by Beth Ciotta
Kylie was sitting on a cushioned mat in her living room, in the lotus position, seeking inner calm, when her friend blew into the trailer, her big purse in one hand, a tie-dyed tote in the other. “Got here as quick as I could.” She dropped on her knees in front of Kylie. “I’m so sorry.”
They’d parted on heated terms yesterday—at least, Faye had. They hadn’t talked all day, a first. Yet suddenly here Faye was, in person and apologizing. For what? Kylie decided to skip over yesterday’s mystery tiff, for now, and focused on today’s trials. “Sorry about my hair? Or about the historical society’s ruling?”
“Both. I got your messages. I meant to call back. It was one thing after another today.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I stopped by the store, but you’d already left. Travis told me you were pretty upset.”
“Yeah, well—”
“He wouldn’t let me inside.”
Kylie flinched at her friend’s wounded tone. “I told him I didn’t want anyone to see the interior until we were through.”
“Since when am I just anyone?”
“You’re not. You’re you. You’re…special.” Kylie’s cheeks burned. “I should have specified—”
“Never mind.” Faye waved off the apology and squinted at Kylie. “Let’s shed some light on the supposed catastrophe.” She reached over and flicked on the dragon table lamp Kylie had purchased on eBay.
Maintaining her cross-legged position, Kylie loosened her tightly wound bun and shook her head.
“Yikes.”
“Told you I look like a character out of a Manga graphic novel.”
“I thought you were exaggerating.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I can see that.”
How could Faye be so calm? Oh, right. She’d had purple hair once. By choice. Kylie wasn’t Faye. Yes, she’d wanted a change. But this… “My hair is striped. Striped.”
“I can see that.”
“The highlights are orange. Not auburn. Not blond. Orange. Like the fruit. Like a carrot. Like a flipping pumpkin!”
Faye hugged her tote. “I can fix that.”
Kylie teared up. Partly because it seemed as if she and Faye were back to normal. Partly because she’d offered to do what Petunia had declared impossible. “Petunia tried some sort of toner, but it didn’t help. She said I need to wait a couple of days before she tries something else. Her schedule’s packed and my hair’s too fragile.”
“Petunia can kiss my patootie.”
Kylie laughed and sniffed back tears.
“You know me. I know hair. Mostly I’ve always colored my own and mostly it comes out okay.”
“Mostly.” Kylie opted not to dwell on the time chunks had broken off of her friend’s hair due to overbleaching. That bungle had resulted in Faye chopping her long hair into a funky boyish cut.
“If you’d rather wait—”
Kylie grabbed her friend’s hand and tugged her toward the bathroom. “In spite of everything I said on my birthday—strike that—mostly everything I said, in this instance I’d give anything for ordinary.” Kylie quirked a hopeful smile. “Please tell me you have a box of blah-boring brown dye in that tote.”
“I’ve got espresso. A shade darker than your mocha-brown, but it’s the closest match I could find. Be warned, the color won’t grab the same to your orange streaks as it will to your natural chunks.”
“So I’ll still be two-toned?”
“Yes, but two-toned brown. Hopefully.”
Kylie groaned.
Faye shrugged. “It’s an art, not a science.”
“Have at it, maestro.” Kylie removed her glasses and set them on the vanity. She sank onto the toilet seat of her cramped bathroom while Faye snapped on latex gloves. She wondered about yesterday’s mystery tiff. Wondered if things were okay between Faye and Stan. She chided herself for being self-absorbed and sought to reconnect with her friend. “So, how was your day?”
“Busy. Stressful.” Faye draped a towel over Kylie’s shoulders. “Got another call from the school. Spent an hour in Principal Peterson’s office. Sting punched a kid.”
“What? Why?” Sting was mischievous, like most five-year-old boys, but he wasn’t mean.
“Apparently some kids have been picking on Madeline Cortez, calling her names, making her cry. You’ve met Madeline. Unlike her mom, she’s shy and sweet. Sting attacked the meanest of the bullies in her defense.”
Kylie smiled.
“I know. I’m proud and worried at the same time. I don’t want him to think violence is the solution to all problems. I told Stan we need to be more strict about what he can and can’t watch on TV. Even cartoons glamorize violence.”
“Everyone’s desensitized these days,” Kylie said as Faye squeezed dark goo on her neon hair. “Fifteen years ago folks would have been shocked and disgusted by the graphic killings on Omertà. Now they seem to revel in it. The bloodier the better.”
“If even one-quarter of what’s depicted on that show is true to life, can you imagine some of the horrors Jack has seen? I mean, the mob is rampant in New York, right? No wonder he burned out.”
“Who said he burned out?”
“I heard it from Kerri who got it from Deputy Ziffel who got it straight from Jack. Said he burned out on big crime.”
Kylie stiffened. She couldn’t help feeling jealous of the pretty, successful and normal-colored-haired Kerri Waldo. “Why is Kerri prying into Jack’s personal business? For that matter, why is Ed Ziffel running off at the mouth about his boss?”
“You’re kidding, right? Jack’s a homegrown hero returned home. The only thing that would instigate more gossip is if your brother moved back.”
“Ha! Like that’ll happen.”
“Like you want it to.”
Kylie’s stomach knotted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind.” Faye stripped off the gloves then glanced at her watch. “Tell me about the meeting with the board.”
The knot tugged tighter. “Not much to tell. They shot me down before I even stated my case. It burns my buns that I can’t alter the storefront and all because McGraw’s is part of a historical block.”
“Hey, at least they didn’t stop you from renovating the inside.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were siding with the HPS.”
Faye didn’t respond.
Kylie frowned. “You are taking their side.”
“I’m being realistic,” she said, digging through her big purse. “Eden benefits financially from the tourists who frequent the Apple Festival. Those folks enjoy the town’s old-fashioned ambience as do most of the people who live here.” Faye leaned into the vanity and swiped red lipstick over her puckered mouth. “Why do you think Stan and I retained the Americana look of the Orchard House? It’s good business.”
Kylie crossed her arms over her chest. “Being unique is good business, too.”
“The historical block is unique, Kylie. It’s provincial. It’s nostalgic. Locals and tourists appreciate the 1950s facades, a reminder of simpler, better times. If you modernize McGraw’s exterior by painting it funky colors and swapping the green awning for leopard print or pink-and-yellow stripes, you’ll ruin the unified quaintness of the historical block. What if it has a negative impact on business? I’m not just talking about McGraw’s. I’m thinking about the other store proprietors. Jay Jarvis and Ray Keystone, for example. Normally you’d consider them, too.”
Kylie blanched. No one had ever accused her of being selfish.
Faye sighed. “I miss you, Kylie.”
“What do you mean? I’m right here.”
“Not the Kylie McGraw I know and love.” Her friend spun away. “I shouldn’t have come here tonight. I’m going to make hot tea. Want some?”
Kylie stared after her. “No, I don’t want tea.” Perplexed, she held tight to the towel around her shoulders and followed Faye into the kitchen. “I want an explanation. You were sni
ppy with me all day yesterday and now… What’s going on with you?”
Faye filled the brass kettle with water and clanged it to the gas stove.
Kylie’s stomach turned. “If you’re mad at me, just say so.”
“I’m mad at you. I thought I was over it, but I’m not.”
“What did I do?”
“For starters, you betrayed my confidence.”
Kylie flinched. “When?”
“During your drunken tirade at Boone’s. You told the whole bar that I whine about our summer guests at the Orchard House. First, I didn’t realize you considered my venting, whining. Second, it got back to Stan, who took my whining personally.”
So that’s why they’d been fighting. “Oh, Faye. I…I…” Kylie stumbled for an excuse, only there wasn’t one. Worse, she didn’t even remember her slip. “I was tipsy, and stoked, and rambling—”
“I know. I was there.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
“But you’re still mad at me.”
“Yes.”
“For?”
“For flipping out. For acting recklessly. For blowing your dream-trip fund on a whim!”
Rattled by Faye’s vehemence, Kylie plopped onto a kitchen chair. “It wasn’t a whim, exactly. I’ve been itching to reinvent McGraw’s for a while now, but I felt bound by…”
“Tradition?”
“Exactly. I imagined the smallest changes causing Dad and Grandpa to roll over in their graves. I spent a lifetime trying to win their approval. It’s a hard habit to break. But then I snapped and suddenly there was no turning back. I had to renovate McGraw’s. I confess I had second thoughts this afternoon, but Travis told me to trust my instincts. He said there comes a point when a person has to stop living for others and start living for themselves.”
Faye folded her arms, cocked one brow. “Sounds like you and Travis had a real heart-to-heart.”
“Weird. I know. I mean, he’s always been so private.”
“You mean aloof.”
“I feel sorry for him. I think he’s stuck with a life he doesn’t want. Kind of like you and me.”
Faye’s face burned red. “I’m not stuck with anything. I love my life. I love Stan. I love my kids!”
“I know you do!” Mortified, Kylie shot to her feet. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…you wanted to be a rock star.”
“You wanted to backpack across Asia!”
“Why do you keep harping on that? I’ve saved before, I’ll save again. When the time is right, I’ll go.”
“No, you won’t. If you really wanted to go, you wouldn’t have blown your savings on this spontaneous renovation.”
“I just explained—”
“You would have told Spenser about your dream trip when he called you on your birthday,” Faye plowed on. “You didn’t tell him because you knew he’d come home. He wouldn’t deny you your adventure. Only, you don’t want him running McGraw’s, even temporarily. What if he liked it? What if he took over permanently? It would kill you because—brace yourself—you love being in charge. You love that shoe store and you love watching over your mom and grandma even though they drive you nuts. You’re a caretaker, not a risk-taker. I don’t think you had that birthday meltdown because you’re bored. I think you’re unhappy. Not with Eden, but with your…circumstances.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud.” Kylie was so dang stunned, so furious, her brains were leaking out her ears. She swiped at the goo with the corner of her towel. Not brains. Dye. “Is it time to wash this stuff off yet?”
Faye glanced at her watch. “No. And you don’t have to be sarcastic, by the way.”
“You just psychoanalyzed me and it wasn’t pretty!”
“I didn’t mean to be so blunt, but I’ve given this a lot of thought. Childhood dreams and adult needs are two different things, Kylie. Maybe you should give up Zen, because it sure as hell hasn’t gotten you in touch with your feelings. You’re clinging to the past and afraid of the future. Stop chanting other people’s epiphanies and listen to your heart. Figure out what you really want and go for it. Take Jack, for instance. I know you’re still crushing on him. Travis mentioned he’s the reason you wanted a makeover.”
“I can’t believe you two dished about me.”
“I can’t believe you confided in Travis!”
Kylie blinked. “Is that what this is about? Because I bonded with someone other than you?”
“You bonded with hardware guy? You don’t even know him! Oh, wait. Oh, no.” She smacked her hand to her forehead. “So that’s why he jumped at the chance to work for you. Long hours, little pay.”
“What are you driving at, Faye?”
“He’s trying to get in your pants.”
Kylie gaped. “He just lost his wife!”
“Three months ago. He’s miserable and lonely. You’re pretty and lonely.”
“You know what?” Kylie snapped. “You need to leave.”
“You know what? You’re right.” Faye stalked out of the room and returned two seconds later with her purse and tote slung over her shoulder. She handed Kylie her glasses and a folded paper. “Just follow the directions.”
Kylie perched her glasses on the end of her nose, trying not to smear the ear temples with dye goo. She stared down at the printed paper as Faye slammed out the door. Apply color and check after twenty-five minutes.
Oooh-kay. And Faye had applied the color when?
Great. Just great. Although Kylie didn’t much care what shade of brown her hair ended up, so long as it wasn’t orange.
She stormed back to the bathroom, Faye’s words ringing in her ears. “You’re a caretaker, not a risk-taker.” Faye had said a lot of hurtful things, but that particular observation cut to the core. Along with her grandma’s comment that she was a sensible girl, and J.J.’s remark that she was usually so nice. And what had Jack called her? Sweet! He’d also told her not to do anything stupid, which griped her fanny as much as the HPS ordering her to conform.
Every fiber in her body burned to rebel. To make a statement. To shake up Eden.
She stared into the vanity mirror. “What would Spenser do?”
A memory popped into her head and she smiled. “I’ll show them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
“FUCK!
That had to hurt. Carmine watched his nephew spring off the sofa, after sitting on a four-inch stiletto. He tried not to smile. “Hey. Babbo. Keep your voice down. It’s almost midnight.”
But it wasn’t just the late hour. Wiped out from a forty-eight-hour creative binge, a session of wild sex and two celebratory bottles of merlot, his mistress was dead to the world. Carmine welcomed the quiet. Dixie Darling was a fucking ball of energy. She never stopped, never shut up—except when she was smoking Carmine’s sausage.
Mario glanced up the stairway of the rented brownstone, waited. Satisfied he hadn’t woken Sleeping Beauty, he glared at the glittering offender. “One of Dixie’s creations?” he asked at a muted volume.
Carmine nodded. “She’s obsessed.”
“It’s whacked.”
“It’s one of her classier results. You should’ve seen the sneakers she’s been decorating for the past two days.”
“Who would buy this shit?”
“Someone with whacked taste.”
Mario set the high-heeled shoe on the gleaming cocktail table and rubbed the seat of his tailored trousers. He eyed the sofa again before sitting down. “Why was a shoe wedged in between the cushions?”
Dressed only in boxers and a tee, Carmine shook off the remnants of satiation and opened a bottle of sambuca. “Dixie was modeling them for me earlier tonight and…” we got naked and kinky “—one thing led to another.” How’s that for exercise, Dr. Aversi?
Mario took the proffered glass of liquor and winked. “You’re a lucky man, Chickie.”
Luck had nothing to do with it. He was used to
getting what he wanted. He wanted Dixie. She was a breath of fresh air in his stale life. She took his mind off his worries. Made him forget about his impending death. That’s why he’d been risking his wife’s fury by spending more time with his mistress. He loved Marisa, but she was part of his fucking reality. A reality plagued with health issues and prophetic nightmares.
Dixie was a blessed distraction, a remedy of sorts. Like Dr. Bennett. Bennett tended his demons, while Dixie showed him the stars. Carmine’s pole twitched just thinking about the way she’d sashayed into the living room wearing a sheer pink nightie and those four-inch fuck-me pumps. He’d had to tear his gaze away from her luscious ta-tas when she’d asked for his opinion on her latest custom-decorated shoes. Since he’d wanted her to ride him sore, he’d noted the blinding combination of sequins, rhinestones and metallic paint with a proud smile. “Beautiful, baby,” he’d lied. “Like you,” he’d added honestly. Then he ridded her of that flimsy nightie, telling her to strut her stuff—wearing nothing but those beautiful FMPs.
“No offense,” Mario said, “but Dixie’s a little oobatz. Though I guess you don’t mind what with her being—”
“Yeah?”
“Uh, so easy on the eye.”
He meant a walking sex toy. But Mario knew better than to disrespect Carmine’s mistress. As for being a little crazy, sure, Dixie was all foam, no beer, but she’d been blessed with a stunning face, killer body and a voracious sexual appetite. She used to hawk drinks at the Candy Stripper. Now she was his goomah. So what if she had a loose screw? She had a heart of gold and a mouth that worked magic. “She’s got a Web site now.”
“For what?”
“Bada-Bling!”
Mario blinked.
“That’s the name of her business.”
“She’s got a business? Since when?”
Since she softened me up with a hummer that melted my brain cells. “Since two weeks ago.” Carmine raised his glass in a toast. “Salute.” He sipped the strong licorice liquor, weighed his words. He didn’t want to give the wrong impression. He wasn’t pussy-whipped like his brother-in-law. What he was, was head-over-sparkly-heels in lust.
