Wave Good-Bye (12 page)

Heck, my mom would ask me to mix up a color formulation the way other mothers would ask their kids to pop a load of laundry in the dryer. Wynn wasn’t comfortable correcting other stylists’ mistakes, in part because he took a free-spirit approach and because he wasn’t an organized person, so he often turned to me. “Grace Ann, can you help Marcella? All her cuts are a bit longer on one side than the other.” And, “Ernesto is having trouble with texturizing hair. Any suggestions for him?” “LaReesa mixed the color wrong, and now the customer needs a correction.”

Mom raised Alice Rose and me both to be helpful, but my willingness to step in and save the day was more than a by-product of my upbringing. It was a result of my raging hormones.

I had a crush on Wynn. He was an incorrigible flirt. No woman was immune to his honey-dripping smile, or his slow, sweet manner. I’d seen him turn ninety-year-old grandmothers into giggling girls. That was fine by me, because bit by bit, Wynn made it clear that I was his favorite. Once when I was in the stockroom doing inventory, he stepped inside, locked the door, and crooked a finger at me.

In seconds, he had a hand up my skirt and my blouse unbuttoned.

“I’m not good at this,” I stuttered. After coming home and finding my husband “getting busy” with another woman, I’d moved out, gotten a divorce, and taken a pledge to
remain celibate. So far, as a strategy, it wasn’t much fun but it was a whole lot less drama.

“Babe, relax,” he said as he kissed my throat. “This isn’t work. Or school. There isn’t going to be a grade or a quiz. This is just for you, sweetheart. Just for you. A reward you’ve earned by being luscious. Let a master lead the way.”

Boy. He played me like a fiddle. That man’s fingers were magic, and his voice had a low rumble that called to a portion deep inside me, a place I never knew existed. I mean, Hank and I’d been pretty hot and heavy before we married, but my husband had been a selfish lover, a man who concentrated on himself and his needs only.

Wynn took pleasure in seeing me melt. And I craved reassurance that a man found me desirable. While I’d never admit it out loud, I wondered if I wasn’t woman enough to keep a man’s interest, and if somehow Hank’s cheating had really been my fault. I felt like a phony—working all day to make other women more attractive, but feeling that I couldn’t do the same for myself.

Even though it had been a while, I felt warm and gushy all over when I thought back on our brief liaison. During the workday, Wynn and I were great together, considering a client’s needs, discussing styles and products, reveling over the outcome of our joint efforts. At night and in stolen moments, we were passionate lovers.

His betrayal totally blindsided me. It had been a sunny, beautiful June day. I walked into the salon for the start of my shift, and immediately, I knew something was up. Usually in that half hour before opening, the shop hummed with activity, a happy buzz that said everything was going right. On this day, the place seemed unnaturally silent. No one looked up as I walked past. No one called out happy greetings.

My station was tucked in the back. To get there, you
took a twisting, turning path between other stations. Every stylist added touches to make the four-foot square space his or her own. Because we spent so much time there, the stations began to feel like “home.”

Today, as I approached my station, everyone went silent. I could tell something was amiss, and I spotted the reason right away. A small stack of magazine pages rested on the seat of my styling chair. A sticky note bore a scrawled message in ink:
FYI
.

The slick pages had been stapled together, starting with the cover sheet: “Hair TODAY.” Flipping the stack open, I saw a four-page color article featuring picture after picture of my best, most creative work. Accompanying the photos were accolades like “innovative, flattering, and sophisticated.” I grinned from ear to ear as I gazed on my work with wonder and joy. Wow! Wouldn’t Mom be thrilled? I couldn’t wait to share it with her. Excited by the attention, I scanned the copy for my name.

I looked at page one, page two, page three…and on to the end. That’s when reality set in. Nowhere, not anywhere, in that long article was I mentioned by name. Nowhere. The piece was about Wynn Goodman, the hot young talent in the hair industry. The positioning of the photos, the cutlines underneath, all touted the images as Wynn’s work.

But it had to be a mistake!

I read every word, every line once, twice more.

My first impulse was to call my mother. But I quickly got over that.

No way could I call her!

She had learned her craft the hard way, being totally self-taught. She cobbled together an education, struggling to open her own shop after my dad died and left her with two young daughters. Attending a beauty school in Atlanta would have been a dream come true to her. Working at
Sassoon was a situation beyond her wildest fantasies. Every week she called and asked how things were going—and she was pleased as punch when I told her how much I was enjoying myself.

If I told her about this disappointment, it would burst her bubble. Mom wanted to believe that everyone in the beauty industry was as gorgeous on the inside as they were on the outside. Because she’d lived her whole life in St. Elizabeth, she could maintain that childlike innocent view of the business. An imaginary circle had conscribed her world; life within its friendly confines had given her an unrealistic belief in human kindness.

I wasn’t about to shatter her dreams along with mine.

“There’s probably some mistake. The reporter got it wrong. Wynn showed him my photos to prove how good his students are. Their wires got crossed. Yeah, that’s probably what happened. No biggie. When he sees it, he’ll make them print a retraction.” I mumbled all this to myself as I wadded up the magazine pages and tossed them into the trash can. Then I started inventorying my supplies and getting ready for the day ahead.

LaReesa Bowens showed up at my elbow. She was a large woman with a couple of homemade tattoos on her right forearm. “Girlfriend, we talking about that man! He was on the down low, girl. He’s a dog! Passing off your stuff as his. That Wynn Goodman ought to be shot, he should. Everyone knows those were your styles! Everyone! What a jerk. Especially considering the other news and all.”

“Other news?” I froze.

LaReesa shifted her weight and stared at me. “You mean you don’t know? I thought you’d be the first person he’d tell.”

“Spill it.” I crossed my arms over my chest so she couldn’t see my hands shaking.

“Oh, baby girl.” LaReesa shook her head. “You ready for this? That skunk. He really is lower than a cottonmouth’s belly on a July day. You know what he went and did? It was all over the news this morning. That talk show on the radio? The one where they talk to all the celebrities?”

“What happened!” I was losing patience, and LaReesa had a tendency to wander off topic.

“Wynn Goodman got engaged. He’s marrying Eve Sebastiani!”

Chapter Nineteen

ARTURO SEBASTIANI GREW UP IN POSITANO, WHERE his father owned an olive orchard. Early on, the boy showed great talent with his sisters’ hair. Their friends started lining up in the Sebastiani kitchen where Arturo would cut, color, and curl for a small fee. Inspired by the soft skin of the farm workers, Arturo created a variety of products, all using high-quality olive oil. When the boy turned eighteen, the villagers took up a collection to send him to the States for training.

Arturo arrived in New York City, found a place behind a chair, and never looked back, although he has been a huge benefactor to the area. Once a year, he makes a pilgrimage to the village, bringing much-needed financial aid
to such projects as the local library, the schools, and the churches.

Somewhere along the line, Arturo attracted the attention of a wealthy socialite who convinced her husband to back the Italian boy in a series of business ventures. Thus, Snippets was born. Arturo married a model, had a bambino, and the entire Sebastiani clan often appeared
en fami-glia
in advertisements for the Snippets chain.

Everyone in the industry followed the adventures of Eve Sebastiani, Arturo’s only child and his successor in the business. She helped in refugee camps in Uganda, broke ground for AIDS hospitals in Kenya, and still found time to meet the Queen at Ascot. As time went on, Eve took on more and more of the decision-making responsibilities. But when had her path crossed that of Wynn’s? How long had they been an item? Was it possible my friends were reporting old news? Wynn had stayed at my place overnight just last week before flying out to Los Angeles for meetings at Vidal Sassoon headquarters.

Or so he said. The company headquarters had moved nearly twenty years ago. But I needed Wynn so much that I didn’t question him. Looking back, I’d been just as blind about Wynn as I’d been about Hank, but for different reasons. With Hank, I was young and stupid. With Wynn, I was needy and hurt. Ours was a typical rebound relationship, but I was too blind to see that at the time.

“Here.” LaReesa handed me her smart phone. The headline: “Eve Finds Her Adam.” The story: Eve sported a sparkling diamond from Wynn Goodman. They planned a June wedding on the Island of Skorpios. They met at an industry trade show, and, yes, they were truly, madly in love.

Which left me hurt, embarrassed, and out in the cold.

My knees buckled as I eased my way back into my chair.

“Can you believe it?” LaReesa gave a loud and unladylike snort of derision. “What a turkey. And will you look at all the clients in the waiting area! Can you believe it? They’re all hip to the news. They’re hoping to see if Wynn still works here!”

Our attention turned to the waiting area, where customers jockeyed for space on gray leather chairs.

LaReesa did a quick scan of our surroundings before ducking her head and cupping a hand over her mouth to speak quietly. “The HQ management team is in the back room. Working on damage control. Wynn had access to our entire client list. He was in on all of corporate’s plans for expansion. Knows which markets they’re considering. All their upcoming promotions and ad schedules. You can bet he’ll take all that with him when he marries Eve. Snippets will make out like a bunch of bandits!”

“I-If he leaves, who will be our supervisor?” I wondered.

“They already decided to bring that mealy mouthed Jenny Farquar in from Jacksonville, Florida. I’ve heard her specialty is tattling on people,” LaReesa said. “At least that’s what my cousin Shereena told me. She works in the same district. Wonder who’ll be the first to get in trouble? I sure hope it ain’t me!”

And she walked back to her station.

LaReesa’s cousin had been right on the money. Jenny “By the Book” Farquar was a major pain. She had no creativity at all, no common sense, and a strictly by-the-book attitude. She also lacked a sense of humor and tact. In short, she was absolutely wrong for this business, or any business that relied on creative people. I’d learned at my mom’s knee that creative people needed a light hand on the reins. If you pulled too hard on the bit, they spent more time bucking you off than moving forward at a trot.

Under Jenny’s “supervision,” I learned not to take any
chances. The slightest problem morphed into a big deal, whether it was a change in schedule or a customer with an expired coupon. It doesn’t matter, I told myself. Never again would I let myself care. I was through with being vulnerable. I’d learned my lesson, and I had the battle scars to prove it.

I grew more and more withdrawn. As the weeks passed, I missed St. Elizabeth with an emotional pang that gnawed at me like hunger. Jenny proved a miserable excuse for a boss. One day, after she chewed me out in front of a customer, LaReesa walked over and asked, “Why do you put up with this? Didn’t you say your mama runs a salon? Shoot, if I had somewhere else to go, I wouldn’t let the door hit me on the backside as I left. I’d be out of here in a flash.”

With a jolt, I realized she was right. My marriage was over, and running into Hank caused all sorts of headaches. My new lover had dumped me very publicly for a woman with money and clout. My apartment was small and I had a forty-five minute commute to work. The hours at Sassoon were horrible, and my new boss…well, let’s say we didn’t cotton to each other and leave it at that.

What was keeping me here? Pride? Ego?

Inertia.

Then I caught the flu. Day after day, I stayed in bed, sweating and shivering. I quit answering the phone. Vonda and Mom panicked when they hadn’t heard from me in days. Von hopped in the car, drove the five hours to Atlanta, and pounded on my door until I answered.

“Good Lord. What on earth?” she pushed past me, surveyed the place (which she hadn’t seen previously), took stock of me, and in three hours, all my belongings were packed. Vonda bundled me into the passenger seat and drove me home. Home to Violetta’s.

A month later, I started as a stylist in my mother’s
beauty shop. In the back of my head, I’d always known that Mom was a fair boss, who knew instinctively how to run a salon. There was no backbiting, no malicious gossip or attempts at stealing customers. All of us pulled together as a team to help and support each other. After my time at Sassoon, Mom’s salon was a cool breeze of goodness brushing away the rotten crumbs of my former existence.