The voice had lost none of its rich texture or power, familiar from musicals of the late fifties and early sixties. Heads swiveled beneath the blow dryers and curling irons.
"Well, don't keep me in suspense!" Emma escorted her client to the shampoo bowl.
"Ah." Genevieve leaned her head back with a dramatic sigh as Emma fastened the protective cape. "You must give me the truth, Emma. You're the only one I can trust. Do you think my hair, well, dates me a little?"
Emma hesitated. The former actress clung to her dramatic upsweep, a look popular several decades before. She'd only allowed Emma to modernize it a little.
The last thing Emma wanted was to antagonize her. But she'd always been honest with Genevieve.
"I think we could make some improvements," she said as she shampooed that famous head. "Is there some special occasion coming up?"
"Indeed." And then, maddeningly, Genevieve closed her eyes and fell silent to enjoy the scalp massage.
Emma tried not to wince at the twinges in her back as she bent to her work. It was already four o'clock, and it didn't help to remember that tonight she worked until nine.
Still, she loved styling hair and always had. In some ways, she supposed, she felt about it as an artist must feel about clay, seeing forms and possibilities where others saw only shapelessness. Finding the techniques—inventing them if necessary—to make the most of a woman's potential challenged and intrigued her.
Ten years before, just out of school, Emma had aimed high. After volunteering to style hair for the school's drama productions and at a community theater, she'd dreamed of becoming a hairdresser for movie stars. After all, Hollywood was just an hour's drive up the freeway from La Habra, California.
She'd never really given up hope, but events seemed to get in her way. No, that wasn’t true, Emma told herself firmly as she wrapped a towel around Genevieve's hair and helped her to the workstation.
In truth, Emma's choices had led her in another direction. Accustomed to taking care of her widowed father, she'd felt cast adrift when he'd remarried. Maybe that was why, at nineteen, she'd married Bill; he'd needed her. And then she'd gotten sidetracked trying to have children, suffering several miscarriages before she finally succeeded. Only now...
"What sort of improvements, precisely?" Genevieve wrenched Emma's attention back to the present.
"It would help if you told me what the occasion is," Emma said. "A cruise? A charity ball? Dinner at the White House?"
"Oh, that." Genevieve, having dined with presidents many times, waved a dismissive hand. "No, no."
"You aren't going to be mother of the bride!"
"Oh, heavens, no." Her client's mouth twisted wryly. "Alyssa, get married? To one of those long-haired hooligans in her band? Spare me!"
Genevieve's daughter, the child whom she'd retired from show business to raise, had become America's top female rock singer. Famous for her brassy shock of red hair and her belting contralto voice, Alyssa was also known for her on- again-off-again feuds with her mother.
"Well?" Emma said lightly. "I give up."
Genevieve smiled. "My dear, I'm going to stage a comeback."
Emma didn't have to feign delight. "That's wonderful!"
"Alyssa is broadening her career," Genevieve went on. "She's going to host a music special on TV. She's hoping to get some acting jobs, she says. And since she and I are currently on good terms, she's asked me to guest star."
Emma fluffed her client's hair and examined it in the mirror. "Might I suggest—a little shorter on top, and a touch more curl? Dignified, but more youthful. What do you think?"
"I can never visualize these things," Genevieve said. "But you always come through. You will do my hair for the show, won't you? We'll be taping week after next."
"There's nothing I'd love more." Emma went to work with comb and scissors. "I'll clear my calendar."
Inside, her heart thumped in what felt like a tango. Here it was, her first break. She would have to do such a terrific job that Genevieve would never even consider switching to a more famous stylist.
A short time later, Genevieve examined her new hairstyle in the mirror. To Emma's critical eye, the actress's cheekbones looked more pronounced and the determined squareness of her jaw had softened.
Genevieve turned her head and examined her hair from a different angle. "You know, it does make me look younger. How clever you are, Emma."
"It was fun." She whisked the cover from her client's clothes and dusted away leftover bits of fuzz. "I like a challenge."
That was when the idea came to her, full-blown. The step that might, if she were lucky, make a big impression on Hollywood with one fell swoop.
Emma took a deep breath as her client left a generous tip on the table. "Genevieve, thank you. And—well, this may seem a bit presumptuous—"
"My dear." The actress laid a hand on her wrist. "I do realize that you're ambitious. You ought to be, with your skill. You're wasted here. Go ahead and ask."
"I wondered if Alyssa might consider a new look, as well," Emma said. "Since she's broadening her scope."
"You don't have to convince me." Genevieve chuckled. "Do you think I like that hideous red mop? I'll tell you what. Alyssa is coming for dinner Sunday night. Why don't you drop by for coffee afterward? Around seven, perhaps. Then it's up to you."
Emma kept her tone crisp and professional, while inside she wanted to shout. "Thank you so much."
"Here's the address." Genevieve handed her a card. "I'll see you then." And she strode away through the salon, momentarily silencing conversations as, again, everyone turned to look.
"Who did her hair?" someone asked when Genevieve was gone. "It looks great."
A shiver ran through Emma as she cleaned her station and got ready for the next client. Good luck had come calling at last, and she wasn't going to let it escape.
"Mommy! I can’t get the seat belt off!"
Emma paused on the sidewalk in front of her single-story, California bungalow-style home, balancing her oversize purse, Otto's bag of toys and the gallon of milk she'd picked up at the drive-through dairy. "Could you try again, honey? I don't have any extra hands."
"I can't do it!" Otto declared with three-year-old fervor. He wasn't even trying to unhook the belt from around his booster seat.
"Honey…"
"Why's it so dark?" Otto asked.
"Because it's nine-thirty at night." Emma sighed.
"Why is it?"
"Otto!" Emma set her purse on top of the car to help him out. "You know I work till nine on Fridays."
"I know," he said sadly. "I miss you."
"Did you have a good time at Roy's house?" she countered as she helped him out, slammed the car door and scooped up her purse with the dexterity of a circus contortionist, or an experienced mother.
"He's got all the Transformers and a fire truck," said Otto, to whom his four-year-old friend's house was almost as exciting as Disneyland. ''Why does he?"
"Because his daddy buys them for him." Standing on the porch, Emma unlocked the door, then switched on the light with her elbow as she staggered inside. Her feet hurt, and right now not even the prospect of redesigning Alyssa's hair could raise much excitement.
She needed a cup of coffee and a bath. And lots of hugs and cuddles from her little boy.
That first year, when she'd only worked a few days a week to supplement Bill's earnings, she and Otto had spent joyful mornings at Mommy and Me classes and blissful afternoons at the park.
Since Bill's death and her return to full-time work, their moments together had become even more precious. Otto attended preschool during the day, and her two best friends helped out with baby-sitting the evenings she worked.
"Can I watch Bambi?" Otto padded along like an eager puppy as Emma made her way into the kitchen. "Can I have some pudding? Can I have juice in a bottle?''
"You're too old for a bottle," she said automatically as she put the milk away.
"But I'm thirsty,"
Otto protested. "Please, Mommy?"
In the full glare of the track lighting, Emma got a good look at her son for the first time that night.
His large dark eyes, so like her own, were surrounded by black smudges. The curly blond hair, just like his father's, clumped together at the top where Roy must have poured something over it.
"What did you two do, roll in the mud?" Emma closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, he was still there, and still dirty. "Bath time, fella."
"I don't wanna take a bath!" Even as he spoke, Otto began pulling off his Big Bird sweatshirt. It got stuck around the upper arms. "Help me, Mommy.”
Emma knelt and gave him a hug, then eased the shirt off. "You poor baby. I've hardly seen you all day and I just want to hold you.''
"Can I have my milk?" Otto asked.
"In a cup.'' Emma glanced wistfully at the empty coffee- maker. "And one bath, coming right up."
Fifteen minutes later she felt calmer. Otto had been scrubbed and was blowing soap bubbles through a pipe, giggling as they landed on the water. She'd given herself a pedicure while Otto bathed, and the house was warming against the February chill.
"Mommy!" Otto said. "My hands are all wrinkled.”
He kept up a running chatter as she dried him and helped put on his pajamas. Only then did she notice that the water hadn't drained out of the tub.
"Did you open the drain?" He nodded earnestly. Emma checked. Sure enough, the drain was open.
"Is it backed up again?" Otto said.
"Looks like it." Hoping against hope that it would gradually clear out, Emma steered her sleepy son into his bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she read him two books and then had him tell her about the events of his day, first at preschool and then at her friend Betsy's house. Finally she kissed him good-night and turned off the lights.
Please, she prayed silently, let the tub be empty. I won't even try to take a bath myself, I promise.
But the brownish water just sat there, not an inch lower than when she'd last checked.
Emma leaned against the door frame, exhausted. She and Bill had talked about the dangers of his being a firefighter, but La Habra was such a quiet town, she hadn't expected anything to happen. A lousy cigarette, a roof that collapsed unexpectedly—none of it seemed significant enough to have taken Bill away.
She hadn't been ready to lose him. Not just because she and Otto needed him, but because there was so much unfinished business between them. And especially between him and Otto.
Why was it, Emma wondered as she called and left a message with a plumbing service, that such a good man could resent his own infant son? Not that Bill hadn't tried to be a good father, but he'd lacked patience. And he'd missed having Emma's undivided attention.
All those years, after her miscarriages, he'd been unfailingly kind and understanding. Each time, they'd taken a vacation together, had played on the beach and enjoyed long luxurious dinners.
Of course she'd missed that, after Otto came, but the baby had been so perfect, so tiny and amazing. She could still smell his slightly soapy innocence, feel the exploratory grasp of little fingers on her hair and see the toothless grin as Otto propped himself up on chubby arms and welcomed her to his crib in the morning.
It had hurt and puzzled her, seeing the irritable look on Bill's face when she left his arms to answer Otto's call. She didn't like the fact that their last year together had been so difficult. Surely he would have changed as the boy grew old enough to talk and play games with Daddy.
"Mommy!" Otto called from the bedroom. "Come give me 'nother kiss!"
Emma hurried in. Gathering the boy in her arms, she kissed his sweet little face and cuddled his body as he relaxed into sleep. She sat in the dark for a while, holding him, wishing that fate had given Bill time to fall in love with the miracle that was their son.
The water was still sitting in the tub on Saturday morning as Emma wandered into the bathroom at seven o'clock, awakened by an unsympathetic internal clock.
She glanced blearily into the mirror and then quickly away. Her brown hair, short and curly in front and hanging straight to her shoulders, lay limp and dull against her neck.
Emma made her way to the kitchen, musing that it was a good thing Alyssa Loos couldn't see her looking like this; she certainly wasn't much of a walking advertisement for her own services. On the other hand, she didn't suppose even a rock star looked all that terrific first thing in the morning.
What was she going to do about Alyssa's hair, anyway? Emma wondered as she measured coffee into the filter. Would the singer go for a dramatic change? A client's personality was as important as her hair type in determining what style to choose. Maybe Emma should work up some drawings, except that her pictorial talents were confined to the stick figures she drew for Otto.
As she was dropping her bread into the toaster, a familiar voice began chattering from the bedroom. "Mommy!" Otto called. "I want my Breakfast Bears."
Mentally, Emma weighed whether to fight him over the cereal, which wasn't much better than eating graham crackers. She decided to cook oatmeal and hope for the best.
A short time later, Otto was drinking his juice and eyeing the oatmeal. "Is this good?" he said.
"Delicious." Emma poured a cup of coffee for herself.
After a moment's internal debate, Otto began eating.
As she breakfasted with him, Emma contemplated the chores she had lined up. Grocery shopping. Oh, yes, and checking beneath the hood of her car. If she were careful, she could postpone a tune-up for another month or two.
While she earned a decent income, it never stretched quite far enough. And she'd be taking a big chance, postponing other hair appointments to work exclusively on Genevieve for however long the taping lasted. It was a risk worth taking, but Emma had more than herself to consider.
Still, it looked like the weather was going to be beautiful, one of those special days that brighten Southern California even in February. She and Otto could pack a picnic lunch and go to the park this afternoon. Otto loved swooping down the slide and clambering up the play rocket ship.
"Did I eat enough?" asked the subject of her thoughts, pushing away his bowl. "Can I have bears now?"
The doorbell rang. Otto started to get up.
"Stay there," Emma said. "It's probably some kid selling chocolate."
The doorbell rang again, loudly and merrily. "Plumber!" came a masculine announcement.
"Don't leave!" Emma hurried into the living room. Only as she opened the door did she remember that she was still wearing her bathrobe and looking like a refugee from an all- night horror film festival.
"Hi," said the last man she'd ever expected to see, leaning in the doorway.
Chapter Two
Eric Jameson. Even in overalls and a plumber's cap, there was something commanding about his presence.
His light blue eyes examined Emma with friendly but impersonal curiosity. There was no reason why he should remember her, and yet Emma felt oddly disappointed. They'd spent only one afternoon together, many years ago, but in those few hours they'd touched each other in a special way. Or at least, so it seemed to her.
Eric's high-cheekboned face had matured in the ten years since high school, although an unruly shock of sandy hair still curled like a question mark across his forehead. But what was the La Habra High School class president, the son of the city's former mayor, doing in a plumber's uniform?
"Mrs. Lindt?" He studied her reaction curiously. "Is something wrong?"
"No—I'm sorry." She stood back, wiping her hands on her bathrobe. "You're from J&J Plumbing?"
"Your message said something about a plugged drain." He stepped inside, tool kit in hand, and looked at her again. She thought for a moment he had recognized her, but he gave no sign of it. Still, he was studying her with an intensity that sent a warm rush across her cheeks.
"Actually—" she began.
"I'm sorry. I don't know why—" he said at the same time, and t
hen Otto appeared in the kitchen doorway, still wearing his bib and clutching a box of Breakfast Bears.
"Is this the plumber?" he asked. "Is he gonna fix the tub?"
"I sure am." Eric squatted so he and the boy met at eye level. “What's your name?''
"Otto. I'm three."
"I'm Eric and I'm twenty-eight. Those look good."
"You want some?" Otto asked.
"Honey!" Emma shot him what was meant to be a quelling look, but her son ignored it. He knew she wasn't going to escort him back to the table right now and force him to eat oatmeal, so he thrust a hand into the cereal box and held some out to Eric.
“We can share,'' Otto explained.
"Sounds like a good idea." Solemnly, Eric helped himself to a few sticky bears, then straightened. "Now, where's that tub?"
"Through here." Emma led the way down the hall, wondering if he would notice the photographs that lined it, especially the one from Emma's high school graduation.
But Eric's attention was focused on the job. "If it's just some hair, we'll have it cleaned out in no time."
"I hope so." Emma caught Otto as he tried to follow Eric into the bathroom. "It's time to finish that cereal and get dressed." Ignoring his protests, she steered her son to the kitchen, listening with half her attention to the clinking as Eric tried to clear the drain.
Eric Jameson. She'd thought of him in momentary flashes, wondering about what might have been. By now, he should have finished architecture school and begun changing the way homes would be designed in the twenty-first century.
Mostly out of curiosity about Eric, she'd regretted not being able to go to their class reunion last summer, but she and Otto had both come down with the flu. She'd imagined Eric strolling into the reunion with a beautiful and accomplished wife on his arm, and pictured him quietly dominating his fellow alumni. There had always been a sense of coiled tension about him, as if he were merely pausing on his way to some vital destination. It had made everyone listen carefully to whatever he'd said.
What was he doing working for J&J Plumbing?
In the back of her mind, Emma recalled that Eric's father had died years ago. Harlan Jameson, a prominent physician and former mayor, had made the front page of the newspaper when he collapsed of a heart attack right after performing a kidney transplant. But surely he'd left enough money to see his children through college.
By Leaps and Bounds Page 23
