I grew up in. A lot of people want to travel the world, see new places, or move into completely unknown cities and explore. While I suppose baseball has provided that for me, since I travel so much for games, I’ve never truly wanted to be anywhere else but here.
I love the community of Packton, the way your neighbors know your name, and you can bump into a dozen friends at the grocery store. I loved the homecoming parade in high school, and the summer carnival thrown every August. When I was little, my parents would take me to the Christmas nativity set up on the only Catholic church in town’s lawn, and then we’d go drink hot chocolate at the stand that popped up on the corner of Central Street every December.
There is something so picturesque about living here, and I know a lot of guys my age have no taste for the charm of a small town. Shit, most people would take one look at me and assume I wanted to be chasing tail in Los Angeles or New York.
Me, though? I’d rather be riding through back roads in the dark as the night air freezes my bones.
I hear my brother’s house before I see it, pulling down the mile long driveway until his bachelor pad comes into view. And by bachelor pad, I mean six-bedroom single family home complete with an infinity pool, guest house, and dirt bike track built into the backyard. His property is a teenage kid’s wet dream, funded and paid for using our parent’s money or his trust fund, and my brother acts like he’s just turned eighteen most of the time.
Tonight isn’t much different than any other night at Sinclair’s, other than the fact that I showed up for once. I never dare come over here during the season, knowing the kind of debauchery happening on these acres, and really don’t want to be here now. But I haven’t heard from my brother in a week, so I need to check in.
In our family unit, it’s just my parents, Sinclair, and me. He’s four years younger than I am, but at twenty-six has never truly held down a job for more than, oh, six weeks I want to say. Our father has given him every job opportunity within the Pistons organization, had friends pull strings to get him into record labels and PR positions. One year, he worked as a Wall Street trader for about three days. Then there was the week he pursued real estate in Miami. You name it, he’s been fired from it. Now, my brother simply lives off his trust fund, sleeps until three p.m., and then douses himself with alcohol until the early hours of the morning.
Normally, I don’t let it get to me, but he hasn’t been returning calls. Which means he could be even lower than he typically is. So I have to drag my ass out to one of his shit-show parties to see if he’s reached the bottom of the bottle yet.
“Yo, Walker!”
It’s dark as I walk up the driveway and lawn that are packed with cars, people littering out onto the lawn from the open front door. Some big bass rap song is blaring out of every window in the house, and Sinclair is lucky that his neighbors don’t live remotely close, because he’d be getting nightly visits from the cops.
Oh, who am I kidding? He either paid off or was friends with all the cops in town. Some of them are probably off duty in this house, partying right now.
Squinting through the dark, I see some burnout I went to high school with. I’m pretty sure he still lives in his mom’s basement in town, and I forget his name.
“Hey.” I raise a hand weakly, quickly walking past him.
I’m not here for a good time, I just need to find Sinclair and confirm that he isn’t drowning in self-pity … or some worse substance.
I make my way into the house which has been professionally decorated and staged with the most obnoxious of bachelor pad features. This includes a massive black leather sectional sofa that occupies the entire living room while facing a wall of at least six flat screens and more speakers than I can count; the place looks like a Best Buy.
Noise and bodies are everywhere, and I can’t believe my brother actually lives like this. I’m a social guy, I like company and a good beer with friends, but these people are virtual strangers. They’re invading his space, in most cases defiling it, and my own house is my chill out space.
“Ah, if it isn’t the golden boy, come to brace us all with his presence!” Sinclair slow claps as I enter the massive kitchen, and a bunch of his drunken idiot friends join in, whooping and hollering.
I sneer, holding up my hands like they’re all being ridiculous. “Just coming to check that you’re not lying in a ditch. You know, since you haven’t been returning my texts.”
“Aw, you worried about me? How sweet?” Sinclair’s dimples flash as he pats my cheek in a snarky manner.
I veer out of his reach. “What’re we celebrating tonight, then?”
My brother is wearing nothing but a bathing suit, even though it’s nearly Thanksgiving and about thirty degrees outside right now.
“Life, big bro. We’re partying that we’re here breathing. That the man hasn’t gotten us down.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder, and I smell the various alcohols on his breath.
“How very Ono and Lennon of you,” I grumble.
“Someone has to celebrate the love when ther
e are those of you in the world so straight-laced.” He shrugs.
“As if anyone would call me straight-laced.” I roll my eyes.
In fact, most people who know me would say I’m the ultimate extrovert. Typically, I crave social company, and would rather be out enjoying the town than alone. I even enjoy those stuffy charity events the team makes us attend.
But compared to these people, to my brother? I look like a hermit.
“Are you … are you high?” I ask my brother, trying to check his pupils.
My hand steadies his face, and he slaps my fingers away aggressively. “Don’t come into my fucking house and question me. If you’re here for a good time, then stay. If not, feel free to get the fuck out. You’re ruining my vibe.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re twenty-six, not seventeen. Don’t say anything about your vibe.”
“I’d like to up your vibe.” Some blonde who was tripping all over herself in a red leather bikini, which looked extremely uncomfortable to swim in, trails a matching red fingernail up my arm.
I shrug her off. “Sin, what’s going on?”
I know Sinclair is a party boy, that he probably dabbled, but thinking about him getting into anything more hardcore than a little weed scares the shit out of me. My brother had demonstrated in the past that he has little to no self-control, and get him in the wrong group of people, I doubt there isn’t anything he wouldn’t try.
But from friends I’ve heard from around town, this month has been particularly crazy over on my brother’s property. Parties every single night, multiple noise violations, and someone said a girl nearly drowned last week. Something is up.
“Didn’t our dear old dad fill you in? I got fired. Again.” He holds up an entire bottle of tequila in salute and then begins swigging.
I scramble to pull it from his mouth, the liquid splashing on my arm. Great, now I’m going to smell like a bar.
Stealing Home (Callahan Family Book 2) Page 5
