by Imani King
I sit in the portable chair, startled when the more rounded of the sisters, Bea, sits on the floor and lifts my left foot to inspect it.
“You have nicely shaped toenails,” Bea says.
“Thanks.” How does one respond to a compliment like that? Before I can think of something more to say, the other sister pulls back my head.
Jill runs a wide-toothed comb through my layered locks, ruthlessly dispatching any tangles. “You should use a premium conditioner and crème rinse.”
“Okay.” I don’t bother to mention it is only recently that I haven’t been restricted to store brand shampoos. Forget about conditioner, even generic. Diapers came first.
Somehow, Anne manages to squeeze herself in to apply a cool, fizzy mask to my face. “By the time Jill finishes your hair, this should be ready.”
I see from the corner of my eye that Anne has joined Lillian on the edge of the bed. They are soon in whispering. I don’t know whether I should be paranoid about what they are planning to do, or assume they keep their voices low so as not to wake the baby.
I endure ten minutes of vigorous brushing before Jill begins clipping my hair. “Don’t go too short,” I say at one point.
“Don’t worry,” Jill says in a cheerful tone. “I’m a professional.”
“I don’t like short hair.”
“You’ll love it.”
I sigh and close my eyes, trying to ride out the stinging mask. It has changed from refreshing to painful in just a few minutes. “Shouldn’t this come off?” I ask as someone places cucumber slices over her eyes.
“Twenty minutes, dear,” Anne says.
At least the pedicure and manicure isn’t too bad, I concede. Bea has a soft touch and fast hands. By the time Anne comes back to remove the cucumber slices and mask that has become the equivalent of fire on my flesh, Bea is applying the last coat of polish to my fingernails.
When I lift my head and see my image in the mirror, I gasp. The various layers are gone, and my hair curls softly two inches above my shoulders. It looks thick and full, but too short. I reach up to touch it and frown when Jill smacks my hand lightly.
“Don’t touch. We wouldn’t want to interfere with the varnish.”
“Varnish?”
“It locks in the shine.”
“It’s so short.” I shake my head, getting a dark look from Jill. “What? I can’t move at all?”
“Not right away. Once the varnish dries, I’ll finish the style. Then you can move it, touch it—whatever you want. It won’t go anywhere.”
“For how long?” I can’t help chewing on my lip.
“About eight hours.”
I sag with relief, and then stiffen as Anne rubs something that feels like ice across my face. “What’s that?”
“It counteracts the mask we applied.”
“Why bother with the mask?” I mumble through stiff lips, alarmed by the way my facial muscles seemed to be frozen. I look down as Bea turns on a nail dryer and holds it over my fingers.
“Skin toning,” she says with a smile. Anne blots my face with a soft cloth and steps back. “Jill will finish your hair before I begin the makeup.”
Bea moves the dryer to the other hand. She stepps away about a minute later, folding the dryer. “I went for simple to match your dress.”
I look down, and my eyes widen at the “simple” manicure. The base coat is almost translucent, and Bea has used white polish to form a lacy pattern across the nails. “It’s beautiful.” I lift my foot and see all the toes match.
Bea smiles and moves away from the area.
Jill uses a curling iron to fluff out the ends of my hair and to feather back the sides. It is a pretty style when she finishes, but I can’t get over how short it is. I don’t bother to say anything about the length when Jill steps back and holds her hands up in a quirky imitation of Vanna White presenting a letter.
“It’s super shiny. Don’t you just love it?”
“Thanks.” I make the effort to smile at Jill, who moves away without any indication that she realizes her haircut is less than a success.
Anne fills up the empty space, bringing a large plastic case. She opens it to reveal rows of makeup in a dazzling assortment.
I close my eyes again as Anne’s deft fingers work foundation into my skin. I vow to like whatever changes they wrought, knowing Lillian has gone to a lot of trouble to arrange the treatment. The makeup will wash off, the nail polish will eventually peel away, and the hair will grow back. The changes are temporary and certainly not worth upsetting Lillian.
A few minutes later, Anne says, “You can open your eyes now, Ms. Davis.”
I look into the mirror, and my lips—painted a soft salmon shade—fall open into an O. My complexion has the appearance of a china doll’s face, with glowing skin, softly defined cheekbones that seemed to slash across my face, and deep brown eyes highlighted with neutral colors. I never could have created the look with my limited knowledge of cosmetics.
“What do you think?” Lillian’s hands are clasped together, and she seems nervous.
“The transformation’s amazing,” I say with a big smile. I look over at Bea and Jill to thank them and see they are working on Tamara. The baby looks grumpy as Bea paints her tiny nails, while Jill ties a pink bow in the thick brown strands of her hair. “Are you next, Lillian?”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
I turn to Anne. “Would you have time for Lillian?”
Anne glances at her watch and nods.
Within seconds, they have traded places. I ignore Lillian’s protests as I step back to allow the Ross women room to work. I walk over to Tamara and lifted her. “Good morning,” I whisper, gently touching the pink bow. It appears to be secured with some clear, sticky goop. Perhaps the stylists’ version of rubber cement?
I still wore the robe and decide to keep it on until they tell me otherwise. I locate a bag near the foot of the bed and change Tamara’s diaper. Then I take the tiny pink dress from the three hanging behind the door and slip it over Tamara’s head. I decide I like the frilly pink creation better than the white dress Sue Ellen suggested for the baby.
By the time I have Tamara in her tights and white, patent leather Mary-janes, Lillian is done. She looks several years younger, and her hair has been cut shorter and fluffed around her head. She looks dazed as the women lead her to the dresses.
Shawna grasp her hand and press a kiss to Lillian’s cheek. “I couldn’t be the only one to suffer,” she whisper in her ear.
Lillian laughs and shakes her head.
Anne tisked her tongue when she sees my lipstick has smeared. “Eight hours, my—” She trails off as she searches through the case for her Christian Dior lipstick to touch up my lips.
While Lillian slips out of her pantsuit, I go into the bathroom to put on underwear, sheer white pantyhose, and a long slip. When I return, I see Anne lift Lillian’s dress from the hook on the door and pass it to her daughters.
Jill and Bea assist Lillian into the mauve dress. It falls in a straight line to her knees, where a black ruffled underskirt peeks out for a half-inch. The sleeves end at her wrist in loose ruffles, and the dress has a subtle lined texture in the material.
Next, Anne lifts the wedding dress from the door, removing the jacket and passing the sheath to Jill and Bea. I stand without moving as they lift the dress over my head, careful of my hair and makeup. I lift my arms when Jill says to, and drop them again when Bea zips the dress. Jill holds the jacket, and I slip my arms inside. Then I push my feet into the white leather shoes with silver tea roses embroidered along toe and heel. The roses on the shoes are perfect matches for the fake blossoms on my hat.
The final step is the hat and veil. The boutique’s milliner has sewn the white lawn veil into the brim of the hat so expertly that it appears to be an original part of the design. Jill secures it in place with a hatpin and fusses a bit with my hair. When she steps back, nods, declaring, “Perfect.”
Lillian ope
ns Jackson’s closet doors and folds them back to form a large mirror. I look at myself and smile with approval. The dress is elegant, without being lavish. The hat does frame my face, and I can finally see why Jill has chopped off so much of my hair. The style is perfect with the hat, emphasizing my cheekbones and full mouth. I hope Jackson will recognize me when I meet him at the foot of the stairs.
I hold Tamara up to the mirror. I pull Lillian closer to stand with us and point at the three of us in the mirror. “Aren’t we beautiful?” I ask Tamara.
Tamara chews on her recently manicured finger and seems determined to remove the light-pink polish. She looked up for a second and says, “Da.”
I sigh. “Wouldn’t you know it? She hears the word for three days and decides it will be her first.”
“Well, it wasn’t technically a word,” Lillian says, trying to be comforting.
“Da-da,” Tamara says again, this time waving her arms.
A knock on the door interrupts the discussion and makes my stomach clench. I know Jackson wouldn’t disturb them unless it is an emergency. What if Brad has shown up?
Lillian opens the door, and a young girl wearing an apron from the florist’s shop enters. She carries a large arrangement of white and pink roses.
“That’s not the bouquet,” I say.
The girl blinks. “Uh, no, ma’am. I was bringing in flowers when another van arrived. Someone phoned this order into the shop yesterday, with directions to deliver it at ten-forty today.”
“To whom?” Lillian asks.
“Shawna Davis.” She says.
“That’s me.” I take the flowers from the girl. I feel like I might vomit when I set the flowers on the dresser. Who knows I am here, besides Destiny and Brad? Destiny probably hasn’t gotten the package yet, so that leaves only Brad. I search for a card with shaking hands, and find it under a perfectly formed pink rose. I open the plain beige envelope and remove a stiff, white card.
Jackson and Shawna,
Congratulations on your marriage.
Brad
I drop the card with a small cry as Lillian hurries forward, using the cane for balance.
“Who’s it from?”
I frown. “Brad.”
Lillian’s face tightens. “What does he want?”
“To congratulate us.” I shake my head. “It has to be a trick.”
Lillian’s back pops, and she groans when she kneels to pick up the card. She reads it with a puzzled expression. “What kind of trick? I think he’s conceded that you love Jackson and don’t want him in your life.”
I want to be reassured by Lillian’s words, but I don’t really believe them. Brad must have something planned. He isn’t the type of man who gives up easily.
43
Shawna
The first sweet notes of Angel For Life reach Shawna’s ears halfway down the staircase. Because our wedding isn’t a formal affair, we don’t have attendants. I walk alone and see Jackson waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. I don’t think I imagine the tears in his eyes as he walks up several steps to meet me. Maybe the tears are from my eyes, I muse, when I realize I am close to crying.
Jackson kisses my lips through the veil before taking my hand to lead me down the remaining stairs. At the bottom, we twine arms and begin a slow walk down the impromptu aisle of folding chairs arranged on each side. A rented gazebo decorated with white tulle is at the end of the aisle. A man in a dark suit stands inside it.
As we near the gazebo, the song cuts off abruptly. A murmur of conversation sweeps among the guests, and I am afraid to turn around and see what has caused the distraction. Has Brad arrived, intent on making trouble? My stomach clenches as I imagine what he might say or do in an attempt to stop the wedding. When I did, my mouth falls open, and a hard laugh escapes me.
I am in no way amused by our unexpected guest, but relief causes me to be giddy. Anastasia is framed in the doorway, with her hair tangled and her face bare of makeup. She wears old jeans and a shirt that hasn’t been properly buttoned, causing it to hang oddly. She doesn’t seem the least bit intimidating to me. Especially when Jackson’s hand folds around mine, and he smiles reassuringly.
“I’m early,” Anastasia says. She seems to be going for a cold tone, but her voice trembles and ruins the effect. “I guess we haven’t gotten to the ‘speak now or forever hold your piece’ part yet, have we?”
Jackson nods to two suited men standing near the door. “The ceremony is by invitation only.” He sounds bored.
Anastasia flinches. “You can’t go through with this. It’s insane. You don’t love her—”
Jackson’s mouth tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Please leave before you make a fool of yourself.”
Anastasia screeches and stamps her foot. “You can’t love her. When Christian told me last night, I was sure it was a joke. I drove all night to stop this insanity, just in case.” Her voice softens marginally. “How can you do this?” Her face turns an alarming shade of purple, and her voice rises again. “How can you want that,” she sweeps disdainful eyes over me, “after you’ve been with me?”
Jackson waves his hand at the men, and they advance on either side of Anastasia. He nods again, and they put a hand on each of her arms.
My eyes widen as Anastasia turns into a hellion. She trys bucking off the hold of the two security men, to no avail. She begins to scream a stream of profanities at the crowd in general. She seems unaware that the wedding photographer is snapping shot after shot of her wild behavior. She is still screaming as the men physically lift and carry her from the entertainment parlor, closing the heavy wooden doors behind them.
When they close with a dull thud, Jackson turns back to the gazebo and nods to the organist. He takes a step forward before he realizes I haven’t moved with him. He nudges my arm, and I walked forward a step. “The experience adds color to the ceremony,” he whispers.
My eyes widen at his casual acceptance. I swing my head in the direction of the videographer, realizing he has caught every moment too. I groan, but keep my feet moving. The buzz of conversation among the guests is already fading. By the time they are in the gazebo, in front of the minister, the room is quiet.
As the minister begins, I scan the crowd. I see amusement on the faces of some, but most seem to have shrugged off the interruption. I bring my attention back to the minister as he says my name. Then I am too busy with the details of the ceremony to pay attention to the guests.
As Jackson repeats his vows in a clear and steady voice, our eyes lock. I melt when I see the love shimmering in his blue depths. I feel one-hundred-percent certain of our future and my love when I say, “I do,” in a voice that echoes around the room.
The next few minutes pass in a blur. I recall Jackson putting the ring on my finger, and I remember slipping the heavy gold band that had been Lillian’s father’s on his. I vaguely remember the final prayer. My only vivid memory is of the kiss—our first kiss as husband and wife. Jackson lifts my veil and stares into my eyes for a long moment before his head descends, and he takes possession of my lips. The contact had been explosive, if brief. I could still feel his lips on mine as we turn with clasped hands to the assemblage to be announced as husband and wife.
With amazing efficiency, a small group of staff whisk the chairs from an aisle formation to line them around the room. Buffet tables appear from the kitchen, and a young man wheels in a portable bar. In no time, the guests are talking, laughing, and drinking.
“They seem to have forgotten about Anastasia,” I say to Jackson as he hands me a glass of champagne.
He shrugs. “I’m sure they’ll rehash it later, when the pictures are printed in the papers. Right now, there’s free alcohol and food.”
I frown. “What will happen to Anastasia?”
Jackson smiles. “Whatever it is, she deserves it.”
“Yeah, but what about the pictures and cassette from the ceremony?”
He sighs loudly. “You want
me to make sure they don’t leak out, don’t you?”
I nod, feeling like a weak fool, but unable to further add to Anastasia’s humiliation. After all, I have won. I could be generous. I decide to change the subject slightly. “Who were those men that showed her out?”
“They work for Jordan.” Jackson grimaces. “I didn’t want to deal with any party crashers today.”
Brad, I realize, with a twinge in my chest. I never would have believed that the poised and polished Anastasia would appear in public without being painstakingly groomed, let alone cause a scene at her ex’s wedding. Of all the things that could have gone wrong, Anastasia was the least expected. I take a sip of champagne and fervently hope her interruption will be the only surprise of the day.
Shawna
By six, I am ready for the last guests to leave. “Why aren’t they gone?” I grasp Jackson’s arm and pull him into a semi-private alcove. “Don’t these people know when to go home?”
Jackson laughs and drags me into his arms for a kiss. “We can slip away now. We should head to the airstrip anyway. The plane’s waiting.”
I lift a brow. “Plane?”
He nods. “You insisted on being surprised, so I’m not telling you our destination yet.”
I push out my lower lip out in an imitation of a pout. “Can I have just a little hint?”
He grins. “All the lovemaking you can squeeze into three days.”
I mock surprise. “That’s not much of a hint.”
“I know.” Jackson squeezes me once more and stands back. “Do you need to change, or can we just disappear?”
“I think this dress is fine for traveling. I have to throw my bouquet, and we can’t leave without saying goodbye to your mother and Tamara.”
He points to the corner of the room, where his mother holding Tamara sit amidst of a small group of people. “That shouldn’t be a problem. There seems to be a lull in admirers.”
