Chapter One
(Wednesday)
A
half-moon curl of platinum hair sprang from my scissors to
join the
growing pile on the floor.
"Don’t
take too much off, Grace," Vonda Jamison cautioned, craning
her
neck to check my progress. I’d been cutting her hair since
we
were in high school--you’d think she’d trust me by now.
"Sit
still." I tapped her head with my comb. Snip, snip.
More curls drifted down. "You said you wanted it
short."
"Short,
not shorn." She slouched back against the black
leatherette
chair. "Maybe I should go red."
I
swiveled the chair so she faced me instead of the mirror.
The
usual salon noises--customers chatting, water running in
the shampoo
basin, the phone ringing--washed around us but I tuned them
out from
long practice.
"How’s
Ricky?" I asked. When Von started talking about changing
her hair color, it usually meant she and Ricky were on the
outs.
Her huge
sigh was all the answer I needed. After fifteen years of
best-friend-hood--we’d
met as high school sophomores--we were pretty good at
reading each other’s
eye rolls, shrugs and sighs. "Over again?"
"Over
forever."
Not
likely. Vonda and Ricky Warren had been on-again-off-again
as
long as I’d known her. One particularly long stretch
of "on"
had resulted in a six-year marriage, twice as long as my
ill-fated attempt
at matrimony. When they divorced, I thought the "off"
might
be permanent, but they’d hooked up again before they’d paid
off
the lawyers’ fees. So I laughed, earning myself a glare.
I deliberately changed the subject. "Are you going to the
meeting
tonight?"
"Absolutely.
Constance DuBois and her crowd are primed to snag all the
funding for
their ‘Preserve the Rothmere Antebellum Mansion’
initiative.
PRAM." She wrinkled her nose. "How can people vote to
pay for historically accurate nineteenth-century wallpaper,
rather than
new PCs for the schools? I swear, RJ’s using the computer
equivalent
of an abacus at Jefferson Davis Elementary. I’m going to
make
damned sure the vote goes in favor of funding the school’s
technology
center."
Nothing
got Vonda riled up faster than issues involving her eight-
year-old,
Richard James Warren the Fourth. I agreed with her that
the school needed to update its technology, but I also knew
historical
homes like the Rothmere mansion brought a lot of tourists
to St. Elizabeth,
Georgia. And tourists meant money for local businesses
like my
mom’s salon, my place of employment.
Choosing
not to disagree with Von, I started to texturize the hair
on her crown.
"And what about the Morestuf Mart? Do you think we should
approve
that at the Town Hall Meeting?"
"Hell,
no." Vonda’s answer was swift and sure. "A big box
store like that will eat into the profits of the downtown
shops and
places like Violetta’s." Her gesture took in the whole
salon.
"The historic district is the primary reason tourists come
to St.
Elizabeth. They can get Morestufs and Home Fix-Its and
what-have-you
back in Detroit or Philly or Kalamazoo--they come to St.
Elizabeth for
our charm and quaintness and Southern hospitality." She
let her voice
lapse into an exaggerated drawl. "Right, sugah?"
"Right,"
I agreed, laughing. Vonda and Ricky owned a bed and
breakfast
on Peachtree Street and tourists were their lifeblood, as
they were
for most of the town since the paper mill shut down about
ten years
back. Pulling out my hair dryer, I cut off further
conversation
as I finished Vonda’s hair. "There." I turned the chair
so she could see.
"Grace,
honey, you’re a genius." She beamed at her reflection.
Wispy bangs hung down slightly over her brown eyes, giving
her gamine
face with its pointy chin a mysterious look. She looked
great,
if I did say so myself.
"You’re
just figuring that out?" I returned her exuberant hug and
walked
her to the door.
"See
you at the meeting tonight?" she asked, slipping on Jackie
O sunglasses.
"Wouldn’t
miss it," I assured her.
And
neither would anyone else in town, I thought as she left,
surveying
the bustle in the salon. Normally, Wednesday afternoons
were a
bit slow, but the salon, the front half of my mom’s
Victorian home,
was packed. Mom, the Violetta the shop is named for, was
doing
a cut at her station near the front windows with the blinds
lowered
to cut the glare. Stella Michaelson, our manicurist,
tackled two
manicures at a time in the Nail Nook, an alcove behind the
register,
with her white Persian, Beauty, curled on a cushion at her
feet.
Althea Jenkins, my mom’s best friend and our part time
aesthetician,
waxed and tinted brows in the small room that used to be
the formal
parlor but which my mom had co-opted for the salon when she
decided
Violetta’s should offer spa services. Rachel Whitley, a
high-schooler
and aspiring beautician, shampooed our clients in the sink
of the former
powder room. We’d removed all the walls (and the toilet)
and
replaced some of them with waist-high barriers of glass
bricks and it
really opened the place up.
In
addition to our regular clientele, I noticed several of
what I called
the haute ton--a term for high society women I stole
from my
favorite Georgette Heyer Regencies--waiting for trims and
mani-pedis.
Not only was the Town Hall meeting an important budget
forum, it was
this week’s best opportunity to be photographed for the
St. Elizabeth
Gazette, our weekly newspaper more concerned with
society events
and the results of local gardening contests than the Iraq
war or Wall
Street projections. And that wasn’t a bad thing. Living
in Atlanta with Hank, I’d endured enough stories of child
abuse, gang
violence, political skullduggery and genocide to last me a
lifetime.
The upbeat stories in the Gazette
exactly suited my current mood.
Lucy
Mortimer, the curator of the Rothmere mansion and museum,
was my next
client and Rachel was just finishing up her shampoo.
Rachel gave
me a "two minutes" signal and I got a diet root beer from
the
small fridge we kept behind the counter and relaxed for a
moment, enjoying
the way the sun slanted through the wooden blinds and
striped the broad
pine floorboards.
I
tuned in to the conversation Mom was having with the
teenage client
in her chair. My mother, Violetta Terhune, leaned in over
the
girl’s shoulder. The violet tunic Mom wore contrasted
nicely
with her gray-white hair and her still lovely complexion,
softened with
a few wrinkles. Her blue eyes, framed by rimless glasses,
smiled
into the girl’s eyes in the mirror, like they shared a
secret.
Her soft bosom and twenty extra pounds made her look sweet
and accommodating
and motherly, but I’d seen that determined smile on her
face more
times than I could count when I was a teenager. Come to
think
of it, I still saw it on occasion.
"Now,
Mindy-honey, you know your mama’s not going to like it if
you come
home with your beautiful hair in a mohawk"--she stroked the
girl’s
bright head--"and magenta stripes." Mindy started to
protest,
but Mom over-rode her with, "Let me show you what I think
would look
just darling on you. I saw it on that actress, you know,
the one
in that movie about teenage vampires living in Dallas--such
twaddle!--and
you’re way cuter than she is." And she began snipping at
the girl’s
hair, talking all the while. Mindy’s face went from
rebellious
to resigned to tentatively pleased as I watched.
And
that, I thought, suppressing a smile, summed up both the
delights and
the irritations of living in a small Southern town.
Everybody
knew everybody which created a warm sense of community. On
the
other hand, nothing was private and everybody thought they
ought to
have a say in your life which annoyed the heck out of me.
Slotting
the soda can into the recycle bin--my idea--I returned to
my station,
stopping to tell Mindy she looked fabulous and earning a
smile of approval
from my mom.
I
was finishing up Lucy’s blow-out when the front door banged
open,
jingling the bells and clattering the blinds. A man
entered, dressed
in full Civil War regalia. Confederate gray, of course,
complete
with a sword. That might have seemed strange or out of
place in
most salons, but Walter Highsmith owned the Civil War
memorabilia shop
two storefronts down from Violetta’s and he stopped in
frequently.
I’d long suspected he was sweet on my mom, but as far as I
knew their
relationship had never progressed beyond dinners,
conversation and friendship.
A short, plump man with a full goatee and a mustache that
he waxed into
rigid loops, Walter was, I thought, a bit barmy on the
whole Civil War
thing. He participated in re-enactments and came running
over
to tell Mom whenever he acquired a particularly interesting
piece of
memorabilia. Today, though, his chubby cheeks were flushed
an
angry red and he was almost sputtering as he sought out my
mother.
"Hello,
Walter," she greeted him, putting her combs into a jar of
blue
germicide.
"Do
you know what this is, Miss Violetta?" he asked, flapping
an envelope. "It’s an eviction notice. That . . . that
woman is throwing me out at the end of the month. Right as
tourist
season starts!" The ends of his mustache quivered.
"Oh,
no," Mom said. "Why would she do that?"
I
knew the "she" my mom referred to was Constance DuBois,
owner
of several properties on the downtown square, including the
building
Walter rented for Confederate Artefacts. It originally
housed
the DuBois Bank and Trust which had re-located to a bigger
building
on the west side of town in the mid-1980s.
"I’ve
been there nineteen years, Miss Violetta. Nineteen
years!"
He stopped to take a deep breath. "Never have I been late
with
the rent. And now she evicts me without so much as the
courtesy
of a conversation, just because she has a friend--a Yankee
from New
York--who wants to open a scrap-booking shop. Frilly
ribbons and
precious papers and furbelows. Fah!" He threw up his
hands
and the letter wafted to the floor. He stamped on it.
Then
he pulled the sword from the scabbard at his side and ran
the envelope
through. "I’m not going to stand for it! She can’t
do this."
"Calm
down, Walter," Mom said. All eyes in the shop were on the
furious Confederate colonel waving his sword around with
the envelope
impaled on the tip.
Despite
his fussy mannerisms and mid-nineteenth century diction, I
sympathized
with him. Losing his storefront on the square and
relocating to
some hole-in-the-wall tourists would never find would
probably force
him out of business.
The
door opened again. A woman entered, talking non-stop into
the
cell phone glued to her ear. Uh-oh. Constance DuBois
herself,
grande dame of St. Elizabeth society; former Peach Festival
Princess;
president or former-president of the Junior League, the
PTA, the Historical
Preservation Society, and Save Our Shoreline; chairwoman of
the Seafarer’s
Spring Festival committee and PRAM; and evictor of Walter
Highsmith.
She sat on the boards of more local businesses than I could
count, including
her deceased husband’s bank, now run by her son. I hadn’t
seen her since returning to St. Elizabeth from Atlanta four
months ago
but a quick glance told me she hadn’t changed. Same
champagne-colored
page boy cut, same prominent cheekbones, same sleek body
garbed in designer
resort wear. Now sixty, my mom’s age, she could probably
still
fit into the debutante dress she wore at eighteen.
Lucy
Mortimer stiffened in my chair and I looked at her
curiously.
"Later.
I said later!" Constance DuBois snapped into the cell
phone
before closing it. She greeted my mom with a smile that
hardly
moved the corners of her mouth and didn’t touch her eyes.
Botox.
"You!"
Walter said, his eyes bugging. "What is the meaning of
this?"
He flourished the sword in her face. The envelope jarred
loose
and drifted sadly to the floor.
"Which
words didn’t you understand?" Constance asked, facing
him. "Out. By. June."
"You
won’t get away with this."