Entangled: Surrendering the Past (Surrendering Time Book 2)

by Julie Arduini

  I cough. "Um, no. I'm not married."

  "You poor dear. Do you have a man-friend?" Betty whispers the last word, as if the thought of a boyfriend might be scandalous. She giggles and slaps the corner of the table. "Wait a minute. That young man who accompanied you. Right?"

  Another dry hack. "Yes. Will Marshall. The one you met." Mr. He-can-see-us-together-for-nine decades.

  Betty rises, takes my glass, and refills it. "How nice. But you know, for someone with a great man on your arm and a new chapter in your life starting tomorrow, you seem, oh, I don't know, a little disengaged. Nerves, maybe?" She places the milk in front of me and returns to her seat.

  Nerves. Ha. If that’s what you call a single mom starting beauty school without any guarantee of succeeding.

  "Carla? You okay? If you're tired, you can take a nap, and I'll work on dinner. You need your rest and strength so you can have a great first day tomorrow." She pats me on the arm.

  "Tired? Not really, just thinking.”

  Thinking I'm crazy to believe this dream of mine had any business being my new reality.

  ⌛⌛⌛

  I take a breath before swinging the Gloversville Beauty School glass door wide open. About half a dozen people of various ages mill around the lobby, a wide space full of rich red tones and bright lighting.

  "Are you here for the orientation?" A slender, bronze-haired young woman with blond highlights about Noah's height greets me with a clipboard resting on her chin.

  "Yes, I’m Sherriff, sorry, wrong career. I'm Carla Rowling." My hair seems dull against the warm interior hues and the perky greeter's own style.

  She peruses the clipboard and clicks her pink pen. "Yes, welcome. Orientation starts in ten minutes in the conference room upstairs to the right. Once inside, help yourself to the Keurig machine and bagel and fruit trays. Everyone at Gloversville Beauty School wishes you the best during the next nine months." She flashes a dazzling smile before turning on her six-inch heels to welcome the next person.

  The spiral staircase leads to a wing of classrooms. Track lights line the chocolate brown walls. The conference room with a long rectangular white table and ergonomic black chairs isn’t hard to find. A small table in the opposite corner holds the refreshments.

  I place my purse and notebook on the conference table and walk over to make a cup of coffee. “Sure didn't have a Keurig back at the old office.” I mutter.

  "I'm partial to the donut-flavored, myself." A man who looks to be about my age holds up his K-cup with a smile, revealing two wide dimples.

  I reach for a black mug and look over the variety. "So many choices. I hope choosing my drink is the hardest thing I do all day."

  He puts his coffee down and extends his hand.

  I take it.

  "Hi. I'm Daniel Garrett." He releases his strong grip.

  "Carla Rowling. Are you from around here?"

  Daniel remains silent as he watches the brown liquid pour into his cup. Once the drink is ready, he turns to me. "Not too far. Lake George. Planning on taking care of the tourists' hair needs. Locals too." His wispy blond locks rest over his eyes. "How about you, Carla?"

  "Speculator Falls. I hope to open my own place. We have tourists too, but I think Lake George will have a fiscally higher end clientele." Certain months the tourists in my village wear camo and hunter orange, much like Will.

  Daniel nods and waits for me to make my selection and prepare the drink. "That's a lovely area. Are you commuting?"

  “I wish, but it's a bit much. I have a room not far from here during the week. It's owned by a widow. I think it will be quiet so I can study. You’re probably doing the same, given the distance and winter weather." I grasp my mug full of caffeine and find a seat.

  Daniel follows and sits next to me. "Yeah, kind of. My dad lives nearby so I can stay when the weather is bad. Hopefully I can commute later. I have an apartment overlooking the water. Given it's after Labor Day, it will be peaceful around town, too. Good thing, because I want to master these classes. I have a vision for my work.” He gestures with his finger. “This school is step one. And I need to be the best here." His smile remains, but his gaze hardens.

  Great. One more stressor on my overloaded plate.

  ⌛⌛⌛

  At nine o’clock, the clipboard girl opens the conference room door, ushering in a man and a woman who walk to the forefront of the packed room.

  The middle-age woman with exotic features, including high cheekbones, who’s wearing a black dress complete with a cape, claps her hands. "Welcome, everyone. Let's not waste a moment of this wonderful journey you're about to begin. I'm Rose Yung, owner and instructor. This is my right hand man and longest serving member of the team, Les Moore."

  Thanks to her heels, the man stands a little shorter. With black jeans, a high neck shirt, and a black smock of sorts, he waves.

  Chuckles fill the room. I glance at Daniel, who maintains a stoic look.

  Les drops his hands to his side. "I know, my parents were hysterical naming me an oxymoron.” He laughs. “I’m fun, but what we do here is a form of art. I plan to train you as artists. Your business card means nothing if your clients don't look fantastic. They represent you. They are your publicity. I will work you hard. I will anger and frustrate you. But you will graduate a master."

  Rose continues. "As you exit, our executive assistant who greeted you, Brandi, will hand you a personalized folder. It explains your schedule and breaks down your requirements. Part of your class times is instructional, and the rest is lab work.” She clears her throat. “Les and I will give a brief summary of the classes and our expectations after Brandi calls attendance." Rose slides a pair of black-rimmed glasses to the edge of her nose.

  Brandi saunters from the back to join the speakers, her trusty clipboard with her. "Sandy Brighton." Brandi looks around.

  A girl, probably just out of high school, with dyed black hair and heavy eye shadow raises her hand.

  "Mitzi Davis."

  A bubbly red head springs her hand high in the air. "That's me!"

  Brandi nods. "Daniel Garrett."

  He responds with a two- fingered salute.

  "Carla Rowling."

  I clear my throat, but my voice doesn’t fully engage. "He--ahem. Here. Sorry."

  "Ella Traynor."

  No reply.

  Brandi scans the audience but doesn’t wait before moving on. "Claire Worthington."

  The silkiest honey-blonde hair apart from an ear of corn belongs to Claire, who raises her manicured hand.

  Brandi smiles and returns the clipboard to her side. "That's everyone. Rose?" The assistant returns to the back.

  The owner gazes around the room.

  Does everyone investigate faces in their line of work? I thought that was only law enforcement.

  "What a bright looking group. We're going to have a great school year, yes?" Rose’s smile seems genuine.

  Mitzi answers with a resounding yes. The rest of us nod.

  Rose releases a soft laugh. "Let's hope everyone finds the passion Miss Davis has. Anyway, your courses are divided by hours. As you know, you need one-thousand hours to graduate. Today, after filling out all the paperwork, we’ll offer a tour of the facility. Then, you’ll receive a supply list. If you remain all day, you will receive four hours for orientation.”

  Les continues. “There are thirty hours for bacteriology. If you aren't interested in having an immaculate work station, you might as well leave now."

  Thirty hours on health standards and keeping clean?

  Rose peers at her notes. "Over 130 hours are devoted to haircutting. Your practicum includes working downstairs with actual clients who want haircuts, perms, color and shampoos. All those are classes as well. Les?"

  Les reaches for a tablet. "Let's see. Scalp treatment. Skincare. Manicures. Essential components to a comprehensive salon is the massage area. Facials. But ladies and gentleman, it means nothing if you don't understand the business aspect of running
a salon. If you can't recruit clients, charge them fairly and treat them well so they tell their friends and keep returning, then your nine months are going to be a waste of time."

  This is more extreme than the brochure I read a dozen times. Almost as intense as the look on Daniel’s face. I need to take a jog at lunchtime.

  "Questions?" Rose puts her glasses on the table.

  Mitzi raises her hand.

  Did Daniel just groan?

  "Yes. Miss Davis?" Les places his electronic device on the table, too.

  "Do all your students graduate? What's your success rate?"

  Les and Rose exchange a grin, then Les answers. "Don't be misled. It isn't our success rate as much as it is yours. You get what you give. You give everything you've got, and you will graduate. But...each class tends to have a few who aren't ready for what this school demands. Last year 74% finished, and of those, all graduates passed their state boards for their cosmetology license."

  Seventy-four? That's not close to perfect.

  I'm far from perfect.

  I sigh and look out the window past the parking lot. Will I be one of the students not able to keep up, forced to drop out and disgrace Howard Wheaton's final wishes? Lord, help me.

  ⌛⌛⌛

  Five steps inside my part-time home and a plate of cookies comes into view. “How was your first day?” Betty’s crystal blue eyes seem to have a sparkle to them.

  “Overwhelming. So much information.” Visions of scissors, perm rods, and curling irons flash through my mind.

  “I thought it might be a long day for you. I made you these. Come. Sit.” She leads the way to the Formica table. “So, tell me. How many are in your class?”

  I finish the first cookie before answering. “Less than a dozen­. One guy seems to be around my age.” I reach for another.

  “Really? A man in beauty school. Fascinating. What are the teachers like?”

  Betty’s pretty invested in my day. It feels nice to have her reach out. “Now, Betty, I don’t want to talk about me all day. What about you? What did you do while I was gone?”

  “Made these cookies and waited for you, dear.” She pats my arm.

  I wish Jenna was closer. She could give this sweet widow some fun activities to enjoy at the Speculator Falls senior center.

  After multiple forced yawns and an empty plate of cookies later, I stretch my arms. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have a book list to go over, and I’d like to call home and see how Noah’s day was.” I stand and push my chair in.

  Betty frowns. “Right. Of course. You have a good evening.”

  As I walk toward my room, I refuse to look back. Don’t feel guilty for leaving the room, Rowling. I close the door, pull out my cell, and dial home.

  Will answers after the first ring. "So, how was it?”

  I giggle. “Hello to you, too.”

  “Sorry. Hey, honey. How was the first day?”

  “So much to absorb and learn. I think I’m more tired from sitting all day than I was chasing down perps running a meth lab.” I fluff my pillow armrest and climb on the bed. “You'll think this is funny--I have a teacher named Les Moore."

  Will's laughter pierces my ears enough that I hold the phone away until he stops. "That's hysterical. So, how are the other students? Any guys?”

  I release a drawn-out sigh. "There's one male student from Lake George. Intense. He has pretty high standards for himself. I don't think any of the others have anything in common except the school. There is a Goth-looking girl, and a very peppy one. Another has a name so pretentious that I thought I should look for a silver spoon. Claire Worthington." I buzz through each name I could recall.

  Will doesn’t say anything for a while. "Carla, I think you're applying sheriff techniques. You're trying to get a read on people."

  “I mean c'mon, Claire Worthington sounds hoity-toity, and she has luxurious, silky hair that looks like spun gold."

  "How would you feel if you learned this Claire was trying to pass judgment solely on your name and hair?"

  Gah. Will's moral compass always points to righteousness. "Okay, you're right. Let's say it's a diverse group. The owner seems nice, but I think graduating will be hard. She even said that only seventy-four percent do. That means some from the orientation could walk away." I close my eyes, but an image of me being one of the drop-outs makes me blink.

  There's muffled sounds coming from Will's end for a few seconds, and then he speaks. "Sweetheart, you're going to do fine. Howard Wheaton left you full tuition, supplies, housing, and start-up money for a shop because he believed in you. I do too. So does Noah, Jenna, Ben, Sara, Pastor Craig and Brooke...need I go on and list everyone in Speculator Falls?"

  I shake my head. "I'm scared."

  "You've shut down meth operations. Caught bear trappers. Tangled with domestic abuse cases. You're going to let beauty school knock you to your knees?"

  I'm not like the other girls, my track record proved that long ago. "I know you’re trying to help. I’m just tired. I have to be up early. Can I talk to Noah, please?"

  Another pause, and finally a response. "Sure thing. Carla, I love you."

  Oh, how those words flow for Will Marshall. "Right back at ya. Talk to you tomorrow."

  Noah’s on the phone within seconds. "Hey. I didn't get lost today going to school."

  “Funny. I know I treat you like a child sometimes.”

  "No, I just laugh because our school is so small, just like the area. You worry for nothing.”

  I shift to the left side of the bed, propping myself on my elbow. “How was your day?”

  A long pause.

  My policing skills kick in again. "Tell me what happened."

  "Okay. A senior stuffed me in my locker. Scotty was there to get me out. Part of the routine. No harm, no foul."

  There goes my heart rate.

  "You sure you're okay? If you need anything, I can come home. Or, Will or Ben could help you."

  "Mom, I can take care of myself. It was a stupid high school prank on the middle school kid. Let's change the subject. How are things for you?"

  When did he mature so? "I didn't get thrown in a locker, but I feel overwhelmed...”

  "You'll do great." I hear my voice in his words.

  "Thanks, bud. Do you have homework?"

  "Some. I have a permission slip you’re supposed to sign, but since you aren't here, I gave it to Will."

  Sharp stabs attack my mama's heart. "You're so grown up. It's like you don't need me."

  He lets out a low chuckle. "That will never be true, Mom."

  I sit up, feeling validated, loved, and needed. One hour away feels like a million miles apart. "I miss you so much."

  "I forgot to tell you last night I'm almost out of underwear."

  Out of the mouth of babes. “Will’s able to do laundry.”

  Another pause. “Dad called. Talked to Will.”

  Hair stands on the back of my neck. “What does he want?”

  “He wondered if we could go to Jack Frosty’s after school this week. Will’s okay with it if I am.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said it was fine. Dad works crazy hours, so it’s cool he wants to grab a milkshake. Say Mom, why didn’t you two get married? And, if you don’t marry him, are you marrying Will instead?”

  Chapter Four

  The butterfly feeling that stirs as I pull into the beauty school parking lot reminds me of my high school nerves when I walked the halls wearing maternity clothes. Same dread, wondering if I’ll be able to graduate. The worry that people will gossip. This time, I fear I’ll mix the wrong chemicals or botch a haircut.

  “C’mon, girl. Pull it together. This is first full day jitters. You can do this.” I clench the keys in my palm before dropping them in my purse.

  “Talking to me, or yourself?” The teen with the Goth look gives a flat smile.

  A nervous giggle escapes. “Myself. Not sure why I’m anxious. I was a sheriff befor
e this. I dealt with some pretty tense situations compared to this.”

  The girl raises her pierced eyebrow. "You were the law?" She walks through the front door with me, and into the reception area. Brandi sits in her chair and smiles as my friend in black scribbles her signature.

  "I was." I open my folder and glance at the schedule. Bacteriology. Sounds like a party.

  "Did you like it?" She reaches for her folder and looks at the paperwork.

  I shrug. "I guess. But it was long hours and a crazy schedule though. Cosmetology was always my dream, and I have a son, so salon hours are definitely appealing."

  "That's why you're nervous." She shuts her folder and faces me.

  "I don't understand."

  "The sheriff thing was a job. Paid the bills. This is a goal, a realization. You want it to work.”

  “You’re pretty smart.” We climb the stairs to the conference room.

  Her eyes narrow as she spits her words. “For a Goth girl?”

  “No. For a girl just out of high school.” I smile, opening the door for her.

  Three minutes later, Rose Yung in her black stretch pants, blouse, and rose-red scarf glances at her watch, looks at us, and clears her throat. "Good morning. One of the first things you need to know here at Gloversville Beauty School, or as Mr. Moore and I tend to call it, GBS, is that we start on time. You get a two-minute grace once a week. Your clients pay good money to see you. If you can't bother to be there on time, you've spoken..." Rose stops as the class door squeaks open and a woman about my age that I don't remember from the orientation uses her grace day without even knowing.

  She takes a seat in the back.

  Rose continues. "It speaks volumes about how you value yourself, your job, and your clients."

  Our teacher appears to gaze on the latecomer who wasn't at orientation. Rose puts her glasses on, moving them down to the edge of her nose as she places her notes on the podium. "Before we start bacteriology, we need to address the basics of cosmetology."

  The model-looking Claire Worthington raises her hand. "Do you mean where the best places to buy supplies are?"

  I can’t discern if she’s being serious or sarcastic, but I hear a few snickers.