by Carol Snow
Brea Dam park was a flat, grassy expanse with picnic tables, grills, and a huge fire pit, where a bonfire now roared. The dam’s gravelly wall loomed beyond us. A wooded hill rose on another side.
We hurried toward the fire, my feet already cold in backless shoes. Ben pulled his hood over his head—something he rarely did because he didn’t want to mess up his spiky hair.
“You cold, buddy?”
“Don’t want anyone to see that I don’t have my hat.”
Closer to the fire, little boys ran around in the semidarkness, while mothers fussed over a line of rectangular tables, arranging fruit and vegetable platters, store-bought cookies, and juice boxes. Fathers clustered around a couple of enormous, smoking grills, which allowed them to look manly and stay warm at the same time.
“I’ve got some more juice boxes,” I said, handing the Capri Suns over to a woman at the tables. So what if I was kinda, sorta taking credit for Deborah Mott’s contribution. She owed me.
“Terrific.” The woman checked my face, tried to place me. “Your son is . . .”
“Ben Czaplicki.”
“Ben! Right. Of course. He’s a . . . Tiger? But I thought you were bringing . . .” She shuffled things around on the table until she uncovered a sheet of paper. She had to squint to read. “Hot dog buns. Did you switch with someone?”
“No, uh . . . I didn’t know about the barbecue until yesterday. My ex-husband usually takes Ben to Scouts.”
At the word ex-husband, her eyes popped, just the tiniest bit. “Oh! Right! So Hank is your . . . right.”
“You need any help?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
I smiled and nodded. My face hurt from stress and cold.
“For future reference?” she said. “You can get all the information you need from our website.”
I smiled some more and then slunk off to find my son. Ben was standing on a picnic table bench, arm in the air, yelling, “Ahoy, mateys!” Around him, little boys in Cub Scout caps jumped and yelped and made pirate noises.
I caught Ben’s eye. “Hey, buddy. You want to find a place to sit?”
He shook his head and turned his attention back to his friends.
Some adults had arranged themselves around the bonfire in folding canvas camp chairs. I wandered over to an empty patch of dry grass and stood there, hugging myself to stay warm, gazing at the fire and only occasionally squinting at the faces around me, trying to spot someone I knew. Even Terri Sheffler would be better than nothing.
Ben had begged Carson to join Cub Scouts, but Nina refused. “It’s like a Nazi cult. All those uniforms and saluting? Nuh-uh.” Mostly, I think, she didn’t want the 6:30 meetings to mess up her dinners twice a month.
That was okay with me. I didn’t like the idea of Nina chatting with Hank and possibly deciding that he wasn’t a complete and total asshole.
“Veronica? Hey!” At the sound of the male voice I turned to see John Sheffler.
“Hi, John!” I had never been so happy to see John’s puffy face before. In fact, I had never been even a little bit happy to see John, who never seemed to say more than, “Hi,” “Hey,” and “Is that right?” At social gatherings, he favored corners, where he’d stand with his arms crossed over his striped button-down shirt—he must have had a closet full of them, all the tiniest bit tight over his belly. He’d gnaw on his bottom lip and check his big chrome watch every fifteen minutes.
Once, at a PTA fundraiser, Nina (who’d had a little too much to drink) joined John in his corner and said, “Are we keeping you from something important?”
John looked so baffled you’d think she was speaking Cherokee. Finally, he shook his head.
“You keep checking your watch,” Nina explained.
“Is that right?”
“Is Terri here?” I asked him now. I’d give anything to camp next to Terri for the evening. I’d even dole out some new-and-exciting details of my divorce. Like: Hank originally claimed to have met Darcy through work, but I’d recently found out that they had hooked up at a bar. (I wouldn’t tell her that it was the same bar where he’d met me. That was too painful.) Or: Hank’s mother, who insisted I call her “Mom” for all the years we were married, responded to my last birthday card with a note that said, “In light of the circumstances, I don’t feel that either of us should feel compelled to recognize special occasions.”
As it turned out, Terri would have to wait for these juicy tidbits.
“It’s just me and the boys tonight,” John told me. “Ashlyn’s at a friend’s house, so Terri was going to take a long bath and watch a movie on television.”
Oh, great. Monday I’d get to hear about how lucky Terri was to be married to John, who took the boys out on a Saturday night so she could take a candlelit bubble bath. Terri had spent a brief stint as a PartyLites home sales representative, so pretty much everything she did involved candles.
“You put your chair down yet?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “I didn’t realize we were supposed to bring chairs.”
I mentally thanked him for not saying, “It was in the e-mail.” Instead, he said, “You can use Blaine’s.”
The Shefflers’ blue canvas chairs were set up near the fire. I had about twenty seconds’ worth of relaxation before I noticed all the eyes on me. Hank Czaplicki’s ex-wife is hitting on John Sheffler!
Maybe it was just my imagination.
John leaned toward me. No striped shirt tonight—at least that I could see. His ski jacket was navy blue. “You having a good year this year?”
“Sure,” I nodded and forced a smile. Nothing like divorce and poverty to get you off to a great start. “You?”
He nodded slowly, as if considering. “Fantastic.” He held my gaze a fraction of a second too long.
Maybe it was just my imagination.
I leaned away, just the littlest bit, and looked back at the faces around me. Okay, it was true: people were looking at us. If I were married, people wouldn’t think twice about seeing me chat with John. As long I was single, I was considered a threat.
“I’m starving!” I announced (even though I wasn’t). “I think I’ll go get something to eat.”
People were already lining up at the long tables, including Ben and his fellow Tiger Scouts. I was scooping a mound of macaroni salad onto a paper plate when I heard a kid say, “Where are the hot dog rolls?”
“Yeah, where are they?” another asked.
And then: Yeah, yeah—hot dog rolls! There are no hot dog rolls! How’m I supposed to eat a hot dog without a roll?
When I heard an adult say, “The person who was supposed to bring them didn’t read her e-mail,” I wheeled around, prepared to stalk off to the bonfire with my macaroni salad. Instead, I bumped into Ken Drucker, looking very tall and outdoorsy in a dark green Columbia ski jacket, tan pants, and brown hiking boots
“Whoah!” He put a hand on my arm.
“Ken—hi! Hope I didn’t get you with the macaroni.”
“No, I’m fine. Is that all you’re eating?”
“I’m not very hungry.”
He looked toward the bonfire. “Where are you sitting?”
“Nowhere,” I said. “I forgot my chair.” And the hot dog rolls. And my brain.
“I’ve got extras in the car. I’ll get you one.”
So that’s how I wound up spending my Saturday night in front of a fire with Ken Drucker. We talked about his recent snow camping trip and about how many times he had climbed Mount Whitney (seven). We talked about my teaching experiences at Las Palmas Elementary. We commiserated about the stresses and confusions of single parenting, and he said, “Ha!” (again, not the guffaw but the word itself) when I confessed that I was the one who’d neglected to bring the hot dog buns.
There were so many not-so-subtle looks and whispers that I blurted out, “Do you think our picture will be on the front page of the National Enquirer next week?” After my recent experience in Beverly Hills, I
half-expected a photographer to pop out of the bushes.
“Ha!” he said.
I felt myself flush—worried for an instant that he’d take my comment the wrong way, as if I thought any of the sparks crackling in the night air were the result of chemistry between us and not the fire.
“Do you date much?” he asked. His tone of voice—purely curious and platonic—put my fears to rest.
“Nah,” I said. “I don’t have the time or the energy. I just want to focus on Ben, for now. How about you?”
He shook his head. “I don’t feel ready yet. And I don’t think the boys are ready, either. The divorce has been rough on them. Besides, I really don’t meet any attractive single women.”
Realizing what he’d said, he covered his face. “That came out wrong. What I mean is—”
I laughed. “It’s okay.”
He grinned. “I guess what I’m looking for—if I were looking, which I’m not—is someone who can share experiences with me and the boys. Someone who likes camping and mountain biking. Rock climbing, ice fishing—all the good stuff.”
“That sounds . . .” I paused, trying to find the right word. “Exhausting,” I finished. “And cold and wet and just generally miserable.”
This time he laughed for real.
When the time came for the night hike, Ken loaned Ben a flashlight that strapped to his head. I made it halfway up the steep dirt path through the woods before tripping over my slip-on shoes.
“You go back down by the fire,” Ken told me. “I’ll keep an eye on Ben.”
“Thanks,” I said, relief gushing through me. “You’re a pal.”
I meant it, too.
Chapter Eleven
Monday morning, I dropped Ben and the Mott kids at school and headed for Santa Fe Springs, where I found Rodrigo waiting in the El Taco Loco parking lot.
As I buckled myself into the passenger seat of his now-familiar Prius, he handed me the sunglasses and trucker hat. He looked worn-out today, with circles under his eyes and less gel than usual in his hair.
“We’re going to L.A.,” he muttered, pulling out of the parking lot.
“Why?”
“Appointment.”
“With . . .?”
“Hair designer.”
“For . . . ?”
“Hair.”
The Prius, bogged down in traffic, crawled toward the freeway entrance ramp. Rodrigo stared straight ahead, clutching the steering wheel, his lips tense and white.
“Not that it’s any of my business, Rodrigo, but is something wrong?”
For a moment, I thought he hadn’t heard me. Finally, he spoke. “I hate this town.”
“Santa Fe Springs?”
“No—L.A.” He sighed with exasperation and said nothing more for the rest of the drive—unless you count a mumbled fucking idiot when someone in an SUV cut him off.
I liked Suck-Up Rodrigo better than Depressed Rodrigo.
The beauty parlor (I guess I shouldn’t call it that) was in a green craftsman bungalow on a leafy street. The sign near the front door was so small that I almost missed it. White with a simple black typeface, it read STEFANO SALZANO, HAIR ARTISTRY. No hours of operation, no phone number: one could only assume that Stefano did not take walk-ins.
Rodrigo pulled into the driveway and parked in the back. Towering hedges surrounded a small dirt lot, so no one would see customers going in or coming out. Inside, the bungalow had wide plank floors, built-in oak cabinets, and an elaborate tile fireplace. There was a cozy seating area with velvet couches and a single styling chair upholstered in tapestry.
When we walked in, Stefano Salzano, his glossy black hair tufted like a woodpecker’s crown, was standing in the middle of the room, hands clasped in front of him, a big, white, bonded-tooth smile on his shiny face. Why did his skin look so eerily smooth, almost plastic? Was it Botox? Chemical peel? Dermabrasion? I bet Haley would know.
“Veronica!” He rushed toward me. “Jay has told me every little thing about you!”
“Like what?”
He stopped short and bit his lip. “That you look like Haley? And that you, um . . . look like Haley? Okay, truth: that’s all he told me.” He broke into a fit of giggles, covering his mouth with a manicured hand. He had two earrings in his (slightly pointy) right ear, a loop in the lobe and a little steel ball high up in the cartilage. He wore black skinny jeans and a tight white T-shirt that showed off his sinewy, tattooed forearms.
Stefano hung my jacket and purse in a coat closet and sent me off to a spacious bathroom, which had purple walls, black-and-white checkerboard floors, a big gilt mirror, and a farmhouse sink adapted for hair washing. I swapped my cotton sweater for a black kimono that looked like silk but whose label ratted it out as polyester.
Back in the main room, Stefano offered me slippers (which I declined) and mineral water in a bright green bottle (which I accepted, even though it would make me burp). Finally, he led me to the tapestry chair. Sullen Rodrigo, meanwhile, had taken up residence on one of the velvet couches. He was so tiny, he practically disappeared among the fringed pillows.
Stefano peered over my shoulder at the mirror, patting my brown locks on the sides and ends. I examined his tattoos in the reflection. The artwork on his left arm was navy-inspired: an anchor, a sailor, a breaking wave. Cartoons ruled the right arm. Betty Boop chased Porky Pig. Tom and Jerry sipped champagne. Fred Flintstone mooned Barney.
“You ready to go blond?” Stefano asked.
“What?” I forgot about the tattoos. When he didn’t react, I turned to look him straight in his shiny face.
“Jay didn’t tell you?” His cupid’s bow mouth twisted with amusement. “You, my dear, are going to join the ranks of Carole Lombard, Marilyn Monroe, and our own dear Haley Rush—and go platinum!”
I froze. “But—Jay said he thought Haley looked better as a brunette.”
Stefano batted at the air. “Hon-bun, it doesn’t matter what Jay does or doesn’t like. Haley’s a blonde—I do her color, BTW—and you have to match. And besides. FYI? Jay has as much style sense as my cockapoo.” He giggled. “I really just wanted an excuse to say cockapoo.”
I gulped. “Okay.” It made sense, of course. To pass as Haley, I’d need Haley’s hair.
Seeing my expression, Stefano gave my hair a reassuring squeeze. “Girrrrrrl! You are going to look superfierce—like a cute little man-eating sex kitten! You are going to have the men clawing at your door . . . and then you’re going to come right back here and tell me all about it!”
That made me laugh. Stefano was pretentious, affected—a hairdressing and Hollywood cliché. Despite all that—or maybe because of it—I immediately adored him.
While Stefano fluttered around, Rodrigo remained on the couch, poking at his laptop and pretending not to listen. When he got up to use the bathroom, Stefano whispered, “What’s the matter with Tinker Bell?”
“He’s down on Hollywood, for some reason.”
“Oh, please. All these people come here looking for love. Not of a man or love of a woman—but love from everybody. And when they’re not instantly discovered, it’s like, ‘Why are you all so stupid that you can’t see my utter fabulousness?’ Probably Tinker Bell had one of his screenplays rejected. Again.”
“He told you about his writing?” I whispered.
“Ugh!” Stefano ran a comb through my hair, careful not to tug. “He told me, he told my assistant, he told my cat—who should be around here somewhere, BTW. I hope you’re not allergic.”
He lowered his voice back into the murmuring range. “Anyhoo, I know some independent producers who read the script. Bear in mind, these are rich kids whose daddies set them up so they can read screenplays all day and buy independent films as a hobby. They’ve never actually produced anything in their lives, and even they said it stunk. One called it self-indulgent garbage, one said it was derivative crap, and the third called it . . . well, something that might offend those lovely shell-shaped ears.”
&
nbsp; Rodrigo came out of the bathroom and settled back among the pillows. Stefano straightened and began to whistle. He brushed a stinky white solution onto my hair and wrapped it, piece by piece, in foil. while Rodrigo tapped away on his computer.
“Writing another screenplay, Rod?” Stefano asked him.
Rodrigo kept his eyes on his laptop. “Yes.”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t give up your dreams. You’ve got too much talent to let it go to waste.”
It took all my strength to keep my face neutral.
Rodrigo seemed to ignore him, but I guess he was just screening for sarcasm. “Thank you,” he said at last.
When my hair was entirely encased in foil, Stefano lead me to an empty loveseat, draping it with a throw blanket so the chemicals on my head couldn’t endanger the velvet. “Champagne?”
“Seriously?”
He looked up at the tin ceiling and sighed. “Well, okay. It’s technically sparkling wine because it’s from Sonoma, and you can’t call something champagne unless it’s from the Champagne region in France.”
This was so much better than teaching eight-year-olds how to hula hoop.
Stefano disappeared for a moment before returning with a tall glass and a stack of reading material.
“Variety, Vogue, Men’s Health, or Fit Pregnancy?”
“No Us Weekly? No Star?”
“No, no, a hundred times, no!” He shuddered. “Not since that day when Nicole came in. I’d left People sitting out where everyone could see it, and the cover story was all about . . . ” He shuddered again, more dramatically this time.
“Tom Cruise?” I guessed.
“Other Nicole.” He took a step back and studied me.
Rodrigo’s cell phone rang. “Hey, honey, what’s up?” Immediately, he was a different person.
“. . . I don’t know—a while. We’re at Stefano’s. Yeah—the place in Hancock Park, the little house. Jay thought the Beverly Hills salon was too risky.”
“It’s not a little house, it’s a bungalow,” Stefano said to no one in particular, fussing around with his supplies. “And it’s not a salon, it’s a private studio.”
