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Beauty Shop Tales
Nancy Robards Thompson
MILLS & BOON
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This book is dedicated to the midwives of this story—
Kathleen O’Brien, Ann Bair, Lori Harris,
Terry Backhus and Teresa Elliott Brown.
And to Larri Mattison, who kept nudging me
to write a book set in a salon.
Special thanks to Tammy Strickland and Pam and
Bill LaBud for educating me on leukemia.
Love and appreciation to my critique partners
Catherine Kean and Elizabeth Grainger.
As always, Michael and Jen—Je vous aime beaucoup.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
The Garden of Proserpine
Here, where the world is quiet,
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds and spent waves riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
—Algernon Charles Swinburne
Today, as I fly out of LAX, probably for the last time, the souvenirs I’m taking with me are two truths I gleaned doing hair in the Hollywood movie industry: 1) appearance is everything; and 2) reality, that eternal shape-shifter, is the biggest illusion of all.
Reality is 99.9 percent perception. It morphs into whatever form best moves ahead the perceiver.
As I, Avril Carson, thirty-five-year-old widow of Chet, and former aspiring-starlet-turned-Hollywood-stylist, wipe my clammy palms on my Dolce & Gabbanas—which I bought gently worn at a consignment shop for a fraction of the retail price…but no one needs to know that—and prepare to speed into the wild blue yonder into the next chapter of my life, witness Hollywood truths one and two play out in real life.
It goes like this: Even though I loathe flying, I’ve convinced myself that I must fly across country because the alternative is to come rolling back home into Sago Beach, Florida, in a Greyhound bus.
No can do. Ride the bus, that is.
Not when these jeans retail for nearly three times the cost of a bus ticket.
Not when I’d have to travel twenty-seven hundred miles, stopping at forty-one different stations along the way, to arrive at 3:42 in the morning. Call me vain, but I refuse to go two days, sixteen hours and fifteen minutes without a shower. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it and the mélange of aromas simmering in that busload of unwashed strangers.
If personal hygiene is too selfish to justify bus snobbery, think of my mother. She has taken such pleasure in my being the hometown girl who’s made good in Hollywood; I simply can’t let her down by arriving in less than style.
Work with me, here. I mean, come on, I hate to fly. If I were being completely real, I’d keep my feet on the ground and take that bus—body odor be damned—over hurling through the air from one coast to the other.
But it’s not an option. So, I keep reminding myself of the above rationale and that flying is safer than traveling cross-country via ground transportation. Blah, blah, blah—
Full of Dramamine, which has not yet kicked in, I board the plane, settle into my aisle seat and try to center myself.
Oh, God… I’m really doing this.
Chet would’ve been proud of me for venturing so far out of my comfort zone. I press my leg against my carry-on, which holds the box of his ashes, hoping to absorb some of his courage.
Chet Marcus Carson, extreme sports reporter for WKGM Hollywood. Nothing scared him, which is part of the reason he’s dead…nine months now. Parasailing accident.
Chet Marcus Carson, the reason I ended up in Hollywood to pursue my dream. Much to my mother’s hysterical dismay, he yanked me up out of Sago Beach—population 212—and set me firmly on the road to making something of myself. I was going to be an actress. A star.
