Later, while I lay in bed not sleeping, my mind replayed my conversation with the unpleasant Dr. Proctor. I was still furious, and I intended to make sure he knew it when I talked to him. His presumption of my guilt was as outrageous as it was unwarranted. I intended to set him straight.
I watched the lights from a passing car reflect on my bedroom curtains and thought about the strange call with Gideon Klee. Obviously he didn’t simply want something notarized. He could get that done at any bank or real estate office in the area and save himself the price of a meal. Did he want to pump me about Sam and Jeff? Did he want me to moonlight working for him? Was I such a wuss that I couldn’t say no to a steamroller? I avoided the obvious answer to that one. As I nodded off, I decided that he was another one I’d set straight. Grrrrr…
* * * * *
Morning brought no enlightenment, but it did bring a hazy memory of my dreams. In them, Klee and my father were chasing me down a street. Behind them was Dr. Proctor, lab coat flapping in the wind as he closed in on us. I wasn’t sure what it meant and found myself offering a small prayer of thanks that I’d never read Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams.
I rose and dressed quietly, determined to make my escape without waking Greg. Slacks and a semi-ratty sweater. No makeup. I had nothing on my schedule that I even remotely looked forward to that day, and I didn’t want Klee to think I had knocked myself out to impress him.
I tiptoed out of my room, pulling the door closed behind me. I needn’t have bothered. Greg’s door was open and his bed unslept-in. Apparently, Diane was really, really hot. I headed downstairs, thinking that I definitely would talk to him about safe sex.
I fixed a quick cup of coffee and took it with me, leaving a note telling Greg that I had appointments all day and that I’d see him that evening.
He drove up as I was backing out of the drive. Diane was still in the driver’s seat, I noticed, and probably in more ways than one. I gave her a quick once-over. Even I had to admit that she looked pretty hot.
Greg waved at me. I yelled “Back later,” and stepped on the gas. A narrow escape.
Traffic was heavy on I-285, but it still only took me ten minutes to reach the hotel. I arrived five minutes early. Klee was waiting for me at the entrance to the dining room, leaning against the hostess stand. I surmised from the pleased look on his face that the hostess was laughing at something he had said. He looked taller and even more tan today. He had a rugged, square-jawed face, and I thought he would probably look more at home in jeans and boots than the charcoal business suit he was wearing, although it hung on him quite nicely. He straightened when he saw me. A look of admiration rearranged his features, and I suffered some stirrings of discomfort.
He came forward to greet me as if he were welcoming me to his home. His outstretched hands grasped mine. “Mrs. Graham,” he drawled, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am you came.”
I shook his hand and pulled my own away. “Mr. Klee.”
“Gideon. Let’s go on in. Peg has our table ready.”
Peg? I let him lead me across the room and usher me gallantly into my chair. The attention made me uncomfortable as it would any woman who’d been married for a long time, but not as uncomfortable as the look in his eyes.
A waitress approached our table with a coffee pot. I smiled and nodded at her gratefully.
“Toast, please,” I told her, handing her my unopened menu.
“Toast? Why, a body can’t live on toast,” Klee said. “You sure you won’t at least have some fruit or something.”
“Just toast,” I repeated. I wasn’t a total pushover.
Klee sighed. “Same for me,” he said with a pained smile at our waitress.
I immediately felt as if I were depriving him of breakfast, but I wasn’t about to change my mind. I was only here because he’d pressured me into it. I had no intention of staying for a leisurely meal.
Silence fell after the waitress left, an uncomfortable silence, while Klee stared at me and I stared at my coffee.
I broke it in self-defense. “You’re staying here at the hotel, Mr. Klee?” I asked, more for the sake of having something to say than because I cared about his answer.
“It’s Gideon,” he said, kicking back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. “And no. I’m not staying here.”
“But you said your hotel.”
He had the gall to look embarrassed. “Well now, that was a little slip of the tongue. I—own it, but I’m stayin’ at the Four Seasons in town. It’s close to a bunch of my people.”
He owned it? I was proud of myself for not gaping. Even prouder when I blurted out, “I’m sure they have notaries at the Four Seasons. And here, for that matter.”
He grinned, a naughty boy caught out. “I’m sure you’re right, but I thought this might be a little more personal. And I wanted a chance to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Well, you know, sugar. To get to know you a little better.”
I started to my feet.
He reached out to stop me. “Now wait a second. What did I— Oh. Was it that sugar part? Why, I apologize for that. It’s the way I talk. I didn’t mean anything untoward by it.”
I sank back into my chair. I had never heard anyone use the word “untoward” in everyday conversation. This man was really a piece of work.
He grinned. “Of course, I’d be a liar if I didn’t let you know I think you’re a beautiful woman.”
I was so stunned by his words that I stared at him open-mouthed until my speech faculty return. “Mr. Klee, I think I should tell you I’m a married woman.”
He nodded as if in sympathy. “I could have guessed that. Don’t think for a minute that makes you a tad less beautiful in my eyes. You have a real nice settled look about you. I like that in an employee.”
Now I did gape. “An employee?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why, sure. Didn’t you know? I’ve gone into partnership with Jeff and Sam.”
Chapter Six
“A silent partner,” he went on. “I’m plannin’ to inject some much needed capital into their business. If there’s one thing I have an eye for, it’s potential, and those boys have a lot of talent. Be a shame to see it go down the tubes because they don’t have a head for business between them.”
His voice droned on, but I didn’t hear a word of it. I was flabbergasted. A partner? Had this been in the works and they didn’t think to mention it to me? Granted, I was merely a part-time employee, but didn’t I deserve to know who I was working for? I knew they had been surviving hand-to-mouth lately, but did they need cash that badly?
“…stay in the background and maybe steer them in the right direction on a project or two.”
“I…see,” I managed.
The waitress chose that moment to serve our food.
When she was gone, I picked up a piece of toast. Put it down. “Are there really any papers to be notarized?” I asked, feeling my cheeks begin to heat up.
“What? Well, of course there are. Did you think I made that up? Why, Mrs. Graham—Lou, isn’t it? I’d never make up a story like that.” He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a brown envelope. He took out the papers and spread them flat on the table. “I’m sellin’ one of my boats I got moored at Hilton Head. Buyer wanted to take possession this week, so he asked me to hurry up the paperwork.”
He pushed them toward me. It was indeed a contract for the sale of a boat. Somehow that didn’t make me feel any better.
“Course, I also thought it might be a good excuse to get to know you better.” He grinned. “Good to know your employees.”
I felt distinctly uneasy with this man. There were women, I was certain, who could sit at a table with a man like Gideon Klee and enjoy being looked at like a tasty morsel and talked to like his newest possession, but I wasn’t one of them. I reached into my purse and got out my seal and stamp and a ball point pen. I flipped through the contract to the end. “You sign here and h
ere,” I said, pointing to lines.
He was grinning as he pulled his Mont Blanc out of his pocket and signed where I’d indicated.
I quickly, and probably illegibly, scrawled my name under his. Then I crimped the page and stamped it. I stuffed my things back into my purse. “Thank you for breakfast,” I said rising.
His grin faltered. “There’s no need to rush off now, Lou,” he said, getting to his feet. “You’ve only been here a few minutes.”
“I’m only a part-time employee,” I shot back, turning to leave.
I could hear his chuckle as I nodded at the hostess and headed out the door.
High-handed. The words came to me as I buckled my seatbelt. High-handed and rude and—and not silent enough. Owned the hotel. Hilton Head. One of his boats. The man was obviously trying to impress me. To show me that he could afford to buy into the partnership?
I could only hope that was it. But I knew better, the same way I knew I was no femme fatale. I was too short to be elegant, too pert to be pretty. In fact, the adjective most often applied to me was “cute.” A highly insulting word, “cute,” and one I’d come to detest. Not lovely or seductive or desirable. Cute. If Klee had decided he wanted to know me better based on a two-minute meeting the day before, it was either because I was there or because I was forbidden fruit. Telling him I was married hadn’t altered his come-on one whit, except maybe to add a bit of spice to it.
I was still steaming when I arrived at my next appointment half an hour early.
The old renovated house was in trendy midtown, an area I usually avoided on principle. High priced, crowded, over-trafficked and fast-paced. Give me lethargic Chamblee any day.
As I parked the car, I felt a gray cloud of dread form over me. I was only doing this because I promised Mother, and I would never have made the stupid promise if it hadn’t been her birthday gift to me, one that seemed to mean a great deal to her. I shuddered as I unbuckled my seatbelt. I felt the door should have a sign over it, “Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here.” I knew who I was going in, but I didn’t know who I’d be when I came out.
Roger-the-hairdresser clapped his hands with glee when he saw me. “Darling, you came. Ellie said you would, but after everything she’s told me about you, I was sure you’d back out at the last minute.”
Yes, a makeover. My mother’s idea of a gift for me. She had presented me with this carte blanche as an early birthday gift a week after I told her I was going ahead with the divorce, and had nagged and nagged until I made the appointment. Hair, facial, manicure, pedicure, eyebrow wax (I flatly refused the bikini wax, but I did have to wonder if she had one) and makeup. Roger’s was a full-service salon. It was my idea of hell.
Roger was thin to the point of emaciation. Not AIDS, Mother told me when she described him. Metabolism. His hair was stylishly cut—no surprise—and fell with studied carelessness onto his wide forehead. He was actually pretty, with lashes darker and more lush and half again the length of mine over sparkling hazel eyes. I had never met him, but I felt like I knew him after all my mother had told me.
He was gay and proud of it. Originally from Clairmont, Florida, he moved to Atlanta to escape the small town’s small minds. His family was ashamed of him, his partner, proud. He was good enough at what he did for his salon to have been written up in the Atlanta Business Chronicle. I would rather have been anywhere else.
I guess it showed. “Now come on in,” Roger said, taking my hand and pulling me toward the back of the studio. “We have a full day, and we don’t want to waste a minute of it, do we?”
We did, but I bowed to the inevitable, looking around, interested in spite of myself. Most beauty salons were utilitarian and cluttered. Not Roger’s. The room gave the general impression of a modern art museum. Lots of black and white and chrome, but with splashes of bright primary colors in the art on the walls and the sculpture on pedestals at strategic points around the room.
Roger saw me looking at one. “Soho.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s from Soho Myriad. The art gallery?”
I shook my head.
He pursed his lips, shaking his head sadly. “Ellie said you don’t get out much.”
I supposed Ellie was my mother, Eleanor. I had never heard her called Ellie, not even by my father, or her father, for that matter.
Roger led me over to a group of guys sitting clustered around a cappuccino machine. “Here she is,” he said by way of introduction. He turned to me. “Nothing personal, sweetie, but we have our work cut out for us. Look at these hands,” he said, grabbing one of mine and holding it out for them to see.
One of the guys looked at them with professional interest and nodded. “Paraffin. Definitely paraffin.”
“I don’t even want to think what your little toes must look like,” Roger said, pulling me across the room. Lucky for him I was too amused by the “little toes” to be offended.
“I thought a trim,” I began, “and—“
“We’ll talk about that after we get you changed.” He handed me a bundle of terrycloth, which turned out to be a wrap with a matching robe. “Strip and put these on.”
“I—I—” I looked around.
“In there,” he said, pointing to a door across the room.
It was a closet, I realized, as I walked in and pushed the door closed behind me, an old, converted walk-in closet, with hooks all along one wall and a full length mirror at one end. I tried to pretend I did this sort of thing every day. I pulled off my sweater and hung it on a hook. I wasn’t sure about the bra. The wrap was strapless, but I’d have on a robe. But if I had to take off the robe for something, my bra straps would show. I wrestled with the sticky problem for several moments before I reached a compromise. I pulled my arms out of my bra straps and let them hang. Then I pulled on the strapless wrap. I felt pretty smart until I felt the bra begin to slip. With a sigh, I unhooked it and hung it under my clothes, carefully rearranging the sweater so no part of the bra would show. Then I slipped off my slacks and bundled myself into the robe.
When I walked back into the room, the little party by the cappuccino machine had broken up and there were two clients waiting in line to get into the closet.
“The shoes,” Roger said, pointing at my feet. “How are we going to get to those little toes?”
It wasn’t nearly as amusing the second time. I turned and kicked my shoes into the closet before I padded barefoot after Roger.
He handed me into his chair, a black vinyl thing that was going to stick to the backs of my bare legs. Then he turned me toward his mirror.
And I gaped.
There were half a dozen pictures of me stuck in the edge of his mirror. “Ellie brought them yesterday so I could begin to get some idea of what we were dealing with,” he said. “I made some preliminary sketches.” He reached over and picked up a sketch book, flipping from page to page as he studied my face from different angles. I wondered how much Mother was paying for this. I also wondered how much longer I could hold out before I started giggling.
Roger’s next words killed my urge to giggle. “A perm, I think,” he said, lifting my lifeless hair and letting it drop.
“Perm’s frizz my hair,” I blurted out.
You would have thought I slapped him. “My perms do not frizz,” he said, clearly offended. “I don’t know what caliber of stylist you’ve seen in the past, but if they frizzed your hair, they didn’t know what they were doing.”
That silenced me.
“And highlights to blend in some of this gray.”
My mouth fell open. That crossed the line. “I don’t have any gray.”
“Darling,” Roger said patiently, “when was the last time you looked closely at yourself?” He picked up a mirror with about four hundred watts of built-in light and held it behind me. Looking straight ahead in his mirror, I could see the back of my hair more clearly than I ever had. Roger was right. I had gray hair. When had that happened?
He must hav
e seen the resignation on my face. “There. Always believe your hairdresser. We would never lie to you about something like that.”
He replaced the mirror and picked up a pair of scissors. Then, looking from my hair to a sketch at his elbow, he began to snip.
At that point, I gave in and closed my eyes. After all, I had never been a vain woman. It was only hair. It would grow back. Eventually.
I maintained that sanguine state of mind right up until I felt something grab my ankle. I jumped so high I knocked the scissors out of Roger’s hand. They fell into the footbath that someone had shoved in front of me while my eyes were closed.
I looked at Roger sheepishly. “I know. The little toes,” I said, and stuck my feet in the water.
The less said about the individual treatments I received during that maiden voyage, the better. I was paraffined and curled and streaked and plucked and filed and polished. At one time, four people were working on me. I was also served an excellent lunch with a glass of chardonnay. Cappuccino and biscotti as a snack. I was close to exhaustion when Roger spun me around to face the mirror at three-forty in the afternoon.
I was―amazed. It wasn’t that I didn’t look like myself. I did. Sort of. I also looked a whole lot better than I ever had in my life. I turned my head from side to side, checking the soft curls that framed my face. I couldn’t actually see where he had put the highlights, but somehow they made my hair glow. The curls, without appearing to, added a much-needed inch to my height. My makeup was subtle to the point of invisibility, yet it was there doing what we all wish makeup would do. I looked at Roger in awe.
He smiled modestly. “That’s what happens when you let Roger do his job,” he said, leaning down to plant a kiss on my cheek.
In a daze that was only half exhaustion, I climbed out of his chair. He pressed a gift bag into my hands. “Your makeup. And there’s some lotion for your hands and feet. All paid for. Come in next week and I’ll show you exactly how to apply your face and how to style the do.”
He patted my cheek and headed to the back of the salon. I reached into my purse for my wallet and pulled out a twenty, dropping it on top of the sketchbook. Then I added another one. I didn’t care what my mother had already paid him. Genius simply must be rewarded.
An Irreconcilable Difference Page 5
