The Pajama Affair (2 page)

“I’m already doing that now,” Liza said.

“Then we’d better hurry. Leave your car and ride with me.”

“Cutting off any chance for an escape, huh?”

“I’ll cuff you if necessary,”
Marion
said before going on to explain. “Puck changed his major to criminal justice again. He left his handcuffs in my car.”

Liza cleared a pile of papers and books off the seat of
Marion
’s car and squeezed in. To a stranger
Marion
would have apologized about the mess, but she knew Liza didn’t care so long as she never had to live with it again.

“Just toss those on the pile.” She jerked her thumb to indicate the back seat where a tower of books and papers tottered precariously.

“It’s becoming a fire hazard,” Liza commented.

“Fires require heat, fuel, and oxygen,”
Marion
said. “As long as I keep one of those elements out of the car I’m golden.”

Marion
was always weaving information into everyday conversation that way. She had a stream-of-consciousness way of thinking that explained how she could be a detail-oriented research librarian and a slob at the same time.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Liza asked. They pulled up in front of a desolate-looking run down building on the bad end of town.

“These fancy spas never look good on the outside. That would be tacky. I’m telling you, their results speak for themselves. My friends always look stunning.”

“All right,” Liza said, but she still sounded as wary as she felt. Her unease increased when they walked in and saw one overweight, middle-aged woman who looked like she’d had the same bad hairstyle since 1974.

“Trust me,”
Marion
mouthed when Liza flashed her a look of panic. “She wants some gold highlights,” she announced to the woman. It was what they had agreed on in the car.

“No problem,” the woman said. Her accent was thick. Liza couldn’t identify its origin, but
Marion
could.

“Are you Hungarian?” she asked. She and the woman entered into a long and animated conversation while Liza concentrated on a magazine and tried not to think about what she was doing. She had never colored her hair before. What if she hated it? What if Dirk hated it?

It took forever. Liza became antsier as the moments ticked. She was so intent on her anxiety that she didn’t notice
Marion
’s sudden silence, although she did hear the soft and frantic tapping of her phone keypad. Either she was looking something up or texting someone, or both.

At last it was finished. The stylist stood back and turned Liza toward the mirror with a flourish.

“Is done,” she said.

“Oh,” Liza said. Even if she had screamed the word it would have been an understatement. Her hair was the color of Winnie the Pooh’s body, neither orange nor yellow, but somewhere loud and in between. In addition to the blinding, horrifying color it was now the texture of dry grass, and the bluntness of the cut made it stand out in straight clumps so it resembled a cheap wig. In fact, if she put on a flannel shirt and a pair of overalls she would look like a scarecrow. She was frozen, staring at herself in horror. Absently she noted that
Marion
paid the lady and quickly grasped her arm to lead her out of the store.

She must be trying to rush me out before the screaming starts
, Liza thought.
Better hurry.

Chapter 2

“So it turns out the correct salon is called ‘Trés Classique,’”
Marion
said as soon as they reached the car. “I already called to try and schedule an emergency fix for you, but their first available appointment is in a month. I guess good salons don’t take walk-ins.” She bit her lip and darted Liza a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

A couple of different possible scenarios ran through Liza’s head. She could slug
Marion
across the chin, or she could jerk the wheel and plunge them both into oncoming traffic. Or she could see the humor in the situation and hide out at her house until she got her hair fixed.

“I don’t suppose Puck has ever majored in cosmetology,” she said.

“No, but he did dog grooming once. He could give you a flee dip and shave your tail.” It was the catalyst they needed to laugh and ease the horrible tension. “I’m really sorry, Liza. Don’t pay me back for that salon, and I’ll pay for the other one, too.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Liza said, trying hard to mean it. She hoped her voice sounded unruffled. In reality she would probably have a few crying sessions before her hair was fixed, especially if Dirk saw it. He would be horrified. Few people were more concerned with their public image than Dirk, but he had a point. He was a local celebrity because he was featured in his car dealership’s television commercials.

Marion
pulled up next to her car and Liza darted inside. Her new number one priority was home. She wouldn’t leave again until she somehow fixed her hair, even if she ran out of food. Not for the first time she wished for a garage as she sprinted from her car to her front porch. One neighbor in particular felt it her duty to watch her comings and goings with keen interest. Liza had no doubt she would get an earful about her hair next time she ran into the old woman.

Her key stuck in the lock and she froze. Her key had never stuck before, but it was more than that. She felt an odd, prickling sensation like something was wrong, but she couldn’t tell what. The mat was crooked, but the mailman sometimes did that. She straightened it with her foot and looked around again. Everything seemed fine. She shrugged off the strange feeling and retried her key. It worked fine, and she let herself in.

And then she stopped short and sniffed. Maybe she was crazy, but something smelled odd. She caught a scent she didn’t recognize, almost like a hint of cologne.

“Dirk?” she called, but knew it wasn’t him. He had worn the same intoxicating scent since college, and this wasn’t it.

When she turned her head she caught sight of her crispy, tangerine hair and grimaced. Of course her nose was off. She was wearing a gallon of chemicals on her head. Just in case, she stood still in the entryway and looked around. Everything looked just as she had left it, and she didn’t hear any sounds.

“Man up, Liza. You’re getting paranoid,” she told herself. She tossed her purse onto the counter and made herself a cup of tea.
The weather is so up and down this time of year,
she thought. The last few days of school had been sweltering, but tonight it was dropping to fifty degrees. The house already felt cool.

As she sipped her tea she wondered what Dirk was doing tonight and who he was doing it with. They had never said the words “exclusive,” but as far as she knew he didn’t see anyone else. But on nights like this she wondered. Where did he go? Who was he with? He never gave a reason for canceling their dates. She supposed she should have demanded from the beginning that he give her a reason, but she had been afraid of appearing clingy. She still was. She pretended to be an independent, secure woman. Most of the time that’s what she actually was, but on some days it would be so nice to have someone to lean on, someone to take care of, and someone who would also take care of her.

She picked up the remote for her sound system and turned it on. Instead of the delicious meal she had intended to cook for herself and Dirk she opened a can of pasta--the kind with a cartoon chef on the label--and ate mango sorbet at her breakfast bar, straight from the container. Her sadness from that morning returned with a vengeance. Was this how her summer would go? Would she spend every night alone eating junk food?

She was almost twenty seven years old, and what did she have to show for it? A house she liked, a job she loved, a best friend she adored, and a boyfriend she…what? Chased?

In the beginning she had been so in awe of Dirk that she felt lucky to be with him. He had been the quarterback of their college football team after all. It was a small college, but, still, he was the
quarterback
. He had been famous then, and his star hadn’t dimmed since. Locally he was considered a desirable catch. Unlike her. She had always averaged somewhere in the middle of the popularity totem pole. If she had said to any of her college friends that she and Dirk would end up together, they would have laughed her silly.

But then there was that fateful wedding right after graduation, the one where she had sat with Dirk and Scarlet at the reception. He was Scarlet’s then, and so he was safe. For that reason, Liza let down her guard with him that night and allowed her true personality to shine. Usually she was so reserved people found her dull. Only those who really knew her understood that her shyness was only a front for her real personality. That night the three of them laughed through the reception together, and he had even asked her to dance once.

And then a week later Scarlet dumped him. Liza wasn’t fooled into thinking it had been some sort of irresistible attraction on her part that made him call and ask her out. She understood it was desperation and proximity that drove him to it. After all, hadn’t they talked about how everyone moved out of town after graduation, about how they were the only two to remain in their college town full of old people and figurative tumbleweeds? Who else could he have asked out?

After a couple more shovelfuls of sorbet she put the lid on and returned it to the freezer, just in time to hear a knock at the door. She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and opened the door without thinking. Dirk stood on the other side. He opened his mouth to say hello and left it gaping as his eyes traveled to her hair and froze wide open.

Her deep thoughts had temporarily caused her to forget her hair, and she had no reply for his astonishment. “I thought you canceled,” she said instead.

“I did, but it’s cold out and I left my jacket here.” He blinked, but kept his focus on her hair. “Um.”

“Come in before the sun bounces off it and blinds the neighbors,” she said. She moved aside to grant him entrance.

“It’s very interesting,” he said. It was a wonder he didn’t trip because he didn’t remove his eyes from her hair while he walked.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” she informed him. “It’s not like I walked into a salon and told them to make me look like a yellow chrysanthemum.”

“Good, because that’s not what you look like at all,” he lied. A laugh escaped, but he tried hard to reel it in.

She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned.

He wrapped is arms around her and kissed her. Her irritation with him dissolved until he spoke. “You taste like mangoes. Are you going for a taste and hair color theme?”

She tried to wrench away from him, but he pinned her to him.

“I’m teasing you. I’m sure it will work out fine.” He frowned. “Hopefully before dinner with my parents in a couple of weeks?” He said it as a question and she nodded, uncrossed her arms, and slid them around his neck.

“Want me to cook something?” she offered.

“No,” he said. “I really can’t stay.”

“Where are you going?”

He froze. Did she read guilt in his eyes or just surprise? “You’ve never asked before.”

“I’m asking now,” she said. He pressed his lips to her neck and she was momentarily distracted. Physical chemistry had never been their problem, she thought. She wondered if he was trying to distract her because he still hadn’t answered. “Dirk,” she pressed.

He eased back slightly. “Some guys from the team are in town and we’re getting together.”

“Oh.” She tried to keep the hurt out of her tone. He had never introduced her to his friends. The only possible explanation was because he was ashamed of her. It probably would be embarrassing to go from Scarlet the superstar to a mousy teacher with hair the color of a school bus.

Either she did a good job of hiding her hurt feelings or he didn’t care. “Later, Babe.” He gave her another toe curling kiss, grabbed his jacket from the closet, and let himself out.

She stood staring at the door feeling empty, sad, and alone If she remembered anything about Dirk’s friends from college, it was how much they liked to party. He would no doubt have fun doing things she didn’t approve of while she stayed home, watching television or reading a book. Her life stretched out before her, an endless array of nights like this. Sometimes she wondered why she fought so hard to keep him. Was she really so desperate?

Sadly, the answer was yes. There was no one else. Wasn’t it better to be in a lackluster relationship than no relationship at all?

She sat on the couch and turned on the television. “Why do I have cable? Forty channels and nothing is on Saturday nights.” After sifting through the channels a few times she finally decided on the women’s movie network and watched a depressing movie about an abused wife who eventually killed her husband and went to prison.

When she went to bed the hollow feeling was still there. What was she doing with her life? Things didn’t feel like they were on the right track. Were they? She would never sleep if she allowed her anxiety to take over, so she forced it away. She put on her favorite flannel pajamas. It was chilly enough to warrant them, but in reality she wanted the comfort they brought her. Dirk had bought them for her last Christmas. Now she wanted to snuggle down in them and remember the good times between them. Maybe he wasn’t desperately in love with her, but they were comfortable together. To him she was probably like the pajamas she was wearing--dull, but good to cuddle up to on a cold, lonely night.

Her back itched. She scratched at it absently before rolling over and falling asleep. When she woke sometime later she blinked in confusion at the hazy light filtering in through the window. The clock read five and at first she had no idea what woke her, and then her back itched again. When she scratched it, the area felt raw and tender, as if she had been scratching for hours. She pulled off her pajama top and scratched furiously at her back until the itching subsided. It was too dark to see, so she ran her hand over the back of the shirt, not really expecting to feel anything. And when she did she froze. There was something there, something strange and unfamiliar.

The lamp on the nightstand cast a faint glow, but it was enough to see the piece of tape pressed to the pajamas. It was masking tape with writing on it. At first her heart turned over in her chest with the impossible thought that Dirk had taped a message inside her pajamas. Maybe “I love you,” or “Merry Christmas,” since that was when he had bought them. Her heart thudded painfully. What if it was, “Will you marry me?” As she squinted she realized it was just a jumble of numbers, letters, and dashes. Was it code? If so, what for?

She turned off the light and lay back down, the shirt still clutched in her hand. These were her favorite pajamas. She had worn them almost weekly since Dirk gave them to her. She had washed them weekly, too. How had she missed that piece of tape through all those washes?

She frowned. It wasn’t likely that she could have missed it when it made her itch so much. And the tape hadn’t looked worn or cracked as if it had been run through the wash. It had looked new, as did the ink. But how could that be?

She was definitely wide awake now and puzzling over the strange occurrence.
Had
Dirk taped a message in her pajamas, just to see if she noticed? She checked the clock again and bit her lip. It was Sunday, his day off. He had been partying with his friends, was there a chance he was still awake? Before she could talk herself out of it she grabbed her phone from the nightstand and hit her speed dial.

“Liza?” He sounded half asleep and half alarmed. She was surprised he recognized her ringtone. “What’s wrong?”

“Did you tape a message inside my pajamas?”

He paused. “Is this a dream?” He sounded truly uncertain.

She started over and told him about waking up itching and then finding the piece of masking tape in your pajama top. There was another pause on his end.

“So you took your shirt off. Are you wearing it now?” He sounded suddenly and intensely interested.

Her cheeks pinked. “Uh, no.”

“Do you need me to come over?” There was a shuffling sound as if he was getting out of bed.

“That wasn’t really why I was calling. Besides, you sound tired.”

“I was asleep,” he reminded her. “I only got in about an hour ago.”

She frowned. What was he doing until four in the morning? “Oh. Did you have fun?”

Another pause. “Yes.” He sounded unconvinced. She wondered why. “To answer your earlier question no, I did not tape a message in your pajamas. Not my style.”

What a strange comment, she thought. “What is your style?”

“What?” He was getting sleepy again.

“If you wanted to slip me a secret message, what would your style be?”