Calm, Cool, and Adjusted (27 page)

“What cast?”

“I have a stress fracture. It’s a long story.” Right then, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen Simon, and that just isn’t like him. “Can you give me another ten minutes?” Why couldn’t they just give me one of those buckling casts? Oh, wait. Because I ticked off the doctor, and he was determined to make my life as miserable as possible.

“Take your time. I’ll go out and listen to the game in the car. My sister is expecting us, though, so hurry a little, will you?”

Simon’s going to think I’m high maintenance. And I could not be less high maintenance if I were a brand-new Toyota. “I’ll be out as soon as I can, Simon. Sorry about this.”

I punch the button and dip myself back into the tub on my good leg, washing off the scattered cat hair. I just washed this floor yesterday! That cat must roll around on the cold tile as part of her hourly ritual.

I pull on a skirt. Yes, it’s one of my mother’s. I have many more of them. Lilly just took my favorite one, and with this cast, it’s by far the easiest thing to handle. I brush out my hair, throw on a T-shirt, and slide into my Clarks clog. I’m ready.

Opening the door, I can see it’s a typical spring day in California, and the sun blinds me as I look for Simon’s car on the street. I spot him in a red Prius. I would have never figured him for a hybrid man. I would have thought Hummer or two-seated sports car. It’s strange that I never noticed, but he usually comes at the height of my workday, and I guess I never cared enough to look.

“Sorry,” I say as I get into his car.

“What happened?”

“I had a little bathtub incident.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Well, sorry I missed that.”

“You really aren’t. It wasn’t pretty.”

Simon starts up his car, and we pull into traffic. “My sister’s in Belmont. I hope you don’t mind the drive, but I thought it would give us a chance to get caught up on the house.”

“I haven’t seen it since we were there. It’s just been a busy week, and—”

“And what?”

“I’m not really all that anxious to go. My dad called me today and said the roof leaked.”

“Poppy, I had everything inspected. It’s all on a list, and the contractor is taking care of it.”

“Why would you do that?” I ask him. “We’ve never had any kind of relationship that would warrant that kind of help. I don’t understand.”

He grins. “No, you wouldn’t.”

I decide it’s best just not to have this conversation.

“How are you going to get your hair done? Are you going to rely on my sister’s advice?”

I shrug. “Well, it’s my best friend’s wedding in two weeks. I don’t want anything too drastic.”

“Just tell her that, and you’ll be fine. Listen, I’m glad you called today because there’s something I need to tell you in the interest of full disclosure.”

I certainly don’t like the sound of this. I shut my eyes instinctively, waiting for the shoe to fall. He’s married—eight times over. He’s got a fiancée waiting for him in Hawaii. He used to be a girl. (Okay, nix that one. He’s far too big to have ever been a girl and his fingers are the right length. He has the most manly hands I’ve laid eyes on.) He’d like to me to pay back the housing costs in ‘favors.’ My mind runs amuck.

“My mother’s in Hawaii. She’s sinking into dementia, and I have to get there sooner rather than later so I’m heading out on Monday and meeting with a realtor. I need to find a place to house her with a nurse, have room for my sister to visit, and for me to have my own life.”

“Your mother?” I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “You’re not going to Hawaii to play golf?”

“I hope to play golf, of course, but my mother is there, and she’s barely remembering my sister and me as it is. I thought I should tell you I’m leaving before my sister did.”

“I don’t understand—why is that a secret?”

“My father—” He stops. “Well, my father’s been looking for her for a long time. Let’s just say he wasn’t very nice to her in our youth, and she left here after the divorce. He doesn’t know where she is, and we’ve sort of allowed him to believe she’s gone on to greener pastures. Which of course, she has. They’re just tropical in nature, rather than heavenly.”

“Oh my goodness, I don’t believe it. You actually have a weirder family life than I do.”

Simon laughs. “I’m sure my dad knows the truth, but he’s married again, and we just figure it’s best to keep things the way they are. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Mom’s remembering the past like it was yesterday, and since he still lives in the same house—”

“You’re worried she’ll call him.”

“I’m worried she’ll call him and think she’s still in that marriage. She doesn’t have access to a phone right now, and she has great care, but it’s something my sister and I want to take care of ourselves. She was the kind of mother who protected us against all odds. I think we owe her the same dignity.”

Suddenly, Simon’s taking care of me doesn’t seem all that far-fetched. I can’t find words that will offer any kind of peace, so I grab his hand off the steering wheel and clutch it tightly over the parking-brake handle. I’d like to say this is purely to comfort him, but upon reaching for his hand, I’m not so sure.

“My sister wouldn’t have told you about my mother, but she would have told you that I’m leaving Monday.”

“This Monday!”

“Relax. I’ll be back, and I’ll make sure I’m watching the contractor. Though he’s a buddy of mine, and I can’t imagine he’d do anything less than the best.”

Simon leaving?
As I look at his profile, I realize I haven’t been truthful with myself about my feelings in a very, long time.

How did I not know?

I want to say something, but every time I open my mouth to speak, I just hear a sputtering sound.

After a long, silent drive, Simon pulls up in front of his sister’s salon. He stops the car, grabs my hand tighter, and looks into my eyes with such force I have to close my eyes. “It’s been an absolute pleasure knowing you and offering you a serious commitment.” He smiles with a twinkle in his eye. “You be sure and invite me to your and the doc’s wedding.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to say you have my blessing. I just want you happy in life.” He shrugs his shoulders. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

“People always say that. It’s not true, Simon. I don’t believe it’s true for a minute. Not if you really cared about me. You said earlier you could wait while I lost interest in Jeff.”

He gets out of the car, comes around, and opens my door, offering me his hand. I grab it a bit too gustily and stand face to face, willing him to kiss me. I move in closer and shut my eyes. I do everything but pucker, but I hear him slam the door. “Spare me the pity kiss, Poppy. Unlike Chloe, I’m worth more than fifty dollars. My sister’s the blonde inside. I’ll pick you up in a few hours.”

Simon gets back into the car, and before I know it, he’s backing out and his Prius is tearing off into traffic. Someone honks at me to get out of the parking space, and I startle and stumble to the sidewalk.

I wish I’d brought a set of crutches. I’m suddenly feeling very woozy and wondering what in the world I set myself up for. The man redid my house; is that not enough for me? No, I have to call him and ask for a makeover, then make a complete idiot out of myself and throw myself at him. Unconvincingly. Leave it to me to finally make a pass at a guy, and not only does he reject me like yesterday’s salad, but he doesn’t even believe me. I’m that wilted.

I wobble into the salon, and everyone turns to look at me.
Yes, I suppose I do need a makeover. So what of it?

A blonde woman approaches me. She’s big like Simon, but the absence of shoulders on her makes for an extremely obvious bust line. It’s almost like her A frame makes an arrow pointing to the area.

“Are you Poppy?”

I nod. “Alma?”

“Come on in. We’ll get your hair washed.” She walks around me. “When’s the last time you cut it?”

“It’s been awhile.” I shrug.

“Have you
ever
cut it?”

“Yeah, it’s just been awhile.”

She rolls her eyes. “I guess. And I guess you’re not into plucking either?”

“Plucking?”

“Shaping your eyebrows so they don’t look like two orange caterpillars on your face. It’s a shame to hide those blue eyes.”

I instinctively reach for my eyebrows.
Orange caterpillars?
Is it just me, or is that kind of rude?

“I’m open to most anything, except I don’t want to dye my hair.”

Alma laughs at this. “Honey, do you know how much of my business is trying to get this color? You can’t get a perfect red like this from the bottle. Trust me, we’re leaving that alone.”

“Okay, great.”

I sit in a chair, and she flops me back with a lever. I feel every bone in my foot when she does it and muffle the cry. I look around while she warms the water up, and I note the salon is average at best. Everyone has their own mismatched station, all of them covered with personal items describing the particular stylist that goes with the station. Alma’s is black lacquer, faux painted with gray stripes and spackling to look as though it’s marble. But it doesn’t even register as good plastic.

Alma pushes the lever again and moves my neck into the shampoo bowl. “Ouch,” I say aloud this time.

“Sorry, you all right?”

“Fine,” I say.

“So what do you want to do today?”

“I want to look stylish, like I live in this decade. My best friend’s getting married and tonight’s the couples’ shower so I want to surprise them.”

“My brother says you like to dress like that. What’s changed?”

“Well, nothing’s changed. I do like to dress like this. I just think it will be nice for the wedding pictures if I look a little more mainstream.”

“You don’t look like my brother’s type. That’s what surprised me. I wouldn’t have recognized you if it weren’t for the cast. He told me when you were running late that you had a—what was it?”

“A stress fracture.”

“Right.”

“Wh-what is your brother’s type?” I ask while she sprays my forehead with a jet of hot water. “If you don’t mind my asking. I only see him at work. He’s my patient, you know?”

“He likes them dark and ethnic looking. Hispanics, Indians, Italians—those kind of women with the piercing brown eyes, you know? I think his perfect woman is J. Lo.”

“Uh huh.” It’s all I can think to say. Ethnic? Somehow, red hair, pale skin, and blue eyes hardly seem ethnic. Unless Irish is ethnic. And J. Lo? With 14-percent body fat, I’ll tell you one thing I don’t have that J. Lo has. I have the flattest derriere in the world.

The whole conversation fills me with dread, and suddenly I understand why he rejected me at the car door. His offer, his protesting his emotions on the beach, it’s all to get what he wants in Hawaii. Golf and good chiropractic care. Simon has not learned that his money can’t buy him everything. Clearly.

“But he seems to like you. Maybe his tastes are changing.” She rubs my hair just a little too hard, and I clamp my eyes shut against the pain. I thought this was supposed to be relaxing? This is like the pedicure I must endure every time we go to the spa. I hate having my feet touched, and I’m afraid my head is no different.

“I think he just likes good chiropractic care. He has a special back.”

“It’s inherited. We all have it. When my son came out with shoulders, you could have heard me scream throughout the hospital! I did not have Quasimodo for a son.” She laughs at this.

“Quasimodo? You and your brother hardly look—”

“Listen, we survived grade school. I just didn’t want that for my kid.”

“How old is your son? Simon’s never talked about a nephew.”

“He’s twelve. I had him out of wedlock, and Simon’s been like a dad to him, but I think he still gets embarrassed to tell my story.”

She rinses out my head and flops me up with that lever again like I’m a piece of toast. I swore I’d be ready for it, but nope. She wraps my head in a towel, and suddenly I’m anxious about this woman with scissors. “You know, maybe I don’t need to have my hair cut after all. Maybe we can just do the eyebrows and makeup.”

“You have split ends like wishbones. Do you do a lot of swimming?”

“I do,” I admit.

“It’s drying out your hair something fierce. You should really wear a cap.”

I suck in a deep breath. “All right. Let’s get it done.” We move to her station. There are several pictures of her son on beaches, and a few with Simon in the picture. He’s smiling and has her son, in younger years, hoisted on his shoulders, posed in a strongman pose. The image makes me giggle because I can just hear him boasting about how fabulous he is and teaching his nephew to do the same. When it comes to “trash talking,” Simon is probably the best in the business.

“Don’t take too much off, okay? Go easy on me,” I say.

“Poppy, every woman in here is wishing for your hair right now. I’m not going to do anything but clean it up and make your style look slightly more today. All right?”

Alma is the tough-talking, practical sort. But it’s clear by the memorabilia on her shelf that she knows how to cut loose and have fun. There’s a picture of her in a bikini with her son, and let’s just say she’s not exactly a small woman. But there she is, enjoying the beach and her son and it’s like none of that matters. She’s not homely by any sense of the word, but she hasn’t given up on life. Though one could obviously say it’s dealt her a rough blow. I don’t know what happened with her father, but her mother is being hidden away, her father is out of the picture, and her son’s father long gone. Yet here she is, all smiles and into her career.

She starts to cut, and I can’t bear to watch. My hair hangs down to the middle of my back, and she’s been quite clear that this is not stylish for a woman my age, and I can feel her snipping off sections of hair. Watching the three-inch long strands fall to the floor, I cringe with each cut.

“Poppy, you’re going to look great. Relax.” She drops her scissors for a moment onto the table and starts to massage my shoulders. “You’re going to have a heart attack in the chair if you don’t chill.”

“Why would your brother help me with my house in Santa Cruz? Do you know?”