style="font-size:15px;"> “Edmund Taft is Paul’s uncle.” She toyed with her rings and let out a sigh. “There’s only one slight problem,” she whispered. She looked directly at Ginger with a troubled gaze. “They’re a very proper kind of family, Mom. They’re not going to take it very well when they find out that Paul and I have gotten married without all the hoopla that usually surrounds one of their weddings.” She looked around the room, as if making sure no one would overhear her, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “They’re especially not going to like welcoming a daughter-in-law with baggage.”
Ginger’s eyes widened and she shoved the napkin holder aside. “I hope you’re not referring to Vincent.”
Lily’s eyes flashed defiantly. “I’m a single parent whose child was born out of wedlock. I’m not exactly the kind of woman who marries a Taft.”
“Paul chose you to be his wife, and he married you, I hope, because he loves you. That should be reason enough to welcome you into the family, with Vincent an added blessing,” Ginger insisted, quickly losing the fight against the disappointment and anger attempting to rise and cloud her thoughts. “If Paul can’t stand up to his family to defend the woman he loves and an innocent child, then maybe you shouldn’t have married him in the first place.”
“He will, Mom. I know he will.” Lily squared her shoulders. “Please don’t ruin this for us. I haven’t met his family yet, but Paul is certain that once they get to know me, they’ll love me and then we can tell them about Vincent and—”
“What do you mean, ‘once they get to know’ you? How are you going to explain who Vincent is when you get to Boston?”
“Well, that’s one of the reasons I’m glad we have a chance to talk privately. Paul thinks it would be better if Vincent stayed here with you and Dad. Just for the summer. By the time school starts in September, we’ll be able to bring Vincent to Boston. In the meantime, Paul’s parents can get to know me, and we can find a place of our own. It’s only for a little while, Mom. Please. Won’t you let Vincent stay with you and Daddy for the summer?”
Disappointment in her daughter and her new husband ran deep in Ginger’s heart, along with the reality that all of the plans Ginger and Tyler had made for this summer would have to be changed. But neither disappointment ran deep enough to slice through the love she had for her grandson, or the regret that she and Tyler had never been to Chicago to visit Lily and spend time with their only grandchild. “I’ll talk it over with your father,” she murmured, “but I suppose we could manage, as long as it’s only for the summer.”
Chapter One
F or the first time in over twenty years, Judy Roberts once again welcomed the start of another school year with open arms and a huge sigh of relief. After a long, frustrating summer juggling her job, getting to know her grandson and almost depleting her meager savings to keep him in day care while she was at work, he was now in school in first grade.
Less than a week later when she hurried to work, she was not sure if her life had gotten more or less complicated now that Brian was in school. She had to get out of bed an hour earlier than usual to get him up, dressed and fed, and walk him to school before she could go to work.
“My life’s just complicated. Sometimes more, sometimes less,” she muttered as she unlocked the front door to the beauty salon and slipped inside. She let up the shade on the door and hit a series of wall switches. As the neon sign, Pretty Ladies, flickered to life, bright lights illuminated both sides of the salon. Behind the reception desk, on either side of the room, two stations sat opposite one another, with a row of six hair dryers and seats stretched across the rear wall. Behind that wall, there was a customer lounge and a ladies’ room. Throughout the salon, a fresh coat of dove-gray paint-covered walls cracked with age that matched the well-worn tile floor. Mauve accents, including baskets of dried flowers hanging in between the stations, offered a soothing atmosphere that helped ease her flustered state.
Her mind raced through a list of things she needed to do as manager, to get the salon ready for business. She stood behind the main reception desk that anchored the converted storefront on Welles Avenue, the main street that the town locals simply called “the avenue,” and opened the appointment book. No computers here. Pretty Ladies was just an old-fashioned beauty salon that had survived through the lean years, during the sixties and seventies, when one business after another had closed along the avenue only to reopen a short while later in nearby malls. In addition to the standard appointment book, the desk held an old, battered recipe box that held index cards for individual customers, recording the specifics of their hair dye colors, preferred brands of permanents, and personal preferences.
Unlike the new and very trendy unisex hair and nail salon just a few blocks away that drew newcomers to town, Pretty Ladies catered mainly to the elderly residents who lived in the senior citizens’ complex, Welles Towers, or longtime, loyal customers who preferred to remain with the owner, Ann Porter, or Judy, the only other hairdresser at the shop.
She quickly counted the appointments for the day and smiled. Ann was only working in the morning today, with her first appointment at ten o’clock, but Judy had eight appointments, starting with one of her favorite clients here at nine o’clock and ending with an afternoon at the Towers. Not a great day in terms of what she might earn, but decent, although she was still worried she might have to get a second job now that she had another mouth to feed.
Still smiling, she answered the phone when it rang, even though the salon did not open for another half an hour. After making an appointment for one of Ann’s customers for tomorrow, she stored her handbag at her hair station and went directly to the customer lounge in the rear of the salon. Within ten minutes, she set up the coffeemaker and a kettle of water for tea, put a fresh tablecloth on the snack table, and set out the packets of sugar, both natural and artificial, powdered creamer, napkins and paper plates.
At eight forty-five, she answered the usual knock at the front door and signed for a box of goodies from McAllister’s Bakery that held the standard order of three dozen assorted baked goods. By design, these were far too many doughnuts or Danish or sticky buns for the customers to consume, but she would take whatever was left to the Towers for the seniors, a daily ritual that almost always ended her day on an upbeat note.
Before she had a chance to carry the box back to the lounge area, Ann arrived a full hour ahead of time. At sixty-two, she was only five years older than Judy, but she was no longer the vibrant, tireless woman who had spent the past thirty years working side by side with Judy as both employer and friend. Beyond the common bond of their vocation, they had shared the challenges of raising a child and the sorrows of widowhood. While Judy had maintained her health, Ann had packed a good extra forty pounds on her once-slender frame and had battled recurring bouts of gout over the past year that had zapped her energy, although her sense of humor was still intact.
“You’re early,” Judy remarked, holding tight to the box.
“Alice Conners called me at home last night. She’s not feeling up to coming in for her ten o’clock, so I promised I’d stop by her house instead. I just need to get my bag.” She paused, stared at the box in Judy’s hands and pointed to the back of the shop. “Take that into the lounge. Quick. Before I gain another three pounds just thinking about what’s inside or my big toe turns bright red and starts throbbing again.”
Judy chuckled. “Just thinking about treats from McAllister’s isn’t the problem. It’s eating two or three a day that gets you into trouble, in more ways than one. Baked goods are off-limits. Doctor’s orders, remember?” she insisted before she turned and started toward the lounge.
Ann followed
