Beauty Shop Tales. Nancy Thompson Robards
felt like I’d discovered they were having an affair—thank God for that twenty-seven-hundred-mile chastity belt. Or I might have suspected something, which was stupid because in all the years we’d known each other, never ever did I pick up one iota of a vibe that they might be interested in a little hanky panky.
It was too much to handle all at once, these two disasters. It’s not like I could get answers from Chet, and Kally was pretty tightlipped when I asked her to explain.
Mama went totally ballistic. She called up Kally, read her the riot act and asked her how she could take that money from us? I suppose she felt Kally had betrayed her by virtue of betraying me and took it doubly hard because Kally had always been like another daughter to her. Especially after Kally’s mother, Caro, passed away, gosh…not too long before Chet started giving Kally the money.
Mama went off, insisting Kally give me a stake in Lady Marmalade’s since the money that kept the place afloat should’ve gone to take care of me after my husband’s death.
For the record, I want nothing to do with that coffee shop. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll go five miles out of my way to avoid it, which might not be so hard since she chose to set up shop over in Cocoa Beach.
I’ve had months to make my peace with the situation. And I have, for the most part. Really.
Kally and I haven’t talked. But I’m at peace. Which is a good thing since I’m bound to run in to her now that I’m back.
All I know is if Kally Fuller could take the money and still look at herself in the mirror—Well, I suppose she’s ventured farther down that divergent path than I realized she was capable.
As my mother nears the line of tollbooths, she grabs her purse and roots around in it, alternately looking down at her lap and back at the road.
“Here, Mama, let me pay for this. How much is it?” I unbuckle my purse for my wallet.
She pulls out a twenty and waves me off. “I got it.”
“I wish you’d at least let me pay the toll. You drove all the way over here to get me—”
“I’m your mother. Of course I’d do that. You just hush.” She rolls down her window and hands the toll-taker the money.
I sink into my seat, twelve years old again, my mother running the show.
CHAPTER 3
I’d forgotten how pretty natural Florida is this time of year. When the cycle of afternoon rains cooperate and show up on schedule, everything is lush and green and tropical. Crepe Myrtles, hibiscus and oleanders dot the highway in a kaleidoscope of color.
The scenery washes over me like a soothing bath as the black ribbon of flat Florida highway slices through the landscape, eventually reaching the subtropical marshlands that bridge the city to the coast.
Silent rivers of grass succumb to a watery wilderness of cabbage palms, cypress trees and teardrop-shaped hammock islands, formed of their own decomposing selves gradually accumulating over thousands of years.
In the middle of the slough, a great white heron spreads its wings as an ibis searches the shallows, against a brilliant backdrop of devastatingly blue, late-afternoon sky. If Monet had painted Florida, this could be his canvas.
For some reason the scene reminds me of the story of Persephone. I wasn’t familiar with Greek myth until I moved to Hollywood. I’d never really studied the classics, but I did hair on the movie Persephone; the scenery we’re passing now reminds me of how Hades, the god of the underworld, broke through the earth in his chariot, grabbed Persephone and carried her back to hell.
I imagine the place where Hades entered was similar to this. I half expect him to come crashing through and drag me back to L.A. Funny, in a roundabout, convoluted way, Mama could’ve likened Chet to Hades, swooping me off to Hollywood far away from her.
I glance at my mother, who looks content as she quietly drives me home. She smiles at me and turns on some music. Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” drifts from the CD player and Mama sings the part, “Crazy for feelin’ so blue…” Her rich alto veering into a velvety harmony.
I suppose, like Persephone, the urge to go home has niggled at me for a while. I just had to get over feeling like going home to Sago Beach meant I’d failed. I mean coming home again after all these years without a whole lot to show for myself—my dream of acting didn’t exactly pan out, I’m childless and my husband died.
But that’s not really failure. Not like three strikes and you’re out. Is it? Because I tried. I really tried to do it on my own. Honestly, it’s taken me this long to come to terms with the fact that I’m a widow.
A widow.
DOWNTOWN SAGO BEACH consists of one long, bricked street stretching through the center of the tiny town like a makeshift movie set.
Main Street runs parallel and two roads west of A1A, which fronts the beach. I’ve always liked how downtown is set apart from the beach-going day-trippers. Still, enough of them find their way over to support the Sago Beach businesses, but since there are no hotels and the town rolls up its welcome mat at five-thirty, they all go back over to Cocoa Beach or the other more touristy destinations for the night.
My first glimpse of home hits me like a favorite flick I’d seen over and over in my youth, but had forgotten how much I loved it. Downtowns like this don’t exist anymore. Certainly not in L.A. They’ve been abandoned and torn down to make way for strip malls and Gallerias. But it’s as though someone has waved a magic wand over downtown Sago Beach, and made time stand still—right down to the banner stretched across the road that reads: “Founder’s Day Celebration and Street Dance.”
It’s been years since I’ve been home, but I recognize the banner. It’s the same one they’ve used every year for as far back as I remember. Everything looks exactly as I last remember it—no, better. Fresher. Lovelier, despite the sameness. Much more comforting than anything since I lost Chet.
The street is lined with locally owned businesses and quaint little one-of-a-kind shops. Even the bank looks pretty and inviting, with its unique sign shaped like a palm tree and window boxes of flaming geraniums. When I left Sago Beach, I didn’t realize all this prettiness was out of the ordinary. Coming home, I recognize it for the rare treasure it is, and I marvel at the wide, clean sidewalks and huge ceramic planters full of sunflowers, all turned toward the street, vying for a place in the soft, late afternoon light.
I wonder if they still change the flowers to celebrate the seasons?
Mama slows the car to a crawl and motions a car behind us to pass, to take it all in.
Oh, there’s the toy store full of games and dolls, hand-crafted stick horses and model trains. My heart contracts when I think of how I used to dream of shopping there for toys for the babies Chet and I would have.
As we inch down Main Street, tears well in my eyes. I roll down the window, and breathe in a great gulp of Sago Beach—air hot as a furnace, laced with a humid, lazy brine. The essence of home. It goes straight to my head and fills my heart with eager apprehension. If eager apprehension is an oxymoron, well, that’s exactly how I feel. Like an oxymoron.
Too young to be a widow. Too old to be on my own and back at square one in this town I left so many years ago…Still, I can’t help but fall in love with it all over again. Changed in so many ways, but longing for everything to still be the same.
Oh, there’s The Riviera, a clothing boutique Mama calls “Resort-Mart.” They sell crisp, expensive resort wear in garish shades of magenta, orange, chartreuse and turquoise. All you need is a little sun damage, some baby-blue, cream eye shadow and a tube of frosted coral lipstick and you, too, can look like you belong among the retired resort set.
Across the street is Paula’s Bakery, which makes the world’s very best Parker House rolls. At the crack of dawn on holidays the line to pick up those coveted rolls stretches down the sidewalk.