Hair Calamities and Hot Cash.

by Gail Pallotta

  We continued down the street past a faux black bear and entered a store with a log cabin front. The scent of moss mixed with pine filled the air. Handmade baskets covered the ceiling. More stoneware dishes, small beaded purses, and handmade rugs sat on the shelves. I studied a pair of brown, tear-drop earrings peppered with tiny copper-colored specks lying on a display counter. Then I picked them up and wandered past shelves of colorful quilts to reach the clerk, an attractive woman with high cheek bones. The light bounced off the earrings. “These are so pretty. What are they made of?”

  Philip leaned close to me and gazed at them. “I believe those are quartz.”

  “Yes, the semi-precious gemstones come from this area. We cut and polish them.”

  Philip pulled his wallet out of his pants pocket. “We’ll take them.”

  “Philip, that’s not nec...” I had to stop him. How could I accept a gift from him when I intended to tell him not to call me? The strength to say the words escaped me every time I was with him, or I wouldn’t have been here today.

  The lady promptly took hold of the jewelry, rang up the sale, and handed me the purchase. “I hope you enjoy these.”

  “I’m sure I will.” I turned toward Philip. “What a nice surprise. Thank you.” It was all I could do to keep tears from spilling over my eyelashes. This kind man burrowed further into my heart every time I went out with him. Soon it would be too late to turn back, impossible to not see him. I had to take care of it today.

  “A little something for showing me around.” He flashed a satisfied-looking grin as though giving me a gift made him happy.

  What a sweet guy. God put one of us in the wrong place. We walked outside, and the bright sunshine nearly blinded me, but I put on my sunglasses to shield my misty eyes. If only I didn’t know the pain of losing someone I loved, maybe I could embrace each moment with Philip. Most women had dated at least three times more men than I had and never experienced the heartache I carried every day. I couldn’t add to it.

  The sound of a fast-paced tune filled the air. We turned a corner and joined a crowd gathered around a group of women wearing tap shoes on a stage. The ladies donned short light blue dresses with poufy skirts. They weren’t performing a traditional rendition as Fred Astaire would. Instead they formed in a line and clicked the toes and heels of their shoes in staccato movements. In unison they swung their left legs over their right in what resembled an Irish jig.

  Philip stared at them with intense eyes. Then he turned to me. “What are they doing?”

  “In this area folks call it clogging. I understand some refer to it as buck dancing. The dance form originated in these mountains when the Irish, Scottish, English, and Dutch-German settlers arrived. They toe-tapped to the fiddle or bluegrass music and the dances from their countries merged to create clogging. The word clog means time. The dancers keep rhythm with the downbeat with their heels.”

  I watched their feet and the fast pace mesmerized me until Philp said, “Wow. That was great.”

  He grasped my hand, and we meandered to the other end of the block. A fiddler dressed in jeans and a red plaid shirt played a snappy tune while eight men and women square-danced. The men wore blue jeans and western style red shirts with gold ribbing. The dancing ladies had on gold blouses and red skirts that swished just below their knees when they turned.

  Those participating joined hands and walked forward with their elbows bent. Then the caller instructed, “Circle left.”

  They formed a circle keeping time to the music in that direction until the caller sent them to the right. Then he declared, “Right and Left Grand.” They continued in the circle, but passing each other and clasping hands until he instructed them to Do Si Do.

  Each of the four couples faced their partners, passed right shoulders, slid back to back and ended up in front of one another.

  “Looks like fun.” Philip tugged at my elbow then guided me beyond the woman demonstrating how to weave a basket as the happy music faded behind us.

  I was glad he’d brought me with him. If we had nothing else, we’d have memories from the time we spent here. I’d been to many Western Hill Festivals, but today I was with Philip. His open innocence like that of a child, a side of him I hadn’t seen, endeared him to me even more.

  Philip and I crossed the street and headed up the other side of the village amid the vendors’ smells of popcorn and cotton candy. Philip kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk. “I lack the freedom to think. Uh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I think all the time about stocks, numbers, and portfolios, but I don’t contemplate the world around me.”

  “That’s true of lots of us. A hymn about this being God’s world comes to mind every time I visit here, and I can’t help but repeat the words from Psalm 19, the one that says, ‘The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.’ I think it’s because I stop bustling around, breathe in the wonder of the lush green hills meeting the blue sky, and relish the cool breeze on my cheeks.

  Wrinkles creased Philip’s brow. “After spending time here, I almost feel like a computer, as though I’ve been programmed to live a certain way.”

  Here was my opportunity. “I don’t know if that’s true or not, but we do have different lives. I’ve been thinking about that.”

  Philip’s eyebrows shot up as he helped me in the passenger’s side of the car. He scooted into the driver’s seat and tilted his head. “You’ve been thinking about our lives?” Shock lined his voice.

  Maybe in his mind we hardly knew each other, but this relationship, or whatever we had, had crashed into my life the same way his vehicle hit my shop. I couldn’t live with the emotional wreckage it could bring any more than I could the bashed-in wall and window. “Yes, I wonder if we should keep seeing one another. You’ll meet with Mr. Jacobsen soon then you’ll be off to New York.”

  The corners of Philip’s lips sagged as he turned on the engine and backed out. “I’d be so bored and lonely here without you.”

  Would he be bored and lonely in New York without me? “Naw, you’ve met lots of people. You know your way around. You’ll find plenty to do.”

  Philip stared straight ahead. “I’m not looking for something to do. I want to see you.”

  A warm tingle skipped across my skin. Thinking logically was difficult around Philip, but he was like a dream. I’d wake up one day, and it’d be over. I had to plant my heart in reality. “We don’t have much in common.”

  Philip drove down the mountain without speaking then pulled into my driveway and parked.

  “Look, Pete and Charlie came today and put in the window.” I flung the car door open and practically ran into my shop.

  Philip followed and stood beside me.

  “This is such a relief. They won’t be in here tomorrow when I have customers.”

  “Sweetheart, they’ll have to put up drywall and paint it.”

  The fire of excitement burning inside me for my shop the way it used to be dwindled like a flickering flame as we strolled outside and I locked the door. “That’s true, but I could ask them to come at night after I close.”

  “That would work.” Philip put his hand behind my back and guided me to the house. “Please don’t say you won’t see me again.” His eyes pleaded with me.

  He’d leave and forget me. I had to be strong. “I’m sorry, Philip, but that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  He stuck out his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Eve Castleberry.”

  That’s what I thought. I’d mean nothing to him once he left Triville. I shook his hand. “Likewise, Philip Wells.”

  His eyes looked damp.

  Silent sobs erupted inside me as he plodded with slumped shoulders to the old car. I shut the door on the only man other than Jordan who’d ever touched my heart. I’d soon know how big an imprint he’d left on my life.

  8

  Maneuvering the old car on level ground, Philip sailed back to the motel as the sky turned twilight gray. He gazed
at the hills towering around him and sensed his smallness. Loneliness swallowed him as he parked in front of his room. By rote he scooted out and lumbered underneath the yellow glow of the light by his door. The key clicked into a forlorn, silent night.

  Inside he tossed the newspaper from the burgundy and gold comforter to the floor and fell face down on the bed. Beautiful Eve with her sparkling eyes and lovable personality never wanted to see him again, and for the most ridiculous reason. He lived in New York, and she resided in the South. What difference did that make? She claimed they had nothing in common. They enjoyed each other’s company, had fun together. Wasn’t that something in common?

  Philip rubbed his head. Was the distance between New York and Triville a problem because she’d fallen in love with him and thought she needed to see him constantly? Was he in love with her? He’d had a good time dating Valerie Klingman, but it wasn’t the same as it was with Eve. Eve’s tenderness pulled at him like a magnet. Just seeing her set his heart on fire. As soon as he left her, he wanted to see her again.

  Was that love? Had losing it yanked out his insides and make him queasy, or did he have food poisoning? He put his arms around his stomach to stop the ache from churning. Anything that caused this much pain couldn’t be good for him. He’d honor Eve’s wishes and not ask her out.

  He swung his legs to the side of the bed, put his feet on the carpet then staggered to his computer and punched the ON button. The icons popped up as usual as if his world hadn’t blown up. Another message from Valerie. Her complaints stirred up the bile in his gut even more. Often when life closed in on him, he sat back and sipped a cup of coffee. The magic potion gave him a new perspective. Or perhaps, it gave him time to adjust to things as they were.

  He slogged to the machine and inserted a vanilla bean packet. The whirr jarred his aching head. The noise, which probably lasted only seconds, seemed to go on for an eternity. Finally, he reached for the cup, but the smell gagged him. He poured the libation in the sink. Servicing accounts was more important in this bad economy than ever before, but he couldn’t do it right now. He leaned over and switched off the computer.

  He changed into a pair of pajama bottoms, zigzagged to the bed, threw back the covers, and crawled under the sheet. He dozed off and on during the night, dreaming about Eve when she couldn’t style Joyce’s hair the way she wanted.

  The look on her face. She was so cute, puckering her lips as she worked. Lips that called for him to kiss them as he had when they’d gone across the rocks to the natural spring. Agile, she’d danced over the boulders like a sprite as though she belonged to the landscape.

  Tuesday morning he sat straight up in bed, perspiring, and choked up. Images of Valerie complaining about her portfolio and Eve telling him they couldn’t see each other again whirled in his mind. His gaze drifted to the computer, but his heart flew to Eve. He grabbed the sides of his head. What was he? A wooly worm? No. He was a mountain lion.

  He could fix the mileage problem. They weren’t living in the olden days traveling by stage coach. He’d fly back and forth from New York to Merchantville. He couldn’t desert Eve. After the disaster he created in her shop, what if she needed something?

  He bounded out of bed, showered, and shaved. No suit needed in Triville. He dressed in a pair of jeans and a light blue shirt then pulled the office chair up to the table in front of the computer. The sooner he answered these e-mails the sooner he could see Eve.

  Convincing Valerie he’d make a sound investment for her pressed on his mind. Placing his hands on the keyboard, he knew what he wanted to say, but he needed to phrase his correspondence to appease her.

  Dear Valerie,

  In these economic times I recommend stocks with little risk and good dividends. Go to our research page then let me know what you prefer. For security I suggest purchasing gold, silver, and possibly corporate stocks with a solid financial record. Consider my thoughts as well as yours then give me your selections. Together we’ll make your portfolio work.

  My Best Wishes for Your Continued Success,

  Philip Wells

  He rubbed his hands together and moved forward until he reached the end of the list he had labeled “Most Urgent.” The other investors could wait until this afternoon. Eve’s Clips should be open by now. He switched off his computer, dashed outside, and headed to the beauty shop. He intended to stay until Eve agreed to see him again.

  ~*~

  I sat in the kitchen, the sun playing on the round pine table while my tears fell into hazelnut coffee. I shivered in the warmth of the morning as though it was thirty degrees in the kitchen. First Jordan gone—now this. How much heartache must I endure?

  Did God send Philip to cheer me up and make me feel alive again? Or did Philip crash haphazardly into my life? Surely God would have sent someone for my future, not a person merely passing through Triville. God probably had nothing to do with it. What was I thinking taking up with a man who rammed a car into my beauty shop?

  Why did it hurt so much? I hardly knew the guy. I grew up with Jordan. It wasn’t a whirlwind, overnight romance. My dear Jordan. He’d waited for me until I finished my cosmetology course then we’d married, and he’d built the house and my beauty shop.

  The shop. What time was it? Eleven already. I wiped my tears and headed outside. I still owned Eve’s Clips. Butterflies danced in my stomach over having a customer in the disaster, but my eleven o’clock wanted to keep her appointment, and I was grateful. I couldn’t neglect my clients and lose my livelihood.

  I hiked across the porch onto the grass then crossed the pebble driveway. No sign of Pete and Charlie. I unlocked the door, and a musty smell hit my nostrils, probably from the sudsy water that had run all over the floor this past Friday. Philip had done such a good job cleaning it. I couldn’t get him off my mind. Yet I couldn’t deal with his unrealistic world, asking me out as though there was no tomorrow. Did he not care that he’d never see me again after Mr. Jacobsen returned?

  Why did he have to come to Triville? No one ever came here except tourists. Tears rushed to my eyes. My goal for today—keep him out of my head. I wiped my cheeks and turned on the air conditioner. The stale odor disappeared.

  Ellie Ringgold charged inside and set the curtain flying out from the window in the door. She swung her large yellow flowered purse as she approached me. “Hi, hon, I’ve been marking off the days to get this permanent. I want a loose wavy “’do.”

  “Absolutely.” I stood beside the middle salon chair and patted it. “Let’s get started.”

  She sat down, and I parted her locks in small portions and clipped them. I folded tissue paper over the first section, rolled it up, repeated the process and started to apply the permanent solution. “How’s Smitty?”

  “He’s fine. Saturday night he’s taking me to the Celebrate Triville Festival downtown. His brother’s coming from Deerfield.”

  Some of the liquid trickled toward Ellie’s ear. She stuck her smooth, slender hand out from under the burgundy cape and wiped it off. “Hon, I wish you’d go with us. Ask that good looking man who ran into your shop.”

  I jumped, yanked the roller, and quickly peered at her image in the mirror. She squinted as though she’d felt a twinge, but then her eyes softened into a sympathetic gaze. Apparently, she understood she’d upset me talking about Philip.

  “It’s all right for you to fall for someone. You’re young. You’ve got a lot of life ahead of you.”

  Ahh. Ellie was one of the kindest people I knew. “You may be right, but not with this guy.”

  Ellie’s auburn eyebrows shot up. “Why not? He seems friendly. I know he’s not from here, but he appeared to adjust well to us.” Ellie tilted her head. “I think he likes us.”

  How sweet. I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, he does, but he’ll leave soon.” I dampened the last roller.

  “If you charm him, he’ll take you with him.” Ellie stood and smoothed the burgundy cape.

  I bounced her words around in
my head. “I doubt he would. He’s wrapped up in his work and tennis. There must be hundreds of ladies chasing after him in New York.” My voice trailed off.

  Ellie picked up a magazine from the fan-like display on the vanity. “Come on. Don’t sell yourself short. You have lots to offer.”

  A smile bubbled inside me at Ellie’s attempt to reassure me. “That’s nice, but say you were right, and he asked me to go with him, I couldn’t imagine myself living in New York. I’d be lost.”

  “If you’re happy you can live anywhere. Nobody says you couldn’t come home to visit.” Wisdom lined Ellie’s tone.

  “I’ll think about asking him to the festival.”

  Ellie padded to my desk and eased down in the chair with the flowered cushion. “You don’t mind if I sit by your new window while this thing sets do you?”

  “Of course not. Make yourself at home.”

  Inviting Philip anywhere was out of the question, but Ellie was only trying to be a good friend. That’s one reason I’d said I’d think about it; the other, to keep her from throwing out ideas about Philip and me that stabbed my heart like knives.

  I held the small white timer in my hand setting it for twenty minutes when the phone rang. Putting it down quickly, I answered. “Good morning. Eve’s Clips.”

  “Hi, this is Pete. If you’ll let us in after your last appointment, we’ll hang the drywall tonight. That way, we’ll be out of your hair. Hee-hee, no pun intended.”

  “Good one. It must be ESP. I’d hoped you might come this evening. I’ll leave the key under the rock for you.”

  We hung up, and I sat in the hairstylist chair doodling with the box that had held Ellie’s permanent solution. Where was the neutralizer? I ran my hand around inside the container. Empty.

  I sprang out of my seat, tore to the back, and ripped the top off a box on my supply shelf. No neutralizer in there either. I opened all of the permanent kits and trembled in disbelief. In my mind’s eye I saw Ellie’s kinky hair. I stared at the useless supplies as though a bottle might appear if I gazed into them long enough. Instead images of tightly coiled, brown, blond, and auburn hair streaming from the containers popped in my head. I rubbed my face.