uncharitable, but sometimes it’s a good thing a girl can go far on her looks.
“Right.” Rhianne had tossed her long blond hair with one of those graceful head rotations that only girls with long blond hair have perfected.
When we parted company, I sat through an hour of American history in a daze, remembering the Christmas I’d begged for one of those plastic mannequin heads topped with the glossy artificial hair you could style any way you wanted. I got a piano instead. Disjointed memories returned, of the times I coordinated Mom’s outfits when she had a women’s ministry luncheon, making sure she chose the right pair of shoes or insisting she surgically remove the shoulder pads from a blazer she’d bought on the same day there was a two-for-one special on leg warmers.
It wasn’t a talent, I told myself. And it certainly wasn’t infused into the strands of my DNA. That was impossible. I just had a…knack…that’s all.
But Rhianne had started me wondering. How much of who I was were pieces of two people I’d never met?
Suddenly I was noticing things I’d never paid much attention to before, like my green eyes (Mom and Dad’s were brown) and my perfectly straight nose (which I have to admit I was a trifle conceited about). And it wasn’t just the differences in my looks, either. Mom and Dad were quiet while I had a hard time not voicing my thoughts out loud. Every one of them. And I had that impulsive thing going.
Even as the questions about my background rushed into my mind, guilt rushed into my heart. Mom and Dad wouldn’t understand. I didn’t quite understand it, either, so I ignored it. But sometimes over the next few years the wondering would return and take me by surprise. When I laughed, was it the echo of someone else’s laughter? As a senior in high school, when the mailbox was crammed with college catalogs, why did I dump them all in the trash one day and take a year to travel around Europe? And when I got home, why did I walk away from a full scholarship at the University of Minnesota and sign up for cosmetology school?
Who was responsible for my quirks? I needed someone to blame!
That’s how I ended up in Prichett, Wisconsin.
“Wait! I want a picture, too.” Bernice Strum-Scott hurried over. She owns the Cut and Curl Beauty Shop on Main Street and even a photophobe like myself couldn’t refuse to pose for her. She was the bride, after all. Obediently, Bree and I put our faces together—cheek to cheek—and I could smell Bree’s cinnamon gum. I’m pretty sure she chewed it in her sleep.
“Here, let me. It’s nice to be on this end of a camera for a change.” Alex Scott took the camera from Bernice and winked at me.
Alex Scott was a real live movie star and he looked every inch of it today in his black tux. There were no helicopters flying over the church, though, because Alex confided to me that he’d spent years cultivating a life apart from Hollywood and it was finally paying off. Just in time. He could get married without ending up on the cover of People magazine. I did see Sally Repinski from the café take some discreet snapshots that would probably be on the Prichett Pride and Joy Wall by morning. I’d heard all about the Pride and Joy Wall from Bree’s mom, Elise. She’d won the Proverbs 31 pageant and only Annie Carpenter’s twins had finally displaced her from the wall—but that had taken almost a year. Bree told me her mom has been trying to keep a low profile since then.
Just as the flash went off, Bree and I stuck out our tongues. Bernice laughed and Alex shook his head.
“That’s one for the mantel,” he said. “Now let’s get one for this year’s Christmas card. No tongues, please.”
“Killjoy,” I mumbled. The flash went off and I reached for the camera. “My turn.”
Bernice and Alex leaned against each other. Her veil drifted toward his face and he batted it away. Just as I pressed the button, they both stuck their tongues out at me.
I scowled but I guess I wasn’t very convincing, because they started to laugh. And in Bernice’s laughter, I heard a deeper, a richer, echo of my own. Because even though I initially came to Prichett to find the source of my quirks, the bride and groom—my birth parents—were the reason I came back.
Chapter Two
Supper 2 nite? 2 celebrate frst day on the job? (Bree)
If no 1 runs me out of town. B there at six. (Me)
Whoever described small towns as sleepy had never been to Prichett. Tiny as it was, Prichett packed the energy of a double shot of espresso. I’d finally fallen asleep about four in the morning and that was only because Snap, Bernice’s cat, suddenly decided to live up to her name and hissed at me when I rolled onto her tail. Apparently my restlessness was the only thing keeping her from her beauty sleep. I settled down out of embarrassment and the next thing I knew it was six o’clock and the sound of voices was tapping against my dreams.
Wrapping an afghan around my shoulders, I scuttled over to the window to check out the early birds. The recycling truck was idling on the street right below and one of the guys started to whistle an upbeat version of “Going to the Chapel.” I recognized him from the reception. The ceremony had been small, but the guest list for the reception afterward must have included most of the town.
Bernice and Alex had left for their European honeymoon just a few hours after the gift opening the day before, leaving me to take up Bernice’s exalted scissors and run the Cut and Curl for the next eight weeks. Being a Minnesota girl myself, I knew that eight weeks was all the summer a person could hope to squeeze out of this part of Wisconsin.
One glance at the clock on the wall and I should have been sprinting toward the shower. Instead, I leaped back into bed and dove under the covers. What had I been thinking? All I had was a certificate from cosmetology school in my suitcase and four—count them—encouraging parents who didn’t seem to have a doubt that I could manage the salon. Manage.
Bernice had planned to close the salon for the summer until I’d blithely told her that I didn’t have any plans yet (translation: no job) and if she wanted to keep the salon open, I could run it for her. It had seemed so doable. Then. Now, I was in a panic. Curse my impulsive tendencies. No wonder Mom and Dad had to put me on one of those wrist tethers when we went to Disney World (yet another unforgettable photo in my Blooper album) when I was two.
I did a quick search above the comforter and my fingers brushed against Snap’s silky ear. Aha. Animals were therapeutic. A warm, seven-pound stress reliever. The next best thing to chocolate chip cookie dough. I wrapped my hand around her belly and pulled her under the covers, into the tunnel of denial. She must have sensed my distress because instead of signing her name on my face with her claws, she burrowed closer and hiccupped. Which jump-started a soothing, uneven purr.
Lord, I am absolutely crazy. Mama B has a ton of loyal customers and please, just please, let them hang in there until she gets back….
Bernice hadn’t even given me a list of things to do at the salon. Since she wasn’t just the owner of the Cut and Curl but also the only employee, she said it really wasn’t that complicated. There were no internal struggles, either, unless a person counted the battle between her and her self-control over the candy drawer in the back room. Which she’d stocked before she left. I’d checked. She’d given me a turbo-lesson in how to do the banking and assured me the “regulars” would fill me in if I had any questions. And I could call her anytime—day or night—if I needed anything.
When I’d looked over her shoulder at the appointment book, I noticed the month
