by Cathie Linz
“This is about money, not feminism.”
“I think cut the hair,” Omar stated. “About here.” Omar indicated a line above the top of Heather’s ear.
Heather’s strangled shriek of dismay was drowned out by the hairdresser’s continuing diatribe. “And color it with some highlights. Contrasts. Perhaps orange henna. And we need to give it more height.” He lifted her shoulder-length hair toward the ceiling. “We must make you look more like an urban-aggressive woman. I will go prepare.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Nita demanded as Heather frantically tried to undo the restrictive cape wrapped around her.
“Getting out of here!”
“No, you’re not. Do you know what strings I had to pull to get Omar to see you so quickly?”
“Forget strings, get me out of this straitjacket.”
“Just calm down. Omar knows what he’s doing. This is the trendiest salon in all of Chicago. Women would kill to be where you’re sitting.”
“I’d kill to get out of where I’m sitting.”
At that moment a young woman walked by, exclaiming, “I look so much better now. You guys did a great job on my make-over.” She spoke through lips painted with black lipstick and waved nails coated with matching polish. Her eyes were completely circled with brown shadow, giving them the hollowed-out appearance of a character in a horror flick. Her hair was short, cut in tousled peaks layered with alternating shots of orange and purple.
“I’m outta here,” Heather declared, yanking the stubborn cape over her head and jumping out of the salon seat as if it were an electric chair. She opted to use the staircase to make her getaway, so Nita couldn’t catch up with her.
“Talk about ungrateful!” her producer shouted down the stairwell.
JASON FELT AT HOME in a courtroom. Being there never failed to get to him. This was where he belonged, where he could make a difference.
In a court of law there were rules and regulations, procedures that needed to be observed. He loved the underlying sense of order, so different from the chaos of his upbringing. Here he felt in control.
While waiting to begin his closing statement to the jury, Jason happened to glance toward a woman in the public gallery’s first row. She was staring at him fixedly and rapidly blinking at him.
At first he thought she was having trouble with her contact lenses, something he could sympathize with. It was one of the reasons he preferred wearing glasses. That and the fact they made him look more studious and less studly. At least that’s what Sandra, the court stenographer, had told him.
Which was good. He liked studious. He’d rather be known as Chicago’s most successful prosecutor than its sexiest. He needed to be taken seriously in order to attain the goals he’d set out for himself.
Jason had his life broken down into five-year plans, with specific target dates for all his goals. Married by age thirty-five, preferably to someone in his own profession, who understood the time demands his job placed on him and who shared similar goals. Three kids, a nice house in Winnetka. Running for a major political office by age forty.
So far, he was right on track careerwise, with a big promotion looming in the near future. Provided this Sexy Bachelor business didn’t derail things. Sure, the district attorney thought it amusing, but Jason wanted to make sure that his boss also realized his value as someone who got the job done.
Once Jason began his closing statement, his attention was completely focused. Until he happened to pause right in front of the public gallery where the blinking woman sat.
She was now pointing to her closed eyelids—on which she’d written “WANT U” in neon letters large enough for him to read. As she tilted her head down, he saw that she’d actually shaved his name into her shortly cropped hair.
“Is there a problem, Counselor?” Judge Rhinelander inquired at the pause in Jason’s eloquent presentation.
“No problem, sir.” Just another day in court for Chicago’s most aggravated bachelor.
HEATHER DIDN’T FEEL she was truly safe from Nita’s version of the hair police until she was home with the door to her condo closed behind her and a bag of groceries in her arms. Only then could she relax.
Coming home always made Heather feel good. It had taken her years to save enough money to be able to afford a place like this. But the early scrimping had been worth it. Living here, on the north branch of the Chicago River, was a dream come true for her. She loved her home and had turned it into her own personal retreat from the world.
She’d done the decorating herself, and the overall feel was one of cluttered warmth. Most of the pieces in her living room, such as the red-and-white star quilt hanging on the wall, were one-of-a-kind, and each had a story of its own.
The back wall of the living room was almost entirely glass, showcasing a tranquil view of the river. From her brick terrace. Heather enjoyed watching the river traffic floating by. This time of year, early May, the terrace looked its best, filled with potted pink azaleas and dark red hibiscus.
Her shoes clattered against the pine floor as she kicked them off and eyed her off-white couch. Flopping onto it was tempting, but first she had food to put away.
Her cat, Maxie, was already in the kitchen, sitting in front of his dish, sending her a look that clearly said, “I know you’ve got tuna in that bag.”
Heather had gotten Maxie two years ago when he’d been little more than a kitten, a homely runt no one had wanted. She’d looked into his hopeful eyes and had immediately known she’d be letting him into her home and her heart.
Leaning down to scoop him into her arms, Heather said, “You don’t know the kind of day I’ve had. I barely escaped being turned into a walking example of an urban-aggressive female. I’m lucky I got home in one piece.”
Maxie’s response was a loud purr. Her ear was resting against the soft gray fur on his side, and she grinned at the motorboat rumble he was making. There was nothing like the sound of a cat purring to put things in perspective. It ranked right up there with hot fudge sundaes as something that instantly made her happy.
After feeding Maxie his special treat, she began unpacking her groceries and was surprised to find a package of hair coloring in the bag. How had that gotten in there?
Reading the box, she noted that the color was temporary and would be gone in six washings. A disastrous hair coloring nightmare in college had left Heather leery of repeating the experience, which was why she’d left her hair the way it was all these years, despite her mother’s and sister’s constant cries for her to “do something about your hair.” In her book, bland hair was better than a fried scalp and dried-out locks. But after Omar’s scathing dismissal of her as a “nothing,” Heather felt a need to make a statement of her own in retaliation.
Two hours later she stared at her reflection in the mirror with amazement. Instead of her usual mousy brown, her hair was a luscious red. It fell in a smooth curtain to her shoulders, actually swishing as she turned her head to get a better look. She couldn’t believe it had turned out so well. Her mouth was still too wide, but now it matched the dramatic flare of her hair. Even the strong lines of her square face didn’t look as out of place as they had before.
She looked like a woman who could get any man she wanted. Well, maybe not. But at least she looked like a woman for whom it wouldn’t be totally impossible.
Confidence surged through her, making her feel like Rocky winning his fight in the movie. “Yes!” she shouted, aiming a clenched fist toward the ceiling.
“THAT WAS CLOSE,” Hattie clung to the bathroom light fixture to the left of Heather’s bathroom mirror. “She almost knocked my hat off!”
“She missed you by a mile,” Betty retorted from her perch on the other light fixture.
“Do you know what chemicals were in that stuff she put on her hair?” Muriel’s expression was one of disapproval as she looked down on them from the top of the medicine cabinet over the toilet.
“Oh, horsefeathers!” Ha
ttie said irritably, straightening the sunshine yellow picture hat that matched her dress. “I come up with the brilliant idea of putting that hair coloring in with Heather’s groceries, even going so far as to pick the shade—”
“Russet is a kind of potato,” Muriel interjected.
“—And do I get a word of thanks from either of you? No.” Hattie sniffed like one who had been much put upon before smoothing out the wrinkle in her favorite white gloves, the ones that daintily buttoned at her wrist. “Not one single appreciative comment.”
“That might be because you were acting like a flibbertigibbet in that store, nearly knocking over that condom display doing somersaults like that,” Muriel retorted disapprovingly, the cowlick in her short hair sticking up even more than usual, as she put her hands on her ample hips and glared at her sister.
“Can I help it that I get excited when shopping? Besides,” Hattie added with a shrug and a pat to her silver curls, “they should put things like that in a more discreet place.”
“Quiet, you two,” Betty ordered sternly. “The stage is set. Now all we have to do is sit back and wait.”
“Wait for Jason to be united with his soul mate, his one true love.” Hattie sighed and clasped her gloved hands to her bosom. “And then our mission will have been accomplished.”
“At least with Jason. There’s still Ryan and Anastasia,” Muriel reminded her.
Betty said, “It’s not enough that we have to watch over all the triplets born in region two in midwestern North America—”
“Which includes Naperville, Illinois, the triplet capital of the United States,” Muriel interrupted.
“But we also have the further job of uniting them with their soul mates as adults.” Betty’s grumbling was accompanied by an emphatic wave of her magic wand. Luckily, it wasn’t activated, or the cat sitting on the bathroom floor beneath them would have been turned into a frog.
Muriel ended up having the last word. “Hey, uniting soul mates is a tough job, but somebody has to do it.”
“YOU HAVE REACHED the voice mail for Jason Knight. I’ll be in court all day today, but I will be checking my messages. So leave one after the beep.”
If Heather hadn’t been at work, she might well have tossed the phone on the floor and stomped on it. As it was she made do with forcefully hanging it up. She was tired of hearing this same old message the past three days. She’d already left a dozen messages for Jason, none of which had been returned, including the one in her best Ed MacMahon voice saying, “You might have won a million dollars! Call 555-6300, extension 16!” He hadn’t called. It was useless to try again. Time for Plan B.
Too bad she didn’t have one. Yet. She impatiently tapped a finger on the photo of the man she’d been trying to track down.
Every hour that went by without her even being able to establish contact with Jason Knight made the odds against her in the office pool go up. Or so Nita had been eager to tell her. “I don’t want to put you under any pressure or anything, but the odds are now ten to one. Your new hairdo improved your odds a bit, but now things are going against us. All the women in this office—except for Bev, and she doesn’t count—are depending on you. We’ve got our money on you.”
And so here Heather was, at her desk staring at the Chicagoan Magazine with the photographs of Jason. They were actually the same photograph, but the one inside was a much larger version, allowing her to get a better look at her intended victim. She grimaced. The term victim made it sound like she was going to mug him or something, when all she wanted was a little of his time.
Still, Jason didn’t look like a man who gave anything away easily. He was wearing a suit, white shirt and conservative tie. The reflection of his wire-rimmed glasses didn’t allow her to see the color of his eyes. He had a Mount Rushmore jaw and the stiff posture of an uptight perfectionist.
What would Jason the perfectionist think about Heather’s current surroundings? Her cubicle space was as cluttered as her condo, filled with personal mementoes. Postcards from friends filled every available wallspace. Gag gifts from listeners, like the miniature sports car and the well-endowed bronze horse sculpture, were perched on various corners of her desk, often used as paperweights on the various piles she had scattered from one end of her desk to the other.
By contrast, her cubicle-mate, Linda, kept her side simple and streamlined. Her desk was clean, with a Zen garden the only adornment. On the wall was one framed oriental print. With her shiny, long black hair that always looked perfect no matter what, Linda was as simply chic as her workspace.
Nita’s cubicle was around the corner and resembled Heather’s more than Linda’s, although Nita had calendars of hunks instead of scenic postcards on her walls.
As if conjured up by her thoughts, Heather saw Nita coming toward her with a determined look that was a call to action. “Come on, you.” Nita grabbed hold of Heather’s arm. “It’s quitting time and you need a night out to get some inspiration on how to attack this bet thing.”
Heather dug in her heels as Nita tried to tug her out of her cubicle. “I’m not going back to see Omar.”
“Don’t worry. He’s banned you from his salon. No, you need a night out on the town and I’ve got just the place in mind. A bunch of us are going. Not Bev, though, traitor that she is.” Upon reaching the elevators, they met up with Linda, Cindy, and Bonnie the receptionist. “Anyway, I thought we’d all catch a cab and head on over to that new club that just opened on Rush Street.”
“You only want me along so I can whistle for the cab,” Heather noted as they reached street level.
Nita grinned. “I’m still trying to figure out how you do that.”
“Trade secret.” Once they were outside, Heather gave her trademark wolf whistle. Sure enough, traffic screeched to a halt as a taxi veered across three lanes of traffic to pull up beside her.
“Maybe you should try that whistle on Jason,” Nita suggested as they all piled in the cab. “You could leave it on his voice mail.”
Ten minutes later, Nita was hanging over the back of the front seat, supposedly giving directions, but actually flirting with the handsome Arab taxi driver, who was eyeing the new breast job she was flaunting. Then the taxi stalled with an abruptness that almost tossed Nita headfirst into the cabby’s lap.
“No go further,” the cabby announced fatalistically.
“I wouldn’t say that, honeypie,” Nita cooed. “You and I could go a little further if we wanted.”
“That’s it, Nita, be subtle. Play hard to get,” Heather quipped dryly.
Cindy gulped as if she wasn’t sure if it was safe to laugh aloud or not, but Linda and Bonnie had both been around Nita and her flagrant ways long enough to crack up.
The next observation came from the ever-practical Linda. “Listen, in case you didn’t notice, we’ve stopped in front of Muddy’s, which claims to have the best jazz in town. I say we go inside and check it out. All in favor, say aye.”
A chorus of ayes coincided with a group exodus from the cab.
The nightclub was crowded. They were shown to a table in the far corner from the stage, where the five of them had to sit so close together that their knees bumped.
They hadn’t been sitting there fifteen minutes when one of the hefty guys from the next table leaned over to Heather and initiated a conversation. “We’re in town for the porcelain-fixtures convention. How about you girls? We’ll buy you more drinks.” His words were slurred, his smile lopsided.
“No, thanks,” Nita said on everyone’s behalf.
“Come on now, don’t be standoffish.”
“But we are standoffish. I’m Nita Standoffish and this is Heather Standoffish.”
“So you two are related, right? You girls come here often?”
Heather felt like banging her head on the table, but there wasn’t room. Their drink glasses and a bowl of nachos took up every inch of available space. The club was smoky and warm and the tipsy bozo at the next table was leering, making Heath
er wish she’d stayed home, curled up on her couch with a cup of Darjeeling tea and a good book. Then she looked toward the small stage, where the musicians were warming up, and saw him.
He was dressed all in black, jeans and T-shirt both. His dark hair fell over his forehead as he leaned forward to remove his instrument from its case. It was a…
“Sax,” she said.
“Sure thing. Your place or mine?” the tipsy conventioneer replied, scooting his chair even closer to hers.
Heather leaned away from him. “What are you talking about?”
“You just offered me sex,” the man claimed.
“I did not! I was referring to the sax player on stage.”
“You were offering to have sex with him?”
“Yes, that’s right.” She hoped her outrageous comment would get this jerk out of her face.
It did, but his next move wasn’t much of an improvement.
“Hey, bud!” The guy stood up to shout at the sax player on stage. “This lady—” he pointed down at Heather “—has got the hots for you. Tonight’s your lucky night! She wants to have sex with you.”
Heather wanted to slide under the table, but she was wedged in too tightly to move. The sax player lifted his head and looked right at her.
And that’s when it hit her. She’d seen that face before—that Mount Rushmore jaw, now covered by a sexy, five-o’clock shadow. It was Jason Knight!
3
QUICKLY FLAGGING DOWN a passing waiter, Heather pointed toward the sax player dressed in black. “That man. I want that man—”
“You and half the women in here,” the waiter exclaimed.
“I meant I want to know his name.”
The waiter, who sported a crewcut and trendy goatee, just shrugged. “He’s not part of the band, he just jams with them sometimes.”
“You don’t know his name?”
“All I know is that they call him the Dark Knight and he drinks a specialty German beer.”
