to her earlier this morning.
America Live!
Lola stopped rubbing her neck long enough to give her driving arm a hard pinch.
Nope. It wasn’t a dream.
In a few days, she’d actually be filling in as a temporary cohost on America Live! And the producers had indicated the one-day gig would also serve as her audition for a permanent spot on the top-rated morning show.
A smile formed on her lips as she imagined her family, especially her big brother, looking over the rims of their coffee mugs at their television screens Monday morning and seeing her. They’d be shocked, all right.
The same woman they’d cast aside would be looking back at them. Lola grinned harder. Too bad she wouldn’t be able see the looks on their faces.
“Notoriety appears to have worked to your advantage this time,” Jill had told her during the brief call. “This is your shot, Lola. I don’t have to tell you how important it is for you to bring your A game. Look your best and wow that audience,” she’d instructed, before ending the call with a warning. “Don’t screw this up!”
Not a chance, Lola thought.
Erring on the side of caution, she’d opted to drive solo to New York rather than fly. She didn’t want to inadvertently bump someone on a plane and end up falsely accused of beating the crap out of the person. Also, tabloid television shows tended to stake out airports to corner their prey. Now that she was on everybody’s radar, she needed to lie low.
Still, one thing she hadn’t been able to avoid was summer road construction. Her car’s GPS system had instructed her to exit the interstate to follow detours on state and county roads. She stifled a yawn with her fist. Every mile seemed to take her deeper into the rural countryside. At least flanked by miles of Ohio farmland broken up with an occasional one-stoplight town, there was no way for her to find trouble or for trouble to find her.
The sound of her ringtone filled the Mustang’s interior, and Lola snatched the cell phone off the passenger seat. She peeked at the number flashing across the screen and blew out a sigh.
Although it was Friday, she’d managed, while driving through Kentucky, to secure last-minute appointments in the city for an oxygen facial, brow wax and tint, and of course, a fresh manicure. Now she had to somehow persuade NYC’s top stylist to work his cut-and-color magic on her lackluster mane over the weekend, so every head would turn to look at her when she entered the America Live! studio Monday morning.
“Pablo,” Lola crooned into the phone. “I need a huge favor.”
She’d briefly considered using the top-notch beauty team at her sister’s flagship Espresso Sanctuary Spa before leaving Nashville, but she was too pissed at Tia to ask her for anything.
Besides, Pablo and Lola went way back, before he was known by just one name and had opened the exclusive salon with it emblazoned on the front door. She glanced at her split ends in the rearview mirror as she explained what she needed done to her hair.
“You should have called six months ago, babes, because that’s how far in advance I’m booked,” Pablo said, a European accent lacing his words. “I’m only returning your call personally as a courtesy, because we’re friends. However, I’m afraid what my receptionist told you earlier stands.”
The stylist was her friend. That was why she decided to confide in him about her overall career situation and the humiliating way she’d been dumped as the face of Espresso. “So you can see how crucial it is that you do my hair and not relegate me to your assistant.” Lola’s voice cracked as she tried to persuade him to make an exception. “I’ve got a lot riding on this opportunity, Pablo. I need to look my best, which means I need you. Please.”
Long moments of silence ensued. Lola pressed her lips together and stared through the windshield at the endless ribbon of winding road, hoping he’d change his mind.
“Impossible,” Pablo said, finally. “Not only do I not work on weekends, but I’ve been invited to an A-list celebrity party in the Hamptons. I’ll be hanging there all weekend.”
Lola wasn’t giving up. “Nothing is impossible. Like when I insisted on you as my stylist for a magazine shoot, back when you were fresh out of cosmetology school and sweeping hair off Espresso Sanctuary’s floor.”
“I know you helped me out, Lola, but...”
“Not to mention floating you a loan to help you open your first salon in Nashville, when your loan applications were rejected by the both the bank and the small-business administration,” she said. “Remember?”
She heard a sigh at the other end of the phone as she turned the steering wheel sharply to avoid hitting a squirrel that had darted out onto the road.
“Come on, Lola. We’re talking the Hamptons here.”
Lola frowned. She hadn’t wanted to take it there, but he’d left her with no other option. “Be that way, Sherman.” She emphasized his real name.
“You wouldn’t.” Pablo quickly lost his faux accent.
“What? Start a rumor that international stylist to the stars Pablo, who’s led folks to believe he hails from Barcelona, is really Sherman Meeks from Shelbyville, Tennessee?”
“Don’t you dare!” Pablo shrieked.
“Of course I wouldn’t do that to you,” she said in a syrupy-sweet tone as fake as “Pablo’s” persona. “Besides, I’m sure your A-list friends and high-profile clients already know the real you.”
“All right, you win,” the stylist said in a huff. He rattled off a time on Sunday. “But you’d best be punctual, earlier if possible.”
Lola glanced at the GPS, which estimated her time of arrival. She thanked her friend and assured him she’d be there.
“Good,” Pablo said. “Otherwise, you’ll be out of luck.”
Lola tossed the phone back onto the passenger seat just as the GPS beeped. Here we go again, she thought.
“Accident ahead,” the robotic voice warned. “Detouring to an alternative route.”
Following its directions, Lola exited the state road. She steered the car along winding smaller roads that all seemed to lead deeper into nowhere.
“Turn left onto Old Mill Road.”
She made the turn, and then noticed the gadget had recalculated her arrival time, adding another half hour to her journey. She also noticed a sign warning drivers to be on the lookout for cows in the road. The next sign took the speed limit down to forty-five miles an hour.
“At this rate, it’ll take me a month to get there,” Lola muttered.
Peering through the windshield, she didn’t see any cows. In fact, she hadn’t even encountered any other cars. Just a stretch of two-lane road cutting through acres of cornfields.
She nibbled on her bottom lip and shifted her gaze to the speedometer and then to the GPS’s ever increasing arrival time. A life-changing
