Texan for the Holidays

by Victoria Chancellor

  “I WANT TO SUE THAT NEW hairdresser at Clarissa’s House of Style,” the voice coming from the reception area insisted. “That red-haired, young, weird-looking one that just got into town.” The rather unpleasant, strident tones were directed at James’s mother, who worked part-time as his receptionist.

  “What happened, Delores? I didn’t know Clarissa had hired a new hairdresser,” James heard his mother ask.

  “She’s a menace! This was the first time Ashley was a holiday princess, and her parade was ruined!”

  “Ruined? That’s just terrible.”

  Don’t encourage her, Mom, James thought as he pushed away from his desk and walked toward the reception area. His mother was too sympathetic to be a good screener, but she had a big heart and people did trust her. The problem was that a few of the citizens of Brody’s Crossing had become a bit lawsuit crazy since he’d moved his practice back home last year.

  Especially whenever one of the television network “in-depth” reports featured some evil-doing, money-hungry, corporate giant who was out to get the little guy. Last week Myra Hammer had wanted to sue the grocery for selling her bruised bananas. The week before, Sam Gibson had insisted that he should sue the used car dealer in Graham because the pickup he’d just bought had a blowout, so obviously the tire was defective.

  The citizens of Brody’s Crossing did not need encouragement in the lawsuit department.

  “Hello, Mrs. Desmond.” Demanding Desmond. That’s what everyone called her behind her back. Not him, but he’d heard waitresses, clerks and other workers complain. So far, though, no one had tried to sue her for unreasonable demands or poor tips. “What’s the problem?”

  “As I was telling your mother, that new red-haired hairdresser at Clarissa’s ruined my daughter’s hair for the holiday princess float and lunch at the community center.”

  “When you say ruined, do you mean permanently?”

  “No! But you know how important the parade is. All the girls wear upsweeps with those little rhinestone clips, and they do their makeup to match. Why, they all look so pretty up there on the float.”

  James sighed. He remembered how his high school girlfriend, Jennifer Hopkins, had been a holiday princess. She was married now with two children and he…wasn’t. “Do you have photos or any other proof?”

  “I certainly do! They’re all right here, in that disposable digital camera I bought at the CVS in Graham.”

  “Why don’t we wait until you get those photos developed, then we can talk?”

  “Just look at them in the little window. You can see clear as day that Ashley’s hair is not only inappropriate for a princess float, but is just too trendy for us. Why, it looks like something out of one of those Hollywood Grammys or Oscars or some such nonsense. You know how strange those actresses look.”

  James repressed a sigh and accepted the camera Mrs. Desmond thrust into his hand. “Turn it on right here,” she advised him, and he looked at photo after photo of dear Ashley wearing a fake-fur-trimmed gown. Her hair had been fluffed up and back, in some kind of curls, a style that did stand out among the other girls. Ashley’s hair appeared a bit softer around her small face.

  “It’s different.” And maybe better, James thought, but didn’t add his editorial comment. He was no expert on current teenage hairstyles. Or teenage girl anything.

  “So different that I’m sure everyone was laughing behind her back.”

  “Did anyone make a comment to you or to her?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t thinking it!”

  “Did you speak to Clarissa or the new stylist?”

  “No, I did not! I didn’t see Ashley’s hair until I went to the parade, and by then, the damage was already done. I thought I should talk to you first, to see what my legal options are.” Demanding Desmond leaned closer and narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t want to do or say anything that might influence my legal rights.”

  James repressed another sigh. “You can’t sue because you didn’t like the hairstyle. You need actual damages.”

  “How about the damage to my daughter’s image? She won’t even talk about it. That’s how upset she is.”

  “James, why don’t you talk to that new hairdresser? Maybe she just doesn’t understand what’s expected of her.”

  “Mother, don’t you think that’s Clarissa’s job?”

  “Well, maybe…”

  “Excellent idea!” Mrs. Desmond said. “You go talk to Clarissa and you’ll see what I mean.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Yes, that sounds reasonable,” his mother interrupted.

  He glared at his mom, then said, “Mrs. Desmond, with all due respect, I don’t have a dog in this fight.”

  “Dogs? Who’s talking about dogs? This is about hairstyles!”

  His point exactly, which apparently he wasn’t going to be allowed to make between his mother’s inherent sympathy and her hopes for a potential client.

  “I was just going to lunch.”

  “Fine. Then you can stop by Clarissa’s on your way over to the Burger Barn.”

  “Mrs. Desmond, I’m not agreeing to take your case.”

  “Okay, but once you see this new hairdresser, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Her hair is as red as the volunteer fire department’s new truck! She’s not one of us. I don’t know where she’s from, but it’s not around here, that’s for sure.”

  Which made James wonder what a fire-engine-red-haired, innovative stylist was doing in Brody’s Crossing, Texas.

  A few minutes later, with Mrs. Desmond gone and his mother nibbling on a tuna salad sandwich at her desk, James grabbed his jacket and headed for the Burger Barn, which was across the street from Clarissa’s House of Style. Eat first, ask questions later. He would not be lured into the beauty shop out of curiosity. That type of behavior could get him in trouble—with himself, if not anyone else.

  But when he walked by Clarissa’s, he glanced into the big picture window. Just to see if they were open and working. He squinted against the bright December sunlight, wondering if his eyes could be trusted.

  He stopped on the uneven concrete sidewalk and stared as the petite hairdresser brushed and used a blow dryer on someone older—he couldn’t tell who from this angle.

  Wow. The newcomer’s hair really was as red as the fire truck. Her bright green sweater ended just shy of her belly button, which twinkled with a tiny bit of silver or gold. Her jeans were tight in all the right places. Several long strands of beads swung as she wielded the blow dryer. Overall, she looked as if she were a Christmas elf making mischief inside Clarissa’s shop.

  He approached the door, all thoughts of burgers gone.

  Chapter Two

  Scarlett looked up from fighting Myra Hammer’s tight perm as the door to the shop opened. Holy schmoly. What was a man—especially a man who looked like this one—doing here? Surely there was a barbershop in Brody’s Crossing where the young and preppy got their already neat hair cut. Not that she minded looking at six feet of trim, hunky, thirty-something male, dressed in pressed chinos, a blue plaid button-down shirt and a brown leather jacket. His belt matched his polished boots, and his nails appeared clean and trimmed. She just couldn’t imagine what he wanted in the very pink House of Style.

  “May I help you?” she asked, since Venetia was in the back mixing up color for her client, and Clarissa was off to the café for lunch with “the girls,” as she called her friends.

  “You must be the new stylist,” the dark-haired hunk said with a smile. “The one who’s ‘not from around here.’”

  “Yep, that would be me.”

  “I’m James Brody,” he said, handing her a card from his jacket pocket. “My office is down the street, across from the bank, next to the little park with the fountain.”

  “Not that you’re doing us much good,” Myra Hammer interjected. “Won’t even do what we ask you to do.”

  Scarlett frowned and looked at the card. “An attorney? S
orry, but I don’t need an attorney. Now, if you were a mechanic, we could talk business.”

  “Actually, I was hoping you’d have a moment to speak to me.” He looked down at Myra, and Scarlett got the impression he was working to keep his expression neutral. “In private.”

  “I’m busy now. I’ll be finished in ten minutes.”

  “Maybe,” Myra said. “I want my hair with a wave, but no little curls. I can’t stand those little curls.”

  Then why did you get a tight perm? Scarlett felt like asking, but didn’t. “Ten to fifteen minutes.”

  “I can grab a burger and come back in fifteen minutes. Unless you’d like for me to wait and we can get something together. If you haven’t eaten yet.”

  He was asking her out to lunch? How odd. He didn’t even know her. “That’s nice, but…”

  “You might as well go to lunch with him,” Myra interjected. “He’s rich, powerful and single.”

  “Now, Myra, you know I’m not getting rich in this town,” Brody answered. “And I’m hardly powerful.”

  “You’re a Brody, aren’t you?” Myra looked up at Scarlett. “Town’s named after his family.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t made the connection.”

  “That was generations ago. They owned a ranch, like most everyone else around here.”

  “You could be rich if you’d sued that grocery store. I could have gotten sick on bruised bananas.”

  “But you didn’t, because you had enough sense not to eat the bananas, and therefore we didn’t have a case.”

  “So now I have to eat bad bananas to get my due!”

  “I didn’t say that,” James Brody replied, then sighed. “And besides, I came in to see…I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

  “I forgot to tell you. It’s Scarlett.”

  “Scarlett…?”

  “Just Scarlett, unless you’re from the licensing board or health department or insist on seeing my license.”

  “That bad, hmm?”

  She nodded. “My mother has a warped sense of humor.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” He shifted from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable—but why? Because he stood in a beauty salon, or because he’d just asked her out to lunch? “So, Scarlett, do you want to get a burger?”

  She could definitely use all the free meals she could get, since her car engine, as the snaggletoothed chicken crate man had prophesized, was “blown.” But no, she couldn’t have lunch. She had another client coming in after Myra was finished with her wave, no tight curls.

  “Sorry, but I can’t. I’m booked up until after two o’clock. If you want to talk, I’ll work you in.”

  “Well, if that’s the best you can do, I’ll accept your offer to see me between appointments,” he replied, and added a dimpled smile, which proved just how perfectly preppy—and okay, charming—he really was.

  “Just remember you can’t trust lawyers,” Myra said.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Myra,” Brody replied without the dimple, then gave Scarlett another slight, all-suffering smile. “I’ll see you in a few.”

  “I’ll be here.” As soon as the door closed behind him, Scarlett wondered just exactly what she’d agreed to do…and if she should have held out for the free lunch.

  “HI,” JAMES BRODY SAID, as he walked into the salon fifteen minutes later, on the dot. Scarlett finished putting away styling products into a rolling cart. She dropped a comb in sterilizing solution and turned to face him. “How was your burger?”

  “Same as always. I eat there every day, except Chamber of Commerce monthly luncheons and the occasional meeting with a client.”

  Scarlett thought that sounded extremely boring, but she held her tongue. His eating habits were none of her business. Although he was here, making something his business. But what?

  Venetia was working with a client. Since she wasn’t very friendly and probably gossiped like a pro, Scarlett would rather not talk to James Brody in front of her. “Do you want to go out back to talk? It’s not too chilly today. At least the cold wind has died down.”

  “Sure. Lead the way.”

  She had the feeling he was watching her as they made their way through the shampoo area, the room with the lumpy pull-out sofa she currently called home, and out the back door, where there was a small porch.

  She settled into the lawn chair, leaned back, raised her tired feet to the railing and looked up. “Well, Mr. Lawyer, what did you need to talk about?”

  He leaned against the iron railing next to the two steps going to the parking area, and folded his arms across his leather jacket and very nice chest. “Mrs. Desmond came into my office just before lunch. Apparently you fixed her daughter Ashley’s hair on Saturday.”

  “Oh, yes. Petite girl with—” Scarlett almost said “big ears,” but stopped herself in time “—brown hair.”

  “Her mother is upset that Ashley’s hair wasn’t styled as usual. Or at least in a style similar to the other girls. She felt Ashley was damaged by being different.”

  “What?” Scarlett sat upright and swung her feet to the porch. “Ashley loved her hair!”

  “Apparently her mother had different ideas.”

  “Well, her mother is wrong! That traditional updo isn’t right for a teenager. She needed something softer, with a little volume…er, on the sides.” To cover up her big ears, not show them off.

  “I know that you believe you gave her a style that was suitable for her face, but you’ve got to understand that in small towns, being traditional is often more important.”

  “That’s nonsense. There’s no reason these girls should look like little cookie cutter dolls. They should get hairstyles that are appropriate for them.”

  “Their mothers are paying for the styles, so they have some say in the final product.”

  “If Ashley’s mother thinks an updo would look better on her daughter than that cute twisted-curl style I did, she just doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You should ignore her.”

  “I’m not encouraging her to sue—”

  “Sue! She should be thanking me!”

  “She has a different opinion, and whether you or I agree with her, she’s Ashley’s mother and lives in this town. She feels her daughter was harmed.”

  “I can’t believe this! I’m telling you that Ashley loved her hair. You can ask Clarissa.”

  “I haven’t talked to Clarissa, and neither did Mrs. Desmond, apparently. She came to my office earlier and asked me to talk to you.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous!”

  “I’m just saying that sometime between Ashley leaving the salon and Monday morning, Mrs. Desmond decided to see an attorney. Now, as I said, I didn’t encourage her.”

  “Am I supposed to be grateful for that?”

  “Look, if she comes around, just tell her you’re sorry you didn’t fix her daughter’s hair as she was expecting it to be fixed.”

  “I will not apologize for styling that girl’s hair in a flattering, appropriate manner.”

  “Okay, then, but you might expect complaints about these unfamiliar styles. People might thing they’re too…mature.”

  “That’s absurd.” Scarlett picked up one of the magazines and turned to a section on teen styles. “Look at these! I didn’t do anything near this edgy or dramatic.” She shoved the magazine at him.

  He thumbed through several pages and raised his eyebrows. He was so well groomed that she couldn’t even criticize his brows, skin care or even his hair—although the style was kind of boring with a side part, and just long enough to start to curl at the nape of his neck.

  “These are as you say, more dramatic than what you did, but that won’t necessarily satisfy Mrs. Desmond.”

  Scarlett grabbed the magazine and put it back on the little table next to the chair. “I won’t be around long enough to care. As soon as my car is repaired, I’m out of here.”

  James Brody, attorney at law, shrugged. “That might be best.”

/>   “Hey, who elected you hairstyle sheriff? This is the twenty-first century. You can’t run me out of town!”

  He frowned. “I’m just pointing out your best option.”

  She stepped closer and pointed her own finger at him, nearly jabbing him in the chest—which she didn’t actually touch because he might have her arrested for assault. “Listen, I don’t need to be told I don’t belong here. If you want to be useful, get Claude McCaskie to find the parts he needs to repair my car. I’ll be out of here faster than you can say ‘lawsuit.’”

  “I didn’t come down here in any official capacity, and I’m not getting in the middle of the fight.”

  “Oh, you put yourself in the middle, bub.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me bub.”

  “What are you going to do—sue me?”

  He leaned closer, until they were nearly eye to eye. “I might just take Mrs. Desmond’s case, at which point I’d have you held over for a trial.”

  Scarlett’s eyes narrowed. If she could, she would have blown smoke and fire from her nose. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Don’t provoke me.”

  “You’re the one who came down here and threatened me!”

  She watched anger and frustration war on his face. Granted, it was a handsome face, but as her Southern belle grandmother used to say, “Pretty is as pretty does.” Right now he didn’t seem so much like a pretty boy as he did a small-town ogre. What nerve, to come in here and tell her she didn’t know how to fix hair, then threaten to keep her here with bogus charges!

  “I came here to deflect a possible issue for you. I can see you’re not going to cooperate, so I’ll be going. Don’t be surprised if you get more complaints.”

  “I never let the criticism of small minds bother me.”

  “We’ll see. I guess that depends on how long you’re here and whether Clarissa decides to support you.” He turned and stormed down the two steps to the gravel parking space behind the salon, and disappeared around the side of the city hall office building.

  Scarlett slumped against the wall. Where would she stay if Clarissa decided she was too much trouble? Damn that car! She should have traded it in on something more reliable years ago, even if her actions did make her seem ungrateful to her parents, who’d given her the clunky monster because it was big, safe and paid for.