Beauty Shop Tales. Nancy Thompson Robards
first client is Marge Shoemaker, but she’s not due in for another hour and she’s always at least a half-hour late—”
The chime on the door sounds. My stomach lurches when I see Max Wright, my cowboy airplane seatmate, standing there with his black hat in his hand.
IT’S SUCH A Catch-22, small-town life. At times like this, I realize I have a love-hate relationship with it. I love being part of the fabric in the patchwork quilt that is a community. Still, I hate the way everyone knows your business—sometimes before you do.
Max stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning sun. Every gaze in the room is fixed on him. Especially Lonnie Sue, whose face lights up as she locks in on him like a homing device on a target.
Man at eleven o’clock. BeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeep.
Target locked.
“Well, Avril, look who’s here to see you,” Mama says before Lonnie Sue can launch herself. “It’s Max, isn’t it?”
All heads swivel from him to me. I stand there like a dolt, not knowing what to say other than, “What are you doing here?”
It sounds wrong. Snippy. I want to explain to him that it’s not that I’m unhappy seeing him standing there. In my mother’s salon. Knowing he’s come all this way. I suppose surprised is a better way to put it. I’m surprised. And a little uncomfortable. Embarrassed by the palpable waves of glee radiating off my mother. But before I can utter a word, Gilda says, “I don’t suppose you’re here for a haircut, are you, darlin’? If so, Avril can take you now. Can’t ya, hon?”
A grin tugs at Max’s lips. He runs his free hand through his hair. I force myself to hold his gaze.
“Actually, I’ve come to see if Avril would like to have a cup of coffee with me sometime.”
“She’s free right now.” Lonnie Sue shoves me toward Max. I stumble and whack my hip on the chair at my station.
I don’t even have to glance in the mirror to know my face is flushed.
I may have fleetingly forgotten the perils of small-town life, might have been momentarily drawn in by the hunger to be part of that patchwork quilt, but Lonnie Sue’s shove jolts me back to reality.
Even though I really don’t want to have coffee with Max—or any man who isn’t Chet—I’d better get him out of the salon before the girls graduate to the next step which is dragging out my baby photos and old home movies.
“I suppose I’ll take a break now.”
I brush past him, motioning for him to follow me outside.
He does.
Once the door is closed securely behind me, I say, “Well, this is a surprise. What brings you to the ’hood?”
He looks at me for a few beats, and I want to squirm.
“I had to see for myself where Sago Beach’s very own beauty operator to the stars holds court.”
I shake my head and do my best to suppress a smile.
“Okay then, I understand there’s a place nearby that serves the best cup of coffee this side of—” He glances down the street toward the big Founder’s Day Celebration banner. “This side of Main Street. Or is that just an urban legend?”
I snort and I’m not even embarrassed.
“Definitely urban legend. Despite the beauty and old-fashioned feel of downtown Sago Beach, there’s one thing it lacks.”
I arch a brow at him, challenging him to venture a guess.
“A place where you can get a decent cup of joe?”
I nod.
“Uh-oh.” He grimaces.
“Oh, wait, it gets worse. Do you know there’s not even a place within walking distance where you can get a cup of coffee to go? Totally foreign concept ’round these parts. If you want someone to serve you coffee, you sit down in a booth, drink it out of a sturdy white mug and you don’t pay an arm and a leg for it. The folks at the Sago Diner wouldn’t dream of asking you to shell out nearly five dollars for a cup of frou-frou that doesn’t include all the free refills you care to sit there and drink.”
He laughs. “It’s a nasty urban legend then.”
“Yep, and too bad because if there’s one thing the fine people of Sago Beach definitely need, it’s a good, strong infusion of caffeine.”
His back is to the shop’s large picture window, which my mother is now cleaning with a wad of paper towels and a bottle of Windex. She catches my eye.
Suddenly I wish I could take back everything I’d just said.
Who am I to judge?
So snarky.
So superior.
I didn’t mean to be so harsh. Even though that wasn’t always the case. Before I left seventeen years ago, it seemed to me as if all the locals were walking in their sleep. Sometimes I wanted to give them all a good hard shake and yell, Wake up! Don’t you see that there’s so much more to life than this?
Now, here I am back with the best of them. I didn’t exactly set the world ablaze. I guess some might say the laugh’s on me.
Mama motions across the street, and mouths Go! She points to her watch.
One word comes to mind: fishbowl. Again, guilt tugs at me as I weigh the pros and cons of coming home.
“But I suppose good coffee is judged by the buds of the taster,” I say.
He nods, puts on his hat. “Well then, why don’t we go to the Sago Diner and I’ll decide for myself?”
As we wait for a car to pass before we cross the street I ask, “Are you in town on business?”
“Nope, just came over to see you.” He jerks a thumb toward the banner. “To ask you to that Founder’s Day dance they’re advertising. That is if you don’t already have a date.”
Oh. This makes me squirm. It makes me feel strange, as if I’m being unfaithful to Chet.
“Well, that’s a long way off.”
He nods, but doesn’t look convinced.
I’m not ready for a man to commute to see me.
I’m not ready to date anyone. Period.
Even if he lives next door.
We cross the street in silence because suddenly I can’t think of a thing to say.
I’m glad he doesn’t push the dance, but I also have this horror-flash that we’re in for a round of bad coffee and stilted conversation because I feel clumsy and tongue-tied.
Harry Philby walks out of the bakery and stops, blatantly eyeing Max up and down. We pass Jillian Lamb and Karen Foster on the sidewalk on the way to the diner. I mumble a quick hello and keep walking because I don’t want to be forced to introduce Max.
In the split second as we pass them, I’m sure I see them look at each other, registering: Avril’s taken up with a stranger. Husband’s been dead less than a year. How disrespectful to Chet.
Tanya Adams comes out of the coffee shop as we start to enter. Max holds open the door. Her bulky frame blocks the way, so we have no choice but to stop and talk.
“Well, howdy-do, Avril. Good to see you, sweetie. I’m sorry I couldn’t make the party the other night. Hal was home with the creeping crud. Men. They’re such babies when they get sick.”
She eyes Max as if he’s the special of the day at Howard Tilly’s butcher shop. “And who might we have here?”
She virtually licks her lips.
I