She’d done it the same way I had two years ago when I hung up with Sandy. Though my mouth had said all the Christian things, my heart had spoken another language, asked another question—if she does die, what might that mean for me? Was Rochelle so wrong for asking the opposite, what would happen to her if Jordan lived?
She who has sinned not, throw the first stone.
My hands wilted to my sides. “What were you ashamed of? The money? Lying to me?”
Rochelle shook her head. “I was ashamed of still loving him. I shouldn’t have then.” She pulled back the knob. “I shouldn’t now.”
I
t was only a matter of time. My mother had it and her mother before her, but after years of keeping watch for the facial hair that had marred my forebears, I figured I was safe until menopause.
I awoke that morning to two hairs curling out of my chin like something from an off-Broadway production of
Cats.
On another woman’s chin—a woman who wasn’t working too much and spending her leisure time with senior citizens—it might have been cute. Humorous even.
On this woman, it was not. In fact, when the screaming and plucking subsided, I called Tracey long distance.
“It’s just a hair, Dana,” she said in a groggy voice. Pregnancy didn’t sound good on her. Rochelle had sounded like the tooth fairy all nine—in her case, ten—months. But that was Rochelle.
“Hairs-s-s-s-s. Plural. As in more than one. You don’t understand. This is it—”
“What?”
“The hormone surge. I’m not ready for it. No wonder the UPS man looked so cute yesterday. What if I cave to the biology and do something stupid?”
“Like get married and get pregnant?”
I jumped on top of my bed as though rats covered the floor. “Yeah!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, only to realize what I’d just said and who I’d said it to—a married pregnant woman. I eased down on to the side of the bed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Tracey giggled. “You meant it just like that. That’s what I love about you. I never have to guess what you’re thinking.” She sighed. “I just wish I could make one friend here half as honest. Or as funny.”
Funny? I stroked my chin. There was nothing funny about this situation. Not one thing. “You’ve still got me. And Rochelle.” I supposed the last part. Rochelle and I spoke at church, and made polite remarks behind each other’s backs, but something between us was broken. And I didn’t know how to fix it.
I heard a swishing sound through the phone. “You’re on that pink stool, aren’t you? Twirling the phone cord back and forth?”
Tracey choked up. “See, that’s what I mean. No one here would know that. No one here knows me….”
Ryan knew her, didn’t he? Better not go there. “They’ll get to know you. Give them a chance. How’s the baby?”
“Good.”
“And the mommy?”
“Not so good.”
A sigh from my end. Tracey had done an awesome job on the graphics and logo for my latest project—Figgy body pudding. Quick turnaround, no mistakes. Great for me, but it didn’t bode well for her. Like me, work was Tracey’s outlet when things were less than perfect in her personal life. The whole time she’d dated Ryan, she’d missed every deadline. “Want to talk about it?”
“Yes,” she said in a purring tone. “But I won’t.”
Not with me anyway. She’d probably been giving Rochelle a daily earful. Manless me was only good for other secrets. Had Rochelle told Tracey about all the lies she’d told me? I didn’t ask.
As if reading my mind, Tracey jumped to the one absent from our threesome. “You should call her, you know.”
Rochelle’s fingers weren’t broken, either. “I know. I’ve tried a few times. I wave at church….”
“Uh-huh. I heard. She really needs you. She’s hurting.”
Aren’t we all? “Does she still love him?”
A pause stilled the line. “No, not the man he is now. But she’s still in love with the idea of him, a father who would come home looking for his son, looking for her…”
Prince Charming again. Somebody should shoot that guy. “And then he waltzes back into town not too interested in her or her son.”
“Exactly.”
After a gulp of air to still my nerves, I dove in for the real info. “Did she mention anything to you…?”
“Like what?”
Leave it alone. “Nothing.”
“It’s more than nothing. I know that.”
Good. “Pray for us. I’ll call her soon. I know you’ve got to get going. Any new clients?”
“Some site updates, a couple brochures and a new client interview today at three. Nothing much on that end. It’s making it to the bathroom and keeping food down that keeps me busy.” She laughed wistfully. “I’ll e-mail you later.”
Nodding as though she could see me, I stroked the throbbing splotches where my megahairs had been. “Okay then, see you.” The phone was almost to the cradle when I snatched it back, knowing she never hung up first. “Tracey? Did you tell Rochelle? About the baby, I mean?”
More silence. Finally, Tracey responded. “Didn’t you tell her? She was acting funny, so I just thought—I guess with all this Jordan stuff. Oh, well. I figured telling you got me off the hook.”
Suddenly I forgot about my chin. “Since when?”
Tracey made that swishing noise again. “Since ever. You never could hold a secret. You’re all surprises these days.”
“I guess so.” I whispered into the receiver and slammed it down into the base. Getting fired. Starting a business. Jordan. Rochelle’s lies. This crazy whatsit with Adrian—relationship was too strong, friendship no longer fit. And now finding out that Tracey didn’t trust me.
I stared up at the ceiling, grazing my swollen chin and wishing I could reach my heart to give it a few strokes, as well.
A prayer escaped me like a dying breath.
“I know You’re shaking things, Lord, but leave me something. I’m losing them all.”
There were people outside despite the subzero temperature. I arrived at the shop ten minutes late because of the plucking and talking to Tracey, but they were there waiting, seven women, each with a Kick! bag and a smile.
“The candle guy sent us.” A perky blonde, who had a bob so razor-sharp I almost ducked as she turned to point across the street, stood first in line.
“That was kind of him.” I fumbled with my keys, thankful that I’d come by at 3:00 a.m. to do the new holiday displays. “Come on in.”
Maybe I needed Adrian’s help after all. I shook off the thought and flung the door wide. Maybe not.
From the collective gasps of the women, they must have liked what they saw.
I stumbled behind the counter, trying to muster a smile.
“Wow,” one woman murmured. “He was right. This stuff is faboo. Never would have known it looking at her though….” The woman’s voice dipped in tandem with my self-esteem as the other women nodded, adjusting the Kick! bags on their arms.
I looked down out my Wonderfully Made sweatshirt, jeans and loafers, trying not to imagine how my still blotchy chin was looking about now. To say I’d seen better days was putting it mildly.
A smile forced its way across my mouth. It was a better day. For the first time in the past week, I had new customers and Adrian had sent them. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t e-mailed. He’d done one better and brought me business. And based on my November sales numbers, I was lucky to get it.
I joined the group at the facial bar and gave a little demo, pureeing mangoes, grapes and yogurt for an eager volunteer.
“I add a touch of rose petals to soften,” I said, whirring with my hand mixer. “And some irises to cleanse.”
The ladies oohed and aahed at the results, but I watched painfully as, one by one, they trickled out the door without buying. Others sniffed and talked, smiled and waved, only to disappear minutes later.
When I thought I was alone again, I freshened ornaments and runners, praying as I went. Though it was great having my own business, the impending sense of doom was a bit overwhelming. Was I going to fail at this, too?
“I’d like a quart of everything on the bar—and add the rose petals, please.”
I twirled around. “Are you sure?” So much for the confident saleswoman.
The customer, sporting a cutting-edge bob and the authentic version of the knockoff loafers I had on, nodded. “I’m positive. I’m doing a spa party for my bridesmaids tonight. This will be perfect.”
Bridesmaids. Bless their hearts. I’d try to really make this nice. I grabbed ten containers and started dropping fruit, clay, oatmeal and yogurt into the appropriate slots and churning the blender like a madwoman. “I’ve been a bridesmaid more times than I’d like to admit. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”
She took the thinker’s pose. “I think so, too. What else do you have?”
Those words began my biggest sale. While the mixer whirred, I talked the bride-to-be—her name was Austin I soon found
out—through everything in the store. She walked her credit card right behind me, buying one of everything. My prayers of gratitude followed her, rejoicing at each product she added to the list. I hadn’t sold any big-ticket items in months.
“Can you make me smell like Christmas? For my wedding, I mean?”
Okay, so maybe this wasn’t going to be so easy. I cleared my throat. “I can try, but Christmas probably smells a little different to everyone.”
She didn’t bat an eye. “I’m going for a cookies-in-the-oven-mistletoe-overhead-with-a-dash-of-pine sort of thing. Can you do that?”
Unfortunately. “I think so.”
She grinned. “Great,” she whispered, looking both ways to see if anyone had entered the store. “I’m planning to wrap myself as a present on the honeymoon.”
Too much information. “Interesting.” I moved to the register, reminding myself why I was enduring this. “Would you like anything else before I total? A facial for yourself perhaps?” That last pitch smacked of a “would you like fries with that” suggestive sell, but I couldn’t think of anything else.
“Nope. That’ll do me.”
I swallowed, going down the list: six lavender oatmeal soaps, three quarts plumeria lotion, two pounds of apple cobbler body butters, twelve honey butter lip balms, six cups of peppermint foot soak, twelve peachy clean bath bombs, four quarts of brown sugar scrub, a gallon of my 3-in-1 Vanilla Smella shampoo, shower gel and conditioner, a sample kit of everything in stock…and
ten
quarts of apple-iris facial. I got tired just ringing it up. “That’ll be four hundred dollars and ninety-seven cents.”
She handed over her card without a thought. I held it, wondering if this was a scam—credit card fraud or something. She looked the part, but this was a big purchase. “Can I see your identification, please?”
“Sure,” she said, unleashing her wallet, armed with more plastic than a Rubbermaid factory. When I saw her KRSV-TV ID, I realized where I’d seen her friendly face.
“It’s you! Austin Falls, from the news.” She was the one who saved me from Tad’s weather report.
She nodded. “Soon to be Austin Shapiro. And because of you, it’ll be so much better.”
I thanked her, gave her a receipt and walked her to the door.
“This is a wonderful place. I’m going to recommend it. Do you have a price list for your wedding packages?”
Wedding packages? “I…uh—”
“You know, like what I just bought. A head-to-toe trousseau sort of thing. All the boutiques have them, but they’re nothing like this. Feet, hands, face, hair, skin or the whole bod. That’s the kind of info I need.”
I just stared. After all that work I’d tried to do coming up with a million different product lines, this stranger had boiled down my business into a few sentences.
She patted my hand and handed me her card. “Fax it to me at the station when you get the list together. You’ll have to ditch the denim for some silk, but it’ll be worth it. Oh, yeah, and only take appointments. Women pay more when they make appointments. Especially brides.”
Brides? Appointments? Silk? I had a price list, but I hadn’t been trying to focus on the bridal products. They just sort of sprouted up by themselves. But money was money and I needed it. A lot of it. Dad’s rent was two months overdue. And though I didn’t use Italian leather like Rochelle or anything, the fruit and vegetables alone bore a hefty price tag, especially in the winter. The rent on my space had gone up, probably due to Adrian’s success. There was that Visa ball and chain, dangling around my neck accruing interest by the second.
A smile worked across my mouth at the thought of that particular debt. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. I know something good when I see it.” She adjusted the almost fist-size diamond on her finger before leaning over and whispering in my ear…I’m not sure why, we were still alone in the store. “Besides, I like finding things first. It’s the huntress in me. I have a few friends working on Valentine’s Day weddings. They’re way behind in their planning, but I’ll send them over.”
Do tell…I nodded, emerging from behind the counter to hold the door open for her. “Well, thanks for everything. The encouragement, the word of mouth—”
She winked and pointed to the small fish sticker on my door. “Don’t mention it. Us sistahs have to stick together. God has a big family. Don’t forget it.” And with that she was gone, leaving me with my mouth wide open and my mind in an uproar.
Sistahs? And she’d said it with such conviction, her slim fingers snapping and her blonde hair tilting like something out of a
Saturday Night Live
skit. I bent over with laughter. God knew just what I needed today. A good laugh. But now what?
I mean I was grateful for heaven’s provision and all…but weddings? Tofu, spandex and Tracey’s Barry Manilow albums all rubbed me wrong, but weddings really grated on my nerves.
As the door clanged shut with finality, I contemplated the aversion to matrimony. Did it revolt me because of Adrian? Because Rochelle had waited her whole life for a church ceremony and never gotten one? Or maybe because Tracey had jumped into a wedding without realizing who was she marrying?
Making a note to make more Peachy Kleen bath bombs, I realized that my wedding phobia went back to my own parent’s wedding—or lack of one. Whether bitter because of her courthouse union or genuinely in earnest, my mother had spent her life decrying the frivolity of weddings, all the while secretly planning one for me. Instead, it was Adrian’s ceremony with another woman she’d helped arrange, a horrible act that I thought then was just to spite me.
I think it was just closure. My mother had imagined a wedding with Adrian for so long that when it became apparent I wouldn’t be the bride, she couldn’t let go. And after all, it was her last chance, wasn’t it? Jordan wasn’t coming back, I was hopeless and Dahlia, well, she was giving up the milk a little too readily for anybody to want to buy the cow.