Casting About (9 page)

W
hen a week had passed with no word from Grace, I had a sick feeling that our friendship was over. I hadn't seen her around town and refrained from dropping into the coffee shop. But worst of all was that I thought perhaps I'd been wrong to accuse Tony. Maybe I'd misunderstood what I'd heard in the restaurant, but I didn't think so.

“Monica?” I turned around to see Clarissa standing in the kitchen, a pair of scissors in her hand.

“Oh, my God!” My hand flew to my mouth. “What the heck did you do?”

Clarissa stood there just staring at me. One side of her hair was missing a good three inches. The look on her face was a mixture of fear and regret.

I ran over to touch what remained on the left side of her head. “Clarissa! Why did you cut your hair?” I screamed.

“I…don't…know….”

For the first time in five months I thought for sure that tears were about to course down her face. This child had never once cried in front of me, but within a second she stepped back, swallowed, and said, “I wanted to,” with defiance lacing her words.

“You wanted to?” God almighty! Adam was going to kill me. I had no clue she was in her room chopping off her hair. “What do you mean you
wanted
to? If you wanted your hair cut, why didn't you tell me? This is horrible. Your hair is gone now! What the heck are we going to do? You look ridiculous. How am I supposed to fix this?”

The silence that filled the kitchen only infuriated me more.

“I don't know,” she finally said.

“Give me those scissors,” I demanded, putting out my hand. “And go to your room. I'm calling your father right now to tell him what you did.”

Obediently, Clarissa passed me the scissors, turned around, and left the kitchen.

I sank into the chair, shaking my head. God, this wasn't getting easier. It was getting worse. What the hell was I going to do? I glanced at the clock. Adam was still in meetings at school and wouldn't be home for another couple of hours. I shouldn't interrupt him at work. After a few minutes, I let out a deep sigh, picked up the phone, called Miss Polly—and made my first decision as a stepmom.

 

The moment we walked into the Curl Up and Dye, three heads beneath hair dryers glanced at Clarissa, raised their eyebrows, and looked at me with pursed lips.

“So,” Polly said, tapping the back of the salon chair in front of her station. “What have we got here? Have a seat, Clarissa.”

Was that a grin that Polly was trying to smother? This entire episode was about as funny to me as a tearjerker movie.

I watched Polly comb through Clarissa's hair while she nodded to herself. Everyone in town knew that Polly had a knack for cosmetology—but what we were staring at required magic.

“Okay,” she finally said. “First of all, I need you to disappear for a little while.”

I pointed to my chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Pop over to the yarn shop to see Dora. Come back in about an hour.”

I let out a deep sigh. “Be good,” I told Clarissa and did as Polly had instructed.

Aunt Dora glanced up at the sound of wind chimes, took one look at my face, and said, “What's wrong?”

As I related Clarissa's attempt at playing Delilah, Dora poured coffee into two mugs.

“Here,” she said, passing one to me.

Was that a smirk crossing her face? Why was I missing the humor that Dora and Polly obviously felt?

“Do you think this is funny?” I said

“It's not such a major thing, Monica. Every little girl tries to cut her hair—my Marin did it when she was six, and believe me, I was as upset as you are. Age has a way of allowing us to see things differently. I bet you tried it yourself.”

I had no recollection of doing such a thing.

She shook her head and chuckled. “Don't ask me why kids do that, but they do.”

I took a sip of coffee. Had I overreacted? Maybe.

“Do you think she'll do it again?”

“Probably not. They usually learn their lesson.”

“But if she wanted her damn hair cut, why couldn't she just tell me? I'd have taken her to Polly's.”

“I think it has something to do with having control. A need to do it themselves.”

“Yeah, that was really smart of her. She ended up at Polly's salon anyway.”

“It's all part of them growing up, Monica.”

All of a sudden I felt way older than my thirty-two years.

“How the hell do mothers survive raising kids?”

Dora laughed. “It's not always easy, trust me. But, hopefully, many years later it reaches a point where mothers and daughters actually become friends.”

I wasn't so certain that would ever happen between Clarissa and me.

“Don't be too hard on her, Monica. At least she didn't cut herself.”

Not once had that thought occurred to me. I still had a lot to learn about being a mother.

“Any word from Grace?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No, and I miss her.”

“Why don't you pop over to the coffee shop?”

“I can't. I think she hates me for what I insinuated about Tony.”

“He's bought the empty shop down the street, you know. You were being a good friend trying to steer her away from him.”

“No, really? I hadn't heard that. What's he planning to do with it?”

“Have no idea. Leave it to Saren—he keeps going over there to ask questions. Tony tries to be polite to him, but he keeps telling him he hasn't decided yet what type of business will be opening.”

“It should be interesting to see the end result,” I said. “Oh, while I'm in here, I need more of that cobalt blue yarn. I think two more skeins will be enough to finish off Adam's sweater.”

I walked over to the cubbyholes where the different yarns were kept and removed two balls.

Dora reached into a box she'd been unpacking.

“Look at this,” she said, holding out the most scrumptious color of yarn. It reminded me of pistachio ice cream with a thread of pink cotton candy woven into it.

“Oh,” I said, reaching out to touch the wonderful softness. “I love it. But what the heck would I make with this?”

“How about a sweater for Clarissa?”

“Are you serious? What makes you think she'd even like a hand-knit sweater?”

“I don't know for sure, but I do know it might be a nice way to break the ice between you. A lot of love goes into knitting. Each stitch just might have the ability to make your relationship together tighter.”

I fingered the yarn. It
would
make a beautiful little girl's sweater. I recalled Clarissa's word for knitting—yarning—and I smiled.

“All right, let's find a pattern and I'll get enough of the yarn to complete the project.”

 

“I really like it,” Adam said that evening over dinner. He stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork and nodded. “I really do, Clarissa. But what made you decide to get your hair cut? Were the other girls in your class getting new styles?”

Clarissa shot a glance at me.

“Oh, you know how it is, Adam. A female gets sick of the same old thing. A woman's hair is her crowning glory, so they say. It's nice to have a bit of change.”

My stepdaughter's head tipped down as she concentrated on her food.

I had to admit, Polly really had created magic. The new cut was adorable. Chin length and bouncy. It seemed to make Clarissa's eyes bigger and her cheekbones more pronounced.

Polly had taken me aside before we left the shop and related that Clarissa had told her that Billie got to go to the groomer for her cuts and she had just decided to try and cut her own hair.

I suppose I should be thankful that Clarissa hadn't chosen to use those scissors on Billie.

O
ne of the things I loved best in college was the camaraderie among the girls. Being an only child, I hadn't grown up with sibling rivalry, nor had I enjoyed the closeness of having a sister. Gathering in a dorm room, with CDs playing, sharing snacks, and catching up on everyone's latest news was nirvana for me. Joining the other women on the island at the yarn shop for a knitting session was very similar, and I always enjoyed it.

As I worked on the intricate pattern of the sweater for Clarissa, I was glad I'd decided to keep the shop open later one evening a week so we could all gather. I loved the fact that when a woman reached a certain age, age simply didn't matter with friendship. I was the youngest one in the group, and at eighty-nine, Miss Margaret was the oldest, and yet, all of us were bound together in more ways than just a love for knitting.

“So can you believe it?” I heard Miss Polly say. “Almost got herself arrested, she did.”

My head shot up and I paused with my yarn overs. “Who're you talking about?”

“Helen. Helen Thompson. The Red Hatters went to see a musical in Gainesville last week. One of the women got sick and had to cancel, so of course she had to forfeit the price of her ticket. Helen thought a refund was in order, but the theater refused. So what did Helen do? Stood there, on the sidewalk, right in front of the theater and tried to sell the ticket to other patrons. She planned to give the money back to the girl who wasn't able to go. There she stood, with her purple dress and red hat, doing
scalping
. Along comes an officer and I tell ya what—he was inches from arresting her, he was. The rest of us all jumped to her rescue and maybe twenty women were too much for him, I don't know. But he agreed to let Helen go with a warning. Can you just imagine…. We might have been bailing her out of an Alachua County jail.”

Helen being in jail wouldn't have been funny, but all of us started chuckling at the thought of her being dragged off in handcuffs. A prim and proper Red Hatter—not very good publicity for the organization.

I shook my head. “You gals are something else. Like a bunch of teenagers.”

Dora laughed. “Yeah, seems the older we get, the more daring we become.”

“So what's the latest on the new developer?” Twila Faye asked.

Raylene shook her head. “I'm still not quite sure, but Harry dropped by there the other day. Seems the owner has some mighty big plans for turning the space into a fancy-dancy coffee house.”

“What?” I burst out. “We already have a coffee place—Gracie's.”

“Yup, but don't think that's gonna make a whit of difference to this wheeler-dealer. Harry says he thinks this guy is doing it on purpose—to force Grace out. All he really wants is the property where she's at, and she's not about to sell.”

It was going on a month now since I'd heard from Grace. So I had been right when I overheard Tony that evening at the Island Room. That rotten guy didn't care about Grace at all. It was just an excuse to try and buy her building.

“What the heck does he want her place for?”

Twila Faye piped up. “Well,” she said, leaning forward over the knitting in her lap, “I heard we might be gettin' a French restaurant in Cedar Key.”

I nearly choked on hearing this. “A French restaurant? Is the guy nuts?”

“Yup.” Twila Faye nodded. “Real upscale, with white tablecloths, high prices, and even a chef that happens to be French.”

“Doesn't that just beat all,” Dora said, shaking her head. “Lived here all my life and this is the first time somebody thought about doing that.”

“How can he even think to make money on such a venture?” Polly asked.

“You're right,” I said. “The biggest time for merchants is on the weekends. That's when they pull in the most money from tourists. I'm not sure the locals would be that interested in paying the exorbitant prices he'll probably be charging just for a weeknight evening out.”

“What's Grace say about all this?” Polly asked, looking directly at me.

“I'm sure I wouldn't know. We've had a falling-out, and I haven't heard from her in quite a while.”

“Oh, that's too bad,” Dora said. “I'm sorry to hear that the two of you are still on the outs. You're such good friends.”

I didn't feel it was right to share all the details of the cause. “Yeah, well, those things happen,” was all I replied.

“Right,” Twila Faye said. “I'm sure it'll all blow over.”

I wasn't so sure about that.

 

I walked into the house to find Adam going through files at the desk in the great room.

Leaning over to kiss his cheek, I asked, “Is Clarissa in bed?”

He nodded, absorbed in looking at some papers. “Yeah, I got her off at eight.”

“What are you so involved with?”

Placing my knitting bag on the coffee table, I sat on the sofa and kicked off my shoes.

“Had a call tonight—from my lawyer.”

“Oh?” I knew this was probably not going to be good news.

“Well, it seems Carrie Sue did get herself an attorney. Claims she wants what's rightfully hers—Clarissa.”

“You mean she's going to fight you for full custody again?”

“No, my lawyer doesn't think so, but we can't trust anything when it comes to Carrie Sue. But she's saying she wants Clarissa twice a month and for the entire summer.”

My first thought was that my days of motherhood might be coming to an abrupt halt, but my second thought was that this can't be very good for a child—back and forth so much.

“So what's the plan?”

“Well, Trina told me to make sure I have all the canceled checks from four years' worth of support. That's what I'm getting together now. They've set up a court date for the first week in November. All we can do is go to the hearing and see what happens.”

“God, Adam,” I said, getting up to put my arms around his neck. “I'm so sorry. Does Clarissa know about this yet?”

He shook his head and reached up to grasp my hand. “No, and I'd rather she didn't right now. She's been with us almost five months, and she's settled in well. She's doing good in school, making friends and Billie—I know for certain there's no way Carrie Sue would let her bring the dog up there during her visits.”

That dog meant everything to Clarissa, and as much as I was against it, bringing Billie into our home was one of the best things we could have done. Clarissa had been true to her word and taken over much of the responsibility of having a pet.

“We'll think positive,” I told him, heading to the bedroom to get into my nightgown.

Life sure did have a way of throwing out some twists and turns, I thought. A year ago I was preparing for my wedding, not thinking about children at all. And here we were with a child almost nine years old that I was coming to accept, but she could end up spending more time in Georgia with Carrie Sue than with us.

I turned around as Adam came in the bedroom.

“I turned out all the lights,” he said. “Thought maybe we could just relax in here.”

“Good idea. How about a glass of cognac to unwind?”

“That would be great. I'll get it.”

I curled up on the sofa in our sitting room waiting for Adam to return. Although I'd been concerned about bringing Clarissa into our home, the thought of not having her for an entire summer made me feel sad. Poor Adam. He was such a great father and yet—the courts always seemed to favor the mother, as he'd said. If Carrie Sue hadn't been in that accident, Clarissa would still be with her.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me a small glass filled with amber liquid.

“Here's to good things happening,” I told him, raising my glass.

He nodded before taking a sip.

“Won't the court see how disruptive it would be for Clarissa? Going back and forth twice a month and then not seeing you for three months. It's not right.”

“It wasn't right when they denied me custody the first time. The visitation they allowed me wasn't right. But it's not about what's right, Monica. When it comes to the court system and children, it's never been about
right
.”

“Hey,” I said. “Clarissa's birthday is next week. Are we going to have a party?”

Adam nodded. “She mentioned that this evening. I asked her what she wanted and she said she already got her gift—Billie. But she said she'd like to have a few friends over for cake and ice cream.”

I could do cake and ice cream, and I recalled my ninth birthday. My mother had gone all out with decorations and games and favors. I was terrible at organizing something like this and knew the one person who'd be perfect was out of my life. It was times like this that I really missed Grace. She made everything so much more fun.

“I could try and organize a party.”

Adam's face brightened. “Really? I didn't want to put any pressure on you, but that would be great. I love you, Monica.”

I felt his lips on mine and placed my glass on the coffee table, allowing him to slide me down onto the sofa. All thoughts of parties drifted out of my mind.