by Debby Mayne
“I pray that you’ll keep findin’ ways to make us appreciate each other and bless this food we’re about to eat. Amen.”
“Daddy, that was a real good prayer,” Jack says.
“I thought it was stupid,” Bonnie Sue says. “You’re the one who lost your mind last time you and Mama had a reunion.”
“What are you talkin’ about, Bonnie Sue?” Pete says.
She slams her fork down on the table, bobs her head and smirks. “Everyone at school was talkin’ about how drunk you got.”
Pete’s face turns flaming red. “I . . . ”
He turns to me with a helpless look. I know he wants me to say something, to save his image with the kids, but I can’t think of anything. “Bonnie Sue, Honey, your daddy is a good provider, and he comes home every night, so you should count your blessings.”
“That’s right.” Jack grins at Pete before looking at Bonnie Sue. “All my friends’ parents are gettin’ divorced, but Mama and Daddy ain’t.” His face crinkles as he turns to me. “You and Daddy ain’t gettin’ divorced, are you?”
“Aren’t. No, of course not.” I turn to Pete and force a smile. “Are we, Pete?”
“Huh-uh.” He makes a goofy face. “Unless you know somethin’ I don’t know.”
I wish Pete wouldn’t joke around at a time like this, but he’s always had a hard time when talk turns to more serious issues. Then I look around at the kids and see that they respond to his lighter talk. “Looks like y’all are stuck with the family stayin’ together,” I say, trying to stay in the same tone, but I get the feeling I’m falling flat on my face.
Bonnie Sue shrugs. “Divorce isn’t so bad. Mackenzie’s daddy buys her all kinds of things when she goes to visit him. She even has a smartphone.”
Pete leans back in his chair and juts his chin. “My kids is smart enough on their own. Y’all don’t need a smartphone.”
I scan the kids’ faces and see their exchanged glances, letting me know they’ve been discussing something among themselves. Even though I have no doubt they’re conspiring against me and Pete, I’m still happy to know they’re doing it together. I always wished me and my brother could have been closer, but after Mama and Daddy’s divorce, he started smoking dope and stayed stoned pretty much all the time. Once he was grown, he became a drifter, taking odd jobs just long enough to make money he needed for more dope and something to eat. As far as I know, he’s never had to live on the street because he has enough sense to meet people who don’t mind letting him sleep on the couch. That’s a good thing ’cause Randy kicked him out of his and Mama’s doublewide, and Daddy wasn’t about to let a druggie stay with him and my stepmom, who only recently retired from being head of ROTC at Southern Miss.
We eat the rest of our supper in relative silence, with the exception of Pete’s or one of the boys’ disgusting sounds. The girls groan and say, “ew,” and, “gross,” while I pretend not to hear. I’ve discovered that when I make a big deal of revolting habits, it just eggs them on. Pete claims that’s what normal boys do, but I wouldn’t know since I haven’t been around much of anything that’s considered normal by most people’s standards.
After supper, everyone disappears so quickly I don’t have a chance to assign kitchen duty. But that’s okay by me because I like having the kitchen to myself. It gives me a chance to think in silence, without someone else interrupting.
I put the rest of the casserole in the fridge and turn around to see Celeste standing by the door, arms folded, staring at me with a smirk. Years ago, that would’ve made me jump, but I’m used to the unexpected.
“How’d you get in here, and how long you been standin’ there?” I ask.
“One of the boys let me in and long enough to hear you mumblin’ to yourself,” she says.
“What do you want?”
“Nothin’. I’m just here with Jimmy. He said he and Pete had something to discuss, so I came along with him.”
I hadn’t planned to do any reunion work, but for lack of something better to say, I ask, “Have you gotten any RSVP calls yet?”
“Yeah, but only about a dozen or so.”
I frown. I’ve only gotten three. Why are folks calling Celeste and not me? No matter how much I don’t want it to, the very idea of our classmates choosing to call her over me hurts my feelings real bad.
“Some of them said they tried you first, but Pete took the calls, and they were afraid you might not get the message,” Celeste adds.
That makes me feel a little better, so I smile. “I’ll have to talk to Pete about that. Have a seat. Want some iced tea?”
She sits down while I walk over to the fridge and pull out the pitcher I’d just put away. I still have my back to her when she asks, “Do you think Priscilla knows about Didi and Maurice?”
8
Priscilla
I try to hold myself back from going to the Cut ’n Curl administrative offices or Mandy will think I’m checking up on her. And to be totally honest, that’s exactly what I’d be doing. It’s hard to let go of the control that got me where I am, but I realize that to move to the next level of my career, I have to trust others.
Clarissa seems like a nice person, but it’s hard to imagine her and Mandy getting along for more than a few months. In spite of her early days of having to be told what to do practically every moment of the workday, Mandy is demanding and difficult to please. I could see it on Clarissa’s face. Maybe I should stop by just for a minute . . . nothing more than to have a presence and show that I’m happy to have her.
Tim calls my cell phone. “You might want to go to Piney Point early again,” he says. “Sheila won’t tell you this ’cause she don’t want to get you all worked up, but their phone’s been ringin’ off the hook with folks who want you to do the same thing for them you done for Celeste.”
As he rambles on and on about what a difference I made in Celeste’s life, I consider his suggestion. Since I’ve been working from home—that is, when I’m in Jackson and not on the road looking for more salons to add to my ever-growing collection—I don’t think it’ll be any different working from my parents’ house. Mother and Dad finally relented and had high-speed Internet installed, and they’re gone most days, so I can conduct whatever business I have to do from there.
“Thanks for the tip, Tim.”
“I’m sure Uncle Hugh won’t mind if you need me longer than a week. He’s always happy to help you.”
I laugh. “No, I wouldn’t want to do that to you, but thanks.”
“Really, I don’t mind.”
Tim sure is persistent, which I’m sure is one of the reasons he’s so successful in sales. The other reason is that he’s cute and harmlessly flirty—two factors that come in handy for a guy in a female-dominated business.
I really don’t want Tim hanging around Piney Point the whole time I’m there. “Why don’t you plan to arrive the weekend before? That’ll give you an extra few days, and you won’t have to use up all your vacation time.”
I stifle a laugh as he sighs really loud. “Okay, I’ll do that then. But I might just happen to be in the area a little early, since I’ll have to follow up on the extra orders on hair color that week at the Cut ’n Curl.”
Amazing how quickly the gray comes in once it starts. Most of us were still in our twenties at the last reunion, but over the past five years, I’ve noticed more silver and white hairs popping up on my own head, so Tim is probably right. We’ll be doing more color than usual that week.
“Oh, before I forget, Angela Stanton at Making Waves wants to talk to you.”
I think back and try to remember Angela Stanton. “That name doesn’t ring a bell.”
Tim chuckles. “She’s in Birmingham, and she’s interested in helping you add to your long list of acquisitions. I can imagine how annoyin’ it must be havin’ folks constantly after you for—”
“Is her salon profitable?” I ask, interrupting him. I’ve always liked Birmingham, and if it’s in a good location
with a steady clientele, this might be perfect.
“I’ve never seen her bottom line, but if having all her chairs full is any indication, then I would say it is.”
“Great! Give her my office number and have her talk to Mandy.”
After Tim and I hang up, I call Mandy and tell her to expect a call from Angela Stanton from Making Waves. I then call Laura Moss to let her know Tim will be available to help. In the background, I hear her children shrieking.
“Is this a bad time?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s a terrible time. I have to nag the young’uns to make them get ready for school. But you don’t have kids, so I don’t expect you to understand.”
I was just trying to be polite. Besides, I have no doubt that any time is bad in the Moss household. “Sorry. Wanna call me back later?”
“No, I don’t have free long distance, so you call me,” she says. “Give me about an hour.” Click. She hangs up on me.
I reflect on the ten-year reunion and how difficult everything was for Laura, with her children demanding so much of her time, while her husband stayed drunk pretty much the whole time I was in Piney Point. Sympathy for Laura edges out some of the annoyance.
Once I get back to my townhouse, I make myself a cup of coffee and carry it into my small office. I’ve created a happy place to do business by enclosing a section of my porch and decorating it in soft, buttery yellows and greens. It overlooks a tiny flower and herb garden filled with plants that don’t require much maintenance. Although I rarely cook for myself, I like having fresh herbs.
I’ve switched from my old desktop to a laptop computer so I can take everything with me. One of the vendors on the TV Network Shopping Channel has a line of luggage for businesswomen, so I invested in a carryon combination briefcase-overnight bag that is perfect for my laptop, toiletries, and a change of clothes. My life is neat and orderly, and my career is heading in the right direction—all because I’ve spent time setting goals, planning, and working hard. When I’m in Jackson, I attend a small church close to home. I have very few friends outside of work, and I rarely date, so the only thing that’s lacking for me is a social life. Before I turned thirty, I figured I had plenty of time for that.
Now I’m starting to consider my biological clock. If I want children, I need to ramp up the dating. I also like the idea of having a close friend—a confidante who understands me. Too bad I haven’t met that person yet.
I send a couple of follow-up e-mails to commercial real-estate brokers, letting them know when I’ll be in their areas to view new properties. I’ve been in a major growth mode for the past five years, adding to my list of Prissy’s Cut ’n Curls on the eastern side of the US. I started out in Mississippi, expanded throughout the Southeast, and now I want to have a presence all the way up to New York City.
Once I hit send on the last e-mail, I glance at the clock. It’s still too early to call Laura back, so I decide to call my parents’ house, hoping to leave a message. Mother still snubs the fashion and beauty industry and anything else she deems superficial.
Both of my parents generally have early morning classes, so maybe they’re not home. After the third ring, hope rises that I’ll get away with leaving a quick voice-mail message. Then I hear the familiar sound of Mother’s voice.
“Hi, Mother. I didn’t expect you to be home.”
“Then why did you call?”
Instead of answering, I get right to the point. “Apparently, I’ll need to come to Piney Point at least two weeks early.”
“I already said you can stay here for . . . two weeks.”
“Okay,” I say. “Just making sure.”
“Will you have a date for the reunion?”
“Tim is attending with me.”
I hear the whistling sound of her breathing between her teeth—something she does when she’s annoyed. “I’m talking about a real date, Priscilla. If you keep stepping out with Tim, men will think you’re attached, and you’ll never meet someone special.”
I’m not likely to meet someone special at my fifteen-year class reunion, but I don’t dare state the obvious. Instead I try to reassure her that I don’t go everywhere with Tim.
“We’ll talk later,” Mother says. “I have some advisory appointments at the college.”
After we hang up, I take a chance and punch in Laura’s number. She’s quick to answer and breathless.
Since she seems to be in a hurry, I get right to the point and tell her Tim will be available to help at the reunion. To my surprise, she doesn’t seem happy about it.
“I thought you’d have a real date this time, but I guess it’s okay if no one else is interested.”
My hackles rise, so I take a deep breath. “Laura, Tim is a very sweet man who has offered to do whatever you want. If you don’t need him, let me know so I can tell him not to bother taking his hard-earned vacation to be at your beck and call for anything you need.”
“Oh, I didn’t say we can’t use him. I’m just sayin’ that by the time most people reach your age, they’ve been romantically . . . involved at least once.”
I get what she’s saying, and she’s right, but coming from Laura, it’s annoying. “I’ll be taking appointments, starting two weeks before the final party,” I say. “If you have time, I’d like to do your hair, gratis.” I half expect her to argue, but she doesn’t.
“Good. I’m glad I don’t have to ask. I’d like the works . . . that is, if it’s part of your offer.”
How can I turn her down after all the work she does for our graduating class? “Of course I’ll give you the works. How about coming in first thing the morning of the final event?”
“Perfect ’cause I’ll need to hurry home and make sure the house is picked up, since we’re hosting the preparty there. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“Are you sure you wanna do that?” I ask. “It seems like it would add to your stress.”
She lets out a diabolical chuckle. “Honey, you’ve known me long enough to know I’m not one to run away from stress, ’cause every time I do it catches me and makes my life even more miserable.”
Sympathy takes a tiny tug at my heart. Laura has always been the underdog, in every aspect of her life. I also know that she puts herself in the position of getting trampled—and I mean trounced—yet she continues to do it.
“I’ll help you as much as I can between appointments,” I offer.
“Don’t you worry about that. Celeste is my co-coordinator, and I plan on makin’ her earn her title.”
“Just know I’m there if you need me.” I start to tell her good-bye when she takes a breath, letting me know she’s not finished with the conversation.
“Have you heard about Didi Holcomb yet?”
Didi has held a grudge against me, ever since I beat her out of the class valedictorian title by a fraction of a percentage point. She gloated when I presented her with the award for “Most Successful” at our last reunion. Laura thought it was fitting for me to give it to her since I was voted “Most Likely to Succeed” back in school. I suppose she sees Didi’s becoming an ear, nose, and throat specialist as being more successful than owning a chain of thriving hair salons. Oh well.
“What about Didi?”
“You obviously don’t know.” Laura pauses to clear her throat. “She and Maurice have . . . well, they got together shortly after the last reunion.”
“Got together, as in—?”
“As in engaged.”
Now I’m stunned.
“They’re getting married?”
“Priscilla, honey, that’s what getting engaged generally leads to,” Laura replied. “Although they are taking their sweet time about it. At first we thought it was because she had to move her practice back to this area, but she did that two years ago. They’ve had plenty of time to tie the knot, but . . . well . . .”
“So they’ve been engaged all this time, and they’re still not married?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
Even though I got over Maurice the instant I realized who and what he was, this still comes as a blow. “Thanks for the warning.”
Laura chuckles. “I’m not sure if it’s him or her with cold feet, but you know what they say about a long engagement.”
Actually, I have no idea what they say, but I’m ready for this conversation to end. Speculating about anything related to Maurice means I have to think about him, and I’ve managed to forget about him for more than four years.
“Hey, Laura, I gotta run. Why don’t you make a list of anything I can do to help with the reunion?”
“Okay, and I’ll look through some magazines for hairstyle ideas. I think I’m ready for something new. I’ve sort of gotten into a rut.”
She can say that again. Laura Moss has worn the same blunt-cut chin-length style since middle school.
After I’m off the phone, I don’t even try to work. The image of Didi Holcomb with Maurice Haverty plays in my mind. Didi is cute in a bookish sort of way, and that’s never been the type of woman who caught Maurice’s eye. He’s more of an intelligent version of Trudy Baynard’s ex-husband Michael, whose ideal female standard leans more toward Barbie doll than real women with brains.
My cell phone rings, jolting me from my thoughts. It’s Mandy asking if she can bring in more temps for a massive mailing she has planned after I close on a small chain of salons in the Carolinas.
“That would be fine if we had a place to put them,” I say.
“Oh, that’s another thing. My uncle’s best friend has some warehouse space we can rent temporarily . . . for a big discount, of course.”
When Mandy sets her mind to something, I’ve learned it’s best not to argue, unless I have a good reason. “How much?” I ask, knowing I’ll probably give her the go-ahead.
“Thirty dollars a day plus electric, and that’s a steal, considering how much space he has.”
“That does sound good. How long do you think it’ll take to finish all the lick, stick, and stuffing?” I ask, referring to our nickname for putting together direct mail pieces.
