by Rachel Hauck
“Traffic,” Skyler says in her lawyer voice as she approaches the reception desk. “Hi, Deanna, how are you?”
“Skyler, great to see you. Did you bring us another one of your clients?” Deanna smiles at me.
“No, this is my cousin, Robin McAfee. We have an appointment.”
I do not like the way she says “appointment”—like it involves bodily harm.
Deanna’s smile is downright evil. “Yes, right. The Rejuvenation package.” Her pointy red fingernail taps the appointment book.
“Why do I feel like I’m going to hate this?” I whisper to Skyler.
She bumps me. “You won’t.”
Deanna tells us to take a seat, they’ll be right with us.
I plop down in one of the chairs. Bishop’s is far and above any hair cuttery place I’ve been to before. It’s a beautiful, big room with mood lighting, a shiny wood floor, and rows of products, with styling stations to one side and a spa center to the other.
When my eye catches the massage sign, a cold, nervous shiver makes me sweat. “Skyler, what’s a Rejuvenation package, and why am I getting one?”
“You’ll love it. Promise.”
“I’m not taking my clothes off.”
She stares at her magazine. “We’ll see.”
Next to me, Blaire sighs and swings her dangling, crossed leg. “I am so looking forward to a massage and manicure.”
I hop to my feet. “I’m here for a haircut.” I point to the hat covering my frayed locks. “Haircut. Nothing else.”
Blaire chuckles and leans over to Skyler, the newspaper crinkling in her hands. “I thought she was going to say, ‘I’m here for the party.’ I’ve been singing that song all day.”
Skyler tugs on my arm. “Sit down and relax, will you?”
I sit on the edge of the seat with my back straight.
Blaire’s newspaper crackles in my ear as she flips the pages. “Ah, good, the latest ‘Brad About You’ column.”
“Ooo, read aloud,” Skyler says. “Any scoops?”
“Keith Urban was spotted at Bread & Co. last week.”
“We’re so going there.”
“Keith Urban?” I whistle low. “Dang. Where is this Keith Urban Bread & Co?”
Skyler grins. “Green Hills. Across from the Bluebird.”
“Robin?” Deanna interrupts. “Are you ready?”
With a sideways glance at Skyler, I mutter, “Sure.” I stand and lean over, whispering into my dear, darling, blonde cousin’s ear, “Be afraid. Be very afraid.”
She laughs, but I see a flicker of concern. As there should be. The summer we were twelve, she visited Freedom for a month. Spent the whole time telling me Bobby Jacoby wanted to be my boyfriend. I never believed her, but I caved one July day when I saw him at the pool. “I’d like to be your girlfriend, if you still want.”
He guffawed in my face.
Yeah, Skyler knows what it means to be afraid, very afraid.
Deanna introduces me to Natalie, a pretty brunette with saucerlike brown eyes. “The first part of your Rejuvenation package begins with a pedicure and manicure.”
“Thank you.” I smile because there’s no use grousing. I’m here. This is Nashville. Might as well try it. I suppose I could use a little rejuvenation. Wouldn’t it be nice to have pretty, trimmed nails for playing my guitar around town? A new hairdo, shiny nails . . . That’s all the courage I need.
I recline in a comfy leather chair while Natalie asks, “How are you this afternoon? Aren’t the spring days in Nashville gorgeous?” She starts rolling up my pant legs.
I haven’t shaved in a week. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Is this your first time at Bishop’s?” Her voice is high and lively as if she actually enjoys rubbing soap between other folks’ toes for a living.
“Yes.”
“Oh, you’re going to love it.”
“So I hear . . .” Suddenly my feet are dunked into bubbling, warm, silky water. Oh, my.
“We’ll let your little piggies soak for a few minutes.” She wrinkles her nose at me.
This is sort of nice. I close my eyes and rest my head against the back of the seat. Then, without warning, Natalie dunks my right hand in another bucket of warm, soapy water.
My eyes fly open.
“I see you have a hair styling appointment with Zack. He’s really fabulous.” She dunks my other hand in warm, wonderful water.
I bolt upright. Tell me it isn’t so. Oh, brother. I can’t believe this. But after five cups of coffee this morning and the café mocha Skyler insisted on buying, I gotta go. Now.
“Are you okay?” Natalie gently tries to push me down.
“I need to go.” My gaze darts around for the ladies’ room.
She tips her pretty little head. “What do you need? Let me get it for you.”
“Don’t think you can help with this, Natalie.” I lift my feet out of the water and shove off the chair. The floor is cold and slippery.
“Where are you going?”
“Which way to the ladies’?” I slip and slide, turning and looking.
“Over here.” Natalie leads the way. “They’re unisex so just take the first available.”
She gets my sudden plight. I fall once. Man, wood flooring can be hard on the derriere. “Skyler and her rejuvenation ideas,” I mutter. “Who puts a woman’s hands in warm water without warning?”
My wet hands slip as I try the bathroom door. I reach for a second try and the door swings open.
As I live and breathe. Lee Rivers.
“Well, hello.” He looks down at me, a slow smile on his lips.
My legs quiver. “Hello to you too.” I breathe, then laugh low. “You’re like a genie in a bottle. Popping in and out of bathrooms.”
He props his hands on his hips. “Only when you’re around.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Remodeling specs for the owner, Misty. I came to look around, write up some estimates.”
He reaches for a towel from the pile by the door. “Here. Dry your hands.”
“Thank you.” Our fingers touch, and an army of goose bumps marches over my scalp and down to my toes.
“So, what’s your big hurry?” He wads the towel in his big hands when I’m done.
“Just heading for the latrine, as my marine brother would say.” I cannot imagine how I look. My hair in the same hat as two days ago, pant legs rolled up.
He stares at me with his deep-set, corn-silk blue eyes. “It’s good to see you again.”
His loping grin makes my insides puddle. “You too.”
We stand there assessing each other for a thick moment. Then he steps aside, tipping his head toward the bathroom door. “Guess I’ll let you go.”
This is nice, isn’t it? Chiseled-faced Lee clearing the way for my bodily functions. I’m so going to kill Skyler.
“See you around.” I back toward the door.
“I hope so.”
He winks.
I blush.
At least I didn’t have a grease stain running across my chest this time. Do I? I glance down. No, no stain.
Natalie is right. Zach, the hair stylist is the best. In all things pertaining to himself.
He jerks my hat off and tosses it aside while rattling on and on about styling Miranda Lambert’s hair for some photo shoot and how he chatted with Faith Hill and Tim McGraw at Barnes & Noble last weekend.
How lucky am I to be in his chair?
He shampoos my hair, then whirls me around to face the mirror. “You should go short. What do you think?” He gathers my wet hair on top of my head.
“I’m already short.”
He shoves my shoulder with a snort. “I mean short hair. You have such the face for it. Look at those cheeks.”
Yeah, look, at those freckled cheeks.
“Let’s do it.” He whips out his shears and waves them over my head.
“Well, I am in a state of trying new things . . .”
&nb
sp; He whirls me around again so my back is to the mirror.
Snip. Snip.
“But, Zach, not too short.”
Snip. Snip.
“Did you hear me?”
Snip. Snip.
I can’t bring myself to look down at the floor. I’m sure it’s covered with my autumn-colored hair.
Then, oh, hallelujah, my phone rings, and Zach steps back from his frenzy.
“Excuse me, Zach.”
“No problem,” he says, sizing up my hair for a second round of snipping. “Coffee?”
“Noooo. Thanks.” I flip open the phone.
“Hey,” says a smooth, familiar voice.
I grin and fiddle with the edge of the neck drape. “Ricky, hey. What’re you doing?”
“Missing you like crazy.”
I glance down. The floor is covered with my red hair. “Holy cow. I’m practically sheared.”
“Sheared? Robin, what’s going on?”
“Skyler hijacked my hair appointment for a fancy, shmancy spa day, and some stylist has just cut off all my hair.”
“What? How’d you let them cut your hair?” His tone is intense, as if my shearing is a personal affront.
“I don’t know. He was yakking about all his famous friends, and next thing I know . . .” I start to laugh.
“What?” Ricky demands.
“I like it.” I run my fingers through the short, wet ends.
“So, come home. Let me inspect this new hair of yours.”
I sigh. “Maybe for the Fourth.”
“Can I come up there?”
Hesitating, I see his face in my mind’s eye. It would be nice to see him, I reckon. But I catch my new reflection in the mirror. In the background, Lee Rivers strolls across the salon. “Ricky, just wait, please. Give me a little space.”
“How much space?”
“I don’t know. Space. Call you later?” I wish I could be more definite, but the words won’t come.
“Robin, I won’t be patient long.”
“I’m not asking for you to be patient.” Zach is coming my way.
“What are you asking?”
“Ricky, can we have this conversation later?”
“You know the number.”
My phone goes silent.
Letting your cousin sign you up for a spa day?
$180.
“Do I look like I have lawyer money?”
“Shush, keep your voice down. You’re not in a barn.” Sklyer pats the air with her hands, smiling over her shoulder at Deanna. “Be right there.”
“Okay, fine,” I whisper. “Is this better? And I still don’t have $180 for a spa treatment.”
In the middle of this, Blaire snickers. “This is Skyler’s payback for pulling out her hair.” Blair adds a little triumphant “Ha!”
“What?” I glare at Skyler. “But you’d made the appointment before karaoke.”
She screws up her face. “We planned it while you were signing up. Then I called them back.”
“You did not.” I ruffle up some good old-fashioned ire. “You forced me to sing karaoke, and while I’m busting my fear, you and this Zeta-Jones look-alike planned to punk me?”
“Hey,” belts Blaire.
“Well, when you put it like that, of course it sounds hideous,” Skyler says, twisting her lips.
“I’m telling Aunt Louise on you,” I fire off. Though I don’t know why. She never had much sway over Skyler.
“Oh, please.”
“She’s right, Skyler.”
I turn to Blaire. “I like you more every day.”
Skyler huffs and glances from me to Blaire, back to me again. “Dang. Okay, Blaire, you pay $90 and I’ll pay $90.”
“Oh, now, wait a minute.” I pull two tens from my front pocket. “I can toss in twenty bucks for my haircut.”
Skyler snatches the bills, giving one to Blaire. “This’ll buy dinner.”
Blaire tucks the money in her purse. “Country cousin, one.” She leans toward Skyler. “City cousin, zippo.”
“Robin,” Lee calls, striding out of Bishop’s across the parking lot. “You forgot your hat.” He jogs toward us, waving my precious Auburn cap in the honeyed light of the setting sun. His chest muscles roll under his T-shirt, and the breeze brushes his brown bangs across his forehead.
Skyler mutters, “Sakes alive. It’s him.”
“Wow,” Blaire breathes.
He hands me my hat, and my eyes are fixed on him.
“I like your hair,” he says.
I squirm under his intense blue gaze. “Thanks.” I hold up the hat. “I’d be lost without it.”
“You forgot this, too.” Lee hands me a business card, then greets Skyler. “How are you?”
“Fine,” she squeaks. Gone is her deep, commanding lawyer voice. “This is our friend, Blaire.”
“Nice to meet you, Blaire.” Lee shakes her hand.
“Pleasure’s all mine.” Blaire’s voice is silky and low as she slips her manicured, slender hand into his.
I wince. Even with my cute, new ’do, I can’t compete with Blaire in the beauty arena. She’s going to have to tone it down a tad.
“See you ladies later.” Lee pulls away from Blaire’s handshake with a quick glance at me. “I hope.”
All three of us watch him walk away. He knows it too. When his broad back and narrow hips disappear inside Bishop’s, Skyler turns to me, her lips pressed into a thin line. “If you don’t marry him, I will.”
I shake my head and jerk open my truck door. “Marry him? I just met him. Besides, there’s the small matter of what to do with Ricky Holden.”
Skyler climbs in the passenger seat and slaps her door shut. “I’d have two words for him if I were you: bye-bye.”
I hear Ricky’s terse words. You know the number.
“Easier said than done, Sky.” Slipping behind the wheel, I crank the engine.
Blaire leans in my window. “Don’t drive off yet. What does Lee’s card say?”
“I don’t know.” The card is still in my hand, gripping the wheel. The front is his business information, but on the back is a handwritten note. “Meet me at Faith Community Church, Hillsboro Drive, Sunday morning, 10:30, don’t be late. Lee.”
They had to hear us squealing down in Freedom, Alabama.
13
Thursday morning before the rooster crows, I drive down Demonbreun. Five a.m. is an insane hour to think of cleaning toilets and mopping floors.
Half asleep and new to downtown, I turn onto 4th Avenue North going the wrong way. So I cut down another street— Printer’s Alley, I think—and end up going the wrong way on 3rd.
Headlights flash. A car horn blares. I swerve left and careen over the sidewalk. Holy smokes. Downtown Nashville is dangerous at five a.m.
I’m awake now. The car horn continues to blow as it passes. A little vehicular swearing. “Yeah, I hear you. I’m new in town. Cut me some slack.”
Tossing up a few flare prayers, I manage to get on the right street in the right direction, and it’s only five-fifteen when I arrive at First Bank, my first job for Lewis Cleaning Co.
My trainer waits for me outside The Plaza office complex. “Glad you could make it,” she says, sizing me up.
“Got lost.” It’s too early to say more, and I’m still a little shaken from being cussed out by a driver.
She grins. “Guess downtown is kind of confusing. Marty Schultz.”
“Robin McAfee.”
Marty unlocks the front door and punches in the security code. “Marc says you’re a songwriter.”
“Yep.”
She motions to a cleaning cart and a portable vac pack. “Just what this town needs—another songwriter.”
Just what I need—another skeptic.
She leads me toward the reception area, rattling off the rules of cleaning and how Marc likes things done. “He’s a bit anal, so beware.” Marty plops down on a crushed suede chair. “But before we get started—” she reaches down
for a Starbucks bag “—coffee and a danish.”
“Oh, bless you.” I grip the tall cup with both hands.
“I figured you’d forget to eat breakfast on your first day.”
She figured right. I wolf down my danish while Marty nibbles at hers.
“I was a songwriter,” she says without looking at me. She picks icing bits from her danish with the well-worn tip of her thumbnail. “And the front woman for the little-known Delaney Brown Band.”
The last bite of my danish is stuck on my teeth as I repeat, “Delaney Brown Band?”
“Yep, and today I sniff Clorox.” Marty drops her barely eaten danish into the Starbucks bag. “I spent two years putting the band together, and we were this close to signing a deal . . .” She pinches her thumb and finger together. “But my dad died unexpectedly, and my mom fell apart. I went home to take care of her.”
“I’m sorry.” Her true confession is doing more to combat my sleepiness than the caffeine.
She shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “I spent a year in Arkansas taking care of Mom and all the loose ends that go with an old-fashioned couple where he took care of everything and she took care of him. Selling Dad’s business took twice as long as I planned, so the band found a new label and a new lead singer. Marty Schultz became a, ‘Huh? Who?’”
She peers right into my eyes as if willing me to share the load of her disappointment. “They recorded my songs, since they were technically—” she air quotes “technically”—“Delaney Brown songs. Last year they won a Grammy for best new country group and the CMA Horizon Award.”
I modulate my tone so I sound like it’s no big deal the band moved on without her. “Yeah, I read something about them winning a few awards.”
“A few?” She swigs from her coffee cup. “Never mind. Let’s get to work.”
I fumble with my vac pack. “So you gave up?”
She stops at the first office. “Yep.”
“Why? You must know people. Surely they know you wrote the lion’s share of the band’s hits.”
She slaps her hand over her heart and tips back her head. “Ah, the innocence of a new hopeful.”
“At least I’m determined and trying.” I crash the vac pack against the door frame as we go in the first office.
