DeBeers 02 Wicked Forest

by V. C. Andrews

  "Right this way," he said. and led me to a chair in the rear of the salon.

  I couldn't help but feel everyone's eyes on me as I walked alongside him. Conversations were put on pause. Beauticians froze for a moment. It wasn't until after Renardo took my jacket to hang up and put my purse aside and I sat that the place seemed to come back to life.

  "So," he said. stepping behind me. let's see what we have here first."

  He lifted my hair with his hands as if he were dipping them in a mound of diamonds and stared at my image in the mirror.

  "Well. Miss De Beers." he began as if I were a four-year-old child. "you haven't been taking care of yourself as well as you should." He shook his head. "So many split ends. and your hair is too dry. I must do a complete treatment on you before we begin. We must wash it and condition it, and then we will decide on a cut."

  "A cut? You think I need a totally different style?" I asked.

  "But of course. senorita. You are not taking advantage of what your hair can do for your beautiful face." he said. "I think of a woman's hair as the frame for her face. which is the picture, and just like any wonderful picture, it can be enhanced or it can be diminished by a poor-quality frame. no?"

  "I suppose so." I said.

  "Muy bien. Then let us begin. You are in the hands of an artist. Don't worry." he said. and turned, "Trinity." he called to a young, dark-haired girl chatting with the receptionist. She stopped in what looked like midsentence, excused herself. and hurried to my side. "A wash and condition." he dictated. "Use formula forty-two,"

  "Si, " she said. She had bright, eager dark eyes and looked not much older than seventeen.

  "As soon as you are ready, I will be." Renardo promised.

  He gave the young girl a very hard, almost threatening look. then left us. She looked like she was trembling as she pinned the protective sheet behind my neck and turned my chair gently so I could be lowered to the sink behind me.

  "You are comfortable?" she asked as she did so.

  Yes.

  She tested the water, then began to soak my hair, moving her fingers through it with long, even strokes like someone who had just been taught how to do it and wanted to be sure she had the technique perfect.

  "It's not too hot?"

  "It's fine," I said, and closed my eyes. "How long have you been doing this?" I almost expected her to say I was her first client

  "Five years," she said.

  I snapped open my eyes.

  "Five years? How could-- how old are you?"

  "I'm twenty-one." she said. "As soon as I was sixteen, my father put me to work in his salon."

  "Your father?"

  "Renardo de Palma." she replied. "I am his daughter."

  "His daughter?" The receptionist was his niece. Was his whole family employed here?

  She began to scrub mare vigorously as if she was angry about revealing she was his daughter and put all her anger into her fingers. She was giving me a virtual head massage.

  "He wants me to become a beautician like him. but I told him I had other plans for myself," she muttered well under her breath, "He keeps me here helping, hoping I will give in and graduate to cutting and styling. My father doesn't look it, perhaps, but he is behind the times. He believes in the old-fashioned idea that a parent should design his child's whole life. He has even picked out the man I should many, a fifth cousin.

  "You would think in this day and age, parents don't choose who their children will marry," she added.

  You'd be surprised at how many parents still think of their children as their property, puppets to manipulate, I mused, thinking about Bunny Eaton, but I didn't say anything. I tried to relax instead and enjoy being pampered. After washing my hair, she put in the conditioner her father had prescribed and then told me it should sit for a full five minutes. I felt my scalp tingle delightfully,

  "I can get you a magazine, if you like," she offered,

  "No, I'm fine."

  She stepped back but remained at my side. I opened my eyes and glanced at her.

  "You're from Joya del Mar. My cousin was telling me," she said.

  "Yes."

  "You've never been here before, maybe on my day off?"

  "No. I've just moved to Palm Beach," I told her.

  "That's where Mr. Eaton lives. I know because I just shampooed his fiancee yesterday," she said with some pride.

  "His fiancee? Who are you talking about?" I asked, lifting my head. Was she referring to

  Thatcher's sister?

  "The lawyer, Mr. Eaton." she replied.

  "Who told you he was engaged?" I asked, a little more aggressively than I intended, She actually backed up a few steps.

  "Well, it's in the paper. I'm not making it up. I shampooed Miss Raymond and she was talking about it. too. She conies here twice a month with her future sister-in-law, but I don't shampoo her. She always asks for Carol Ann," she said, glaring at another young woman across the way who was working on an elderly lady.

  "You said it's in the paper? A recent paper?"

  'Si. You want to see it?" she asked me.

  "Yes, please," I said, lowering my head. My heart felt as if it was sliding down to the bottom of my chest.

  She went to the front of the salon and spoke to the receptionist, who reached under the desk and handed her a shiny newspaper. Then she hurried back as if she were delivering an important telegram to the Queen of England.

  "Here. It's in 'Talk of the Town.' " she said, opening the Shiny. as I knew everyone called the glossy paper, to the proper page and pointing to a column written by someone called Suzy Q. Most of the column was devoted to a recent charity event given by a prince at the Flagler Museum. It listed people who'd attended, and one paragraph picked up on a recently knighted architect, Sir Floyd Raymond, whose daughter Vera was rumored to be "expecting, but not a baby, not yet. Vera is expecting an

  engagement ring from one of the most eligible bachelors in Palm Beach, Thatcher Eaton. Sorry, girls, the counselor appears to be making a motion, and from what we've learned, no one in either family will raise any sort of objection."

  There was a picture of Vera Raymond with Thatcher, and she looked very much like the woman I had seen him with in the cafe. I could feel the blood drain from my face.

  "If you lived there. I thought you would know her and know all about it." Trinity said, her curiosity now piqued.

  "No. I just moved here." I replied, fighting to keep my voice from cracking. Managing a simple sentence was suddenly like unraveling twisted wire in my head. My fingers held the paper like pincers as I stared at the picture of Thatcher and Vera Raymond, his arm around her waist, both smiling for the camera. I'm sure I looked like I was trying to burn a hole through the page.

  You can keep that,' she said, backing away.

  "No," I told her, and held it away from me as if it had become contaminated. Gingerly she took it back, flashed a smile, and hurried to return it to the receptionist, who had been watching us the whole time. I saw them put their heads together to mix some new gossip.

  I lay back. It seemed hard to breathe. Despite the air-conditioning system, the air was oppressive and heavy. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it seemed to me that everyone in the salon was now looking at me and whispering. Minutes later. Trinity returned to rinse my hair and wrap it in a towel.

  "Are you related to Mr. Eaton?" she asked. She had obviously been given the assignment of finding out as much as she could about me and passing it down the line of gossips just waiting to cackle like hens.

  "I'm here to have my hair done," I said sharply. "Nothing more."

  Her hands lifted from the towel as if she had touched a hot stove.

  I glared at her.

  "I'll tell my father you are ready," she said, and hurried away.

  Moments later. Renardo de Palma was at my side, that soupy smile spreading like hot butter over his face.

  "So, now we do some cutting, no?"

  "No." I said, sitting up.


  "Excuse me?"

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I've changed my mind. I don't want to do anything different with my hair."

  I practically threw off the protective sheet, my heart thumping like a blown tire on a fast car.

  "But. senorita--"

  "I've got to go," I said. I moved quickly to get my jacket. Renardo's mouth hung open, his jaw slack, his arms up and frozen in position as he watched me put on my jacket.

  "But your hair... your hair is wet. and--"

  "I'm fine," I said. "Just tell me how much I owe you." He simply shook his head.

  "Very well. Send me a bill. then." I added, and marched down the center of the salon, passing all the gaping eyes. Everyone stopped talking and watched me hurry out of the place. When the door closed behind me. I felt as if I had just left a sauna. I took a deep breath and hurried to my car. Water was dripping from my hair down the sides of my face.

  Vaguely, I realized how mad and wild I had appeared and still looked to anyone who gazed in my direction, but all I could think of was getting myself away from those dissecting eyes and those whispers that had looped around me like chains, causing me to feel trapped and so naked and exposed that everyone could see the cracks in my broken heart.

  How could he do this? How could he take advantage of me this way and lie and betray me? I felt so violated. I couldn't feel any worse if I had been raped, I thought, I had been raped. Instead of force, he'd used promises and sweet talk. The rage continued to build inside me, expanding like a hot balloon that was on the verge of exploding.

  I didn't recall getting into my car and starting the engine, but after I had. I lurched away from the curb, cutting off another vehicle and nearly sending it into an oncoming car. The driver pressed on her horn, the blaring noise causing me to go even faster. I shot forward, then had to bring the car to an abrupt halt at a traffic light. The moment I did so, a police car pulled up alongside with its bubble light going and the officer stepped out

  He gestured for me to roll down my window.

  "What exactly do we have here?" he asked, gazing in at me. I simply stared at him, my lips trembling.

  He turned when the light changed and waved the cars behind me around; then he nodded toward the side of the street.

  "Pull in there and let me see your license and registration," he ordered.

  "I'm sorry," I said, hoping my apology would work like a magic wand and make him disappear.

  He acted as if he hadn't heard it and walked back to his car. He got in and waited for me to pull over, then pulled up behind me and got out again. I fumbled through my purse for my license and reached into the glove compartment for my registration. He read them both and tipped his hat back with his right thumb. I thought he looked very young, too young to be an actual policeman.

  "South Carolina, eh?"

  "I've just moved here," I said. "I haven't had time to change anything yet."

  "I see. You do drive like someone who hasn't got much time." He stared at my soaked hair.

  "I'm sorry," I repeated. "Something upset me and I wasn't thinking."

  "I see. Is that some sort of new hairstyle?" he asked. The strands were glued to my temples and cheeks, the water still traveling down the sides of my face.

  "No," I said, my lips and chin trembling,

  "Are you at a hotel here?"

  "No, a home," I said.

  "What's the address?"

  "It's called Joya del Mar. I have the address here somewhere," I said, reaching for my purse again.

  "That's all right. I know that address. You're staying with the Eatons?"

  "No, the Montgomerys," I corrected sharply, flicking the tears from my cheeks.

  He nodded.

  "One minute." he said, and returned to his car. Through the rearview mirror. I could see him talking on the car phone. A few minutes later, he returned.

  "Okay, Miss De Beers. Despite its fame and the people who reside here, this is a quiet little

  community. We like to keep it that way."

  "I understand," I said.

  "Yes, I expect you do."

  He handed everything back to me.

  "You'll have to think when you drive and not drive when you're upset. ma'am."

  "I know," I said.

  "Ordinarily, I would issue a ticket for that sort of reckless driving in our city, but you have a good man vouching for you. You can thank Mr. Eaton for this one Take it easier, and dry your hair soon." he added with a smile.

  He started back to his car.

  "Give me that ticket! I don't need anyone to vouch for me. especially Mr. Eaton." I cried, but he either didn't hear me or ignored me and got into his car. He pulled away first, leaving me fuming. I shoved everything back into my purse.

  I was about to start off again, but stopped before putting my car into drive and sat back. letting the fire inside me diminish, Then I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was still quite soaked.

  I was a ridiculous sight. That young policeman certainly got a shock when he looked in at me, I thought, imagining what I looked like from his perspective. Suddenly, I began to laugh, I laughed so hard at myself. I couldn't stop even after my stomach started to ache. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  I choked and coughed and leaned against the car door until I was able to catch my breath. Finally, I started away again.

  Driving far more slowly and carefully now. I found a place where I could pull to the side and walk down to the beach. I sat in the sunshine and let my hair dry.

  Sometimes, we're so eager for people to love us, we become so vulnerable, we're actually victims of our own hunger for affection, I thought, then vowed, I am not going to play the wounded one and mope and cry. Maybe I was out of my league here. Maybe Thatcher was truly no better than the man his mother claimed was his real father, but I wouldn't permit him to belittle and exploit me like this.

  I rose, my thoughts and feelings more collected, and returned to my car where I brushed out my hair the best I could. I was ashamed of myself, ashamed of my emotional deluge. I should be stronger if I -Kant to be a therapist and help other people, I told myself Daddy was always stronger.

  Or was he simply better at hiding his pain?

  5

  A Secret Ring

  .

  I think I've always hated secrets between people

  who really care about each other. They are like blemishes on a beautiful oace, dark spats. Your eyes are drawn to them like magnets and for a while, if not most of the time, that is all you can see. But what I didn't want to do was let my mother know how upset I was and how betrayed I felt because of what Thatcher had done. Hiding that secret seemed to be the proper thing to do.

  I felt I had gotten myself together enough to keep it all well concealed. We really had not spent enough time with each other for her to recognize when I was very upset. I thought-- or I hoped. But I was soon to learn that there is something about a mother and a daughter, some mystical bonding that even time and distance cannot prevent. It is an insight that a mother has simply by being a mother. I imagine, for she took one look at me as soon as I entered the house and, despite my carefully

  constructed mask of happiness, immediately asked me what was wrong.

  "Nothing," I said a little too quickly. Her eyebrows went up and her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  "Your hair doesn't look very different, Willow." "I wasn't happy with the beautician after all that big deal getting us appointments. I didn't like anything he suggested. Why fix it if it isn't broken? Right?" I

  asked, trying to smile and joke my way out of the moment. She kept her eyes dark and narrow. I wasn't doing a good job of concealing my feelings. I didn't want her to think I didn't want to trust her, to confide in her. I was in turmoil, being pulled every which way. Oh, what was the right thing to do, I wondered, keep my heartache a secret or fall into her arms, bemoaning Thatcher's betrayal?

  "Thatcher Eaton has been calling for you," she said as if she knew anyway. "He's
called three times during the last two hours. He asked me to tell you to call him at his office as soon as you got the message."

  "I got the message, loud and clear. If he calls again, tell him I'm not here," I blurted.

  She gave me that motherly, knowing look now and nodded. "What's happened between you?" she asked.

  I bit down on my lip and shook my head.

  How horrible this was. I had come to help her, to help Linden, and here I was, barely living with them and I already had more sorrow draped over my shoulders. I felt like a doctor who had come to minister to the sick only to discover she was sick herself. "Let's just say I've been disappointed and leave it at that for now, Mother," I begged.

  "Whatever you wish, Willow. I don't have big shoulders, Maybe I never had, but I'm here for you if and when you need me."

  "Thank you, Mother. Is Linden here or is he still on the beach?"

  "He's still on the beach. I wanted to go see how he was doing. but I was afraid he would think I was spying on him. He's been complaining about my being too much of a mother hen." she said, and smiled. He declared he wasn't an egg. He said he's already been hatched and that was that. It's difficult. Sometimes he doesn't hear a word I say, and then suddenly he is so sensitive, even catching my glances and accusing me of studying him like something under a microscope."

  "He's going in and out of awareness at the moment. I'm sure he'll settle down soon. His doctor will arrive at the best doses of his medicines," I predicted.

  "I hope so," she said.

  I went into my room and changed quickly into a pair of j tans and a University of North Carolina sweatshirt. It brought back memories of my boyfriend, Allan Simpson, and how, like Thatcher, he had disappointed me in the end, pulling away from me as soon as he learned the truth about my father and mother and not supporting my effort to get to know my real mother, He was so selfish and so selfabsorbed.

  How confusing men could be. Either they were so shallow and obvious, they hit you over the head with their intentions, or they were so smooth and deceitful, they broke your heart with the truth.

  Maybe we should create our husbands. I mused, pluck them out of a herd of boys and nurture them and cultivate them until they were perfect crops, then harvest them as husbands. The idea brought a smile to my lips and lifted the layers of gray from my brow.