Leave Tomorrow Behind

by Judy Clemens

  I noodle-legged my way to the next room, where again I lay on my back. This time the technician concentrated on my face, slathering layer after layer of lotions over it, then bagged up my feet and hands with some other kind of moisturizers. When that was over, I sat in our private dining room, big enough only for two people around a little round table, and stared at the mound of lettuce, grilled chicken, and bright red cherry tomatoes.

  “Do I look as shiny as you do?” I asked Miranda.

  She laughed. “Shinier than I’ve ever seen you.”

  “I thought I was going to melt into the floor.”

  “See? Told you.”

  After the delicious lunch of grilled chicken on organic greens, we sat side by side as different women went to work on our fingernails and toenails. That mani-pedi Miranda had talked about. Whatever.

  “So, what kind of color would you like?” The lady held out a palette with about a hundred shades, from bright red to a deep, dark, almost-black maroon.

  “Clear,” I said.

  “Are you positive?”

  “Clear.”

  Miranda didn’t hesitate to express her disgust.

  “You do Rikki Raines’ nails?” I asked my girl.

  She kept her eyes on her work. “Sure. Sometimes.”

  “When was the last time?”

  She didn’t answer for so long, I thought she wasn’t going to. But when she’d finished massaging goop onto my fingernails, she set my hand down. “Last week. Wednesday.”

  “How was she?”

  “She was fine.” She glanced at Miranda’s girl, who said, “Oh, go on and tell her. It’s not like everybody in the whole salon didn’t hear.”

  Miranda’s eyes widened. “Hear what?”

  The girls stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, then glanced around to make sure no one else was listening. Miranda’s manicurist leaned forward. “It was huge. I’d never heard a fight like that.”

  Now that was news. “Rikki was fighting with someone?”

  “No. I didn’t mean her. It was him.”

  “Him? Him who?” It dawned on me. “Gregg? Gregg was here?”

  “Shh.” My girl shrank down. “Mr. Gregg comes here sometimes, when we’re working on one of his bands, or singers, or whatever. He wants to make sure we’re doing everything right, and making them all happy. And making sure they’re doing what they’re supposed to, because sometimes, you know, they want their own look.”

  “Who was he fighting with? You said it wasn’t Rikki?”

  “No, it was his wife.”

  “Mrs. Gregg? What was she doing here?”

  Again with the shared look between them.

  “She’s been hanging around more and more,” my girl said. “Whenever Mr. Gregg is here, she’s here, too. It’s almost like…” She shook her head, and put her head down again, working on my nails.

  But she didn’t have to finish the statement. I could finish it myself. It’s almost like she doesn’t trust him. And I didn’t blame her. From the little I’d seen of him—and heard about him—just that week, I wouldn’t trust him either.

  “What were they fighting about?”

  “What do you think?” Miranda’s girl this time, her eyes wide, like the answer should have been obvious. “Or, should I say, who do you think? I mean, she was right there.”

  “Who, Rikki?”

  “Uh-huh. Mrs. Gregg pulled him in the other room, and we could hear everything they said, because, like, there’s no door.”

  Right. Just beads and curtains and wispy things that couldn’t keep out smells, sights, or sounds.

  “She was saying she’d had enough of the cheating. That she was done pretending, that the girls would just have to make it on their own from now on, that she wasn’t going to go along with it anymore, and if it didn’t stop, she was going to do something about it. The girls would have to pay.”

  The beads hanging from the door clicked, and Misty appeared, looking as chipper as ever. Or even chippier. Had she frosted her hair over lunch? Or whitened her teeth? “So, how are we doing in here?”

  Miranda smiled. “Doing great! Your manicurists are wonderful!”

  How could Misty not notice the tension of gossip in the air?

  “I know they are.” Misty patted my girl on the shoulder. “Glad you’re having fun.”

  She swept back through the beaded curtain, but the girls never spoke again of what we’d been discussing, even when I asked straight out what more had been said, and if the Greggs had been talking about any girl or girls in particular. I guess they’d realized they’d crossed the line earlier. Too bad.

  I didn’t recognize my own hands and feet when we were finished, even though they were attached to my body. When had my nails last been buffed and shined? Well, I suppose the answer to that would be never.

  From there, we followed a guide into yet another room of smells and swivels chairs. The hair salon.

  “Not much you can do with mine,” I told the stylist, as she tipped my head back into a sink.

  She smiled. “Just you wait.”

  Twenty minutes later, I would have sworn I’d started with long hair. Somehow she had made it look like I wore my hair up in some kind of a knot.

  Miranda just smiled. “And now, for the final touches.”

  “Which would be what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I was placed in a leaning back chair, and yet another person went after me. I relaxed, almost falling asleep, while she placed something warm on my eyebrows. It felt sort of good, but sort of weird, too, like drying mud. After a few minutes, she said, “Ready?”

  “For what?”

  Pain exploded on my face.

  I screamed and grabbed her shirt. “What the hell was that?”

  She stumbled back, my grip on her shirt pulling me upright. She held up what looked like a slice of my face. With hair. “I’m shaping your eyebrows.”

  “What?” I looked in the mirror. I now had eyebrows like…like Miranda’s. Perfect arches. My right eyebrow looked like I’d just been really surprised by something. Which I had been. “What is that? I’m look like I’m terrified.”

  “No, no, you don’t,” the girl said. “It looks great.”

  I spun to glare at Miranda, who had just had both of her eyebrows done. Without her screaming, mind you. She grinned. “Now for the other side.”

  “I’m not doing that again.”

  “Then you’ll look like an idiot.”

  The girl wrinkled up her face. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted…it was on your schedule. Your maid of honor said—”

  I held up my hand and gathered myself. I’d been through worse, right? Broken foot, broken ribs, skin grafts, tattoos…

  “Fine.” I threw myself back into the chair. “Finish.”

  She yanked the other half of my hair out, and I didn’t scream. But I was done. “Let’s go, Miranda.”

  “Oh, no. One more thing.”

  “No way.”

  “This won’t hurt.”

  “Forget it.”

  “It’s just makeup.”

  “Makeup.”

  “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. Besides, I’m paying, remember?”

  Eyebrow Girl shuffled her feet. “Really. It won’t hurt. It’ll feel good. Everyone says so.”

  “Plus, I promised Nick,” Miranda said.

  “You promised him what?”

  “That he’d get to see you fully done up. You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?”

  “I would never want to disappoint him. And I won’t.”

  “Good, so let’s get you into your last chair.”

  “No.”

  “But you said—”

  “I won’t disappoint him by giving in to anything else. He won’t recognize me if I come home wearing makeup. He might not even recognize me now.” I pointed at my eyebrows. “Especially if these look as red as they feel.”

  “Stella—”

  “You go ahead. I
’m done.”

  I ripped the cape from my neck and stomped out to the waiting room, where I paid a long visit to the wash room. When I came out, I felt a lot better, and sucked down half of the salon’s snack and bottled water supply. When Miranda came to find me, I was stuffed, lying on one of the fancy couches with my feet up and my eyes closed. Although I kept my ears open. I wasn’t going to be surprised again, because who knew what they could tear off of me this time?

  I heard footsteps approach, so I cracked open my eyelids.

  “Stella, what did you do?” Miranda stood by the couch, her fists on her hips.

  “Ate too much.”

  “No, I mean to your hair.”

  “Made it normal.”

  “But it looked so—”

  “Stupid?”

  Miranda growled and spun on her heel. “Come on.”

  I met her in the front lobby, where she was handing over her credit card to Misty. Misty glanced up at me, then got really busy punching numbers. Another woman behind the counter, whose hair was three different colors, set down the phone, and touched Misty’s wrist with her blindingly red nails. “She’s coming.”

  Misty nodded, still focused on the cash register.

  “Who’s coming?” I didn’t want to see anyone else. “I’m going outside.”

  “Stella, don’t be such a—”

  I let the door slam on my way out.

  Chapter Forty

  Rittenhouse Square is a pretty area of Philadelphia, if you like the city sort of nature thing. Grass and flowers and trees growing out of sidewalks. Squirrels running around, and birds singing. Just like home. Except for the trees in sidewalks. I wandered over to a bench across the street from the salon and sat, gazing up into a tree. It was the only way I could avoid looking at all the people swarming around me. That, also, was unlike home.

  A shadow fell across my face. “Stella?” Daniella stood on the sidewalk in front of me. She wore a gorgeous gray suit, and in no way could I tell she’d had a stressful week. How could the woman look so perfect after all she’d been through, with Rikki, and the pageant, and everything? And there was no question in my mind. Gregg and his wife could have just as easily been arguing about her as about Rikki.

  Daniella took her time giving me the once over, and eventually returned her focus to my eyebrows. Or what used to be my eyebrows. “I’m so sorry.”

  “They’ll grow back.”

  She sat next to me, crossing her ankles and clasping her tastefully painted mauve nails in her lap. “I mean I’m sorry about the whole day. I wanted it to be nice for you, after the ways you’ve supported me this week. It’s meant so much.” She held up her hands, and let them fall back to her lap. “I wanted to do something to give back just a portion.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I thought back over the day, trying to forget the whole eyebrow experience. “Not all of it was a disaster.”

  A smile tugged at Daniella’s lips. “How reassuring. Which part passed muster? The snacks?”

  I grunted. “They were all right. And the lunch.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No. The massage was heavenly. And the facial was okay. Except I’m feeling pretty oily right now. And every time I move I smell flowers.”

  She picked up my hand and examined my nails. “These look nice.”

  “You mean the technician somehow hid the terrible state my nails were in before.”

  “They weren’t terrible. Just short.”

  “They’re still short.”

  She gave a short laugh. “Yeah.”

  We sat in silence. She still held my hand. I was just beginning to feel uncomfortable when she shifted to face me. “Stella, why are you here?”

  I pulled my hand away. “Because Miranda made me come. It was a conspiracy at home. I’d been made redundant for the day.”

  “No. I already know you well enough to realize that if you hadn’t wanted to come, you wouldn’t have. Just like you wouldn’t stay for your makeup consultation.”

  “That was because I didn’t want to get hurt again.”

  “Makeup doesn’t hurt.”

  “Sure, that’s what they all say.”

  We sat in silence again.

  “You were asking questions,” she said.

  “Not enough, apparently. Otherwise I would have known Miranda’s plans for torture.”

  “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “You were asking about Rikki.”

  Crap, had the nail girls been talking?

  “Misty said you noticed Rikki’s photo on the wall.”

  “Sure. I asked when she’d last been in.”

  Daniella looked at me knowingly. “Was that all?”

  I shrugged, and watched a very fat man waddle past with a very fat dog. He nodded at me, but his gaze was drawn immediately to Daniella, and he watched her until his dog strained at the leash. The man swiveled forward, and rolled off.

  “I want to know what happened to her,” I said. “Rikki didn’t deserve that kind of end, Zach and his friends are freaked out, and I’m having nightmares. Plus, the cops won’t leave me alone. I don’t know why they think I have any answers.”

  “They think I have them, too.”

  “Are you sure you don’t?”

  She looked across at the salon, but I don’t think she was really seeing anything, except maybe images in her mind.

  “So what was the fight about?”

  “What fight?”

  “The one last Wednesday, when Rikki was here.”

  “How did you hear about that?”

  I kept quiet.

  She shook her head. “Those girls. I tell them not to talk about clients…”

  “Well, they did. So was the fight about Rikki?”

  She pinched her lips together, and she tipped her head back to look at the top of the tall brick building across the way. “From what I heard, it was partially about Rikki. And partially about Rikki’s friends, and all of the other female artists at Sunburst. And partially about their family life. And partially about…me.”

  “You?” I didn’t know why I was surprised, since I’d just been thinking of this possibility. I’d seen the way Gregg had come on to Daniella—or should I say assaulted Daniella?—at the fair. It was obvious he had things on his mind other than business, or how his daughters’ cows were faring. “Why would they be arguing about you? You and Gregg aren’t…” I tried not to look too disgusted.

  “Oh, no! Please!” Daniella looked as grossed out as I felt. “I would never…he’s married, you know. Mrs. Gregg and I are sort of, well, maybe not friends, but we understand each other. We’ve both had to put up with a lot from her husband. She more than I, of course.” She sighed. “Even if he weren’t married, I would stay far away because, well, he’s not a nice man. I’ve told you that.”

  Uh-huh. I’d heard that before. How many women said a guy wasn’t nice, or that he was married, and went after him for exactly those reasons? How did I know Daniella wasn’t exactly that kind of woman? She might think she knew me after five days, but in my experience, it took a lot longer than that to get to know a person.

  The door to the salon opened and Miranda stepped out. She looked back into the salon, waving and smiling, but as soon as the door shut her expression darkened like a tornado. She stood as still as a fencepost, fists straight down by her hips, swiveling her head side to side, reminding me of that movie where the alien comes bursting out of that man’s stomach.

  “Looks like you’re in trouble,” Daniella said. The twitch was back on her lips.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” I let Miranda stew for a while, dodging other pedestrians, scanning the sidewalks, her face growing redder and redder, which seemed to be negating all the pampering she’d had that day. And the red really didn’t go with all that makeup. Finally, I stood and stretched. “Thanks for the day, Daniella.”

  “W
e’re forgiven?”

  “You are. Miranda’s not.”

  She smiled. “I can live with that.”

  Miranda caught sight of us as we crossed the street, and let us come to her, where she stood tapping her foot. I could see the desire in her eyes to strangle me right there on the street. “Where have you been?”