Wave Good-Bye (2 page)

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Corina’s Tips for Getting the Best from Your Stylist

About the Author

Chapter One

FOR AS LONG AS I CAN REMEMBER, HOMECOMING IN St. Elizabeth ranks as one of the busiest days at Violetta’s, the eponymous beauty salon that my mother, Violetta Terhune, runs out of the front half of her Victorian home. This year was no exception. The phone rang repeatedly. There was just one problem: customers weren’t calling to book appointments; they were calling to cancel.

Marking yet another X through a booking, Mom shook her head sadly at the schedule. She ran a hand through the short salt-and-pepper hair she gelled into fashionable spikes, and tugged at her earlobe, a habit that returned whenever she felt stressed. Then she slowly raised one hand to her head and massaged her temples.

“Still got that headache?” I asked. When she nodded, I added,
“Mom, that’s been bugging you for a week now. I’ll get to cleaning up that mold. That should help.”

“Nothing’s wrong with your mama except that another rat jumped ship.” Althea Jenkins, our part-time aesthetician, lifted weary brown eyes from the crossword puzzle in her lap, and smothered a cough. Althea’s hacking cough worried me the most because the sudden explosions from her throat shook her entire body with violence.

In a way, we were lucky that business had slowed, because none of us seemed up to par, physically. Althea in particular seemed tired out. Usually, she tried to squeeze in twelve facials before a special event like homecoming. But today, she had only three on the books and two of those already cancelled. I hoped she’d go home and get some much-needed rest.

“Oh, hush. They aren’t rats. Just misguided lemmings.” Mom smiled at Althea. They’d been friends for two decades and started the business together after their husbands died and their children were young. “Not to worry. Mrs. Everly will be here at four for her regular Friday booking. Thank heavens we’ve built such a following of loyal customers.”

After stacking yet another shining tower of foils, I found myself with nothing to do. Usually when homecoming rolls around, I’m so busy doing highlights that I run out of foils. Then I’m forced to make them as I go, and folding foils is a job I totally despise. But today I managed to stockpile enough supplies to get me through a week’s worth of coloring. In fact, I’d folded enough of the shiny silver stuff to build a life-sized replica of the Tin Woodsman.

“I might as well shift into Mrs. Clean mode. I’ll take down all those knickknacks and wipe out the corner cupboard.” I didn’t want to tell Mom that I was also feeling dizzy. Maybe if I was on my knees, and the ground was closer, I wouldn’t feel quite so discombobulated.

“Good idea, Grace Ann. Best to do it now before we get busy again, and before that man comes to inspect for mold,” said Mom, pausing as she rubbed her neck to smile at me. I can depend on my mother’s upbeat outlook on life, no matter what happens. Even if a hurricane hits. Which it had.

In the aftermath of Hurricane Horatio, the whole town had played catch-up with repairs. Because St. Elizabeth is on the southeast coast of Georgia, our town sustained both wind and water damage. The magnolia tree lost a limb, the veranda roof was crushed, and one of our plate glass windows was smashed, but other than the mess, the old Victorian house that Mom had inherited from her aunt had escaped unscathed. Or so we thought. Turns out the salon was full of hidden damage. Since we reopened, Althea has been coughing, Mom has had headaches, and my nose has been running. When I knelt down yesterday to retrieve a dropped hairclip, I discovered the cause—black mold growing behind our supply cabinet. Now I was determined to scrub every inch of our shop and eradicate the yucky stuff, especially before the inspector from the health department arrived.

I didn’t expect the process to take too long. Mom and I had identified a couple of spots where the greenish black stuff was growing. I’d purchased a spray guaranteed to kill mold. Now all I needed to do was spray and wipe, and the nasty stuff would be gone, baby, gone.

The cupboard was half empty and I’d started washing the shelves when the front door flew open. In clomped Mrs. Everly, leading the way with her metal frame walker. Despite the fact she must be near eighty, Mrs. Everly has been blessed with an enviable head full of white hair. Usually by the time her regular appointment rolls around, that hair is mashed flatter than roadkill, but today her coiffure looked freshly styled. Instead of taking a seat at Mom’s station,
she and her aluminum frame stopped in front of a chintz chair in our waiting area.

Even from six feet away, Mrs. Everly’s lilac perfume filled the air with a sickeningly sweet fragrance. The way the older woman worked her mouth told us all that she was fixing to make a pronouncement. I paused in my work to listen.

“Violetta? Out of courtesy to you, I decided to stop by rather than make a phone call. I won’t be needing my appointment today. I plan to attend the homecoming festivities, as I always do. But as you full-well know I’m on a limited budget. A flier arrived in the mail advertising Snippets, that new beauty shop that opened over yonder.” She gestured with her head to a spot down the street.

My stomach twisted into a knot. Snippets was a nationally recognized chain of hair salons, owned by Eve Sebastiani, whose father Arturo started the business two decades ago. While our town struggled to clean up after the storm, the Snippets real estate expert swooped in and bought up a prime location, a damaged commercial building three blocks from our salon. Faster than you could say “split ends,” Snippets’ corporate office also brought in a construction crew. The commercial building—formerly an eyesore—was refurbished, decorated, furnished, and ready to go in no time. The finishing touch had been a huge pink and black sign featuring the Snippets logo, their iconic scissors image, and touting “Affordable Style.”

At first we didn’t worry. We’ve had competition for years. Peter Wassil owns Chez Pierre, a swanky “spa” on the other side of town. Their prices are higher than ours, but their stylists aren’t any better. Even if I do say so myself.

But after Snippets opened, one by one, our customers started cancelling. When we queried them gently, each woman related how she’d been enticed by a special offer
tailored expressly to her needs. So, if you liked facials, you received an invitation with a coupon for a free facial. If you had your hair cut, washed, and styled here, the coupon offered a hefty discount on those services. It was uncanny. Almost as if Snippets had read our customers’ minds.

“I love manicures, but I never spend that kind of money on myself. Well, I did once when Ricky and I got engaged so I could show off my ring,” said Vonda Jamison, my best friend since second grade. “We’re breaking even here at the bed and breakfast, but there’s no wiggle room for pampering. I hope you won’t mind if I use the Snippets coupon.”

“Coupon? What coupon?” I had asked.

After that, we heard plenty from our customers. Although they were apologetic, they were eager to cash in their coupons for a free service or discount.

I couldn’t blame them. St. Elizabeth suffered the same economic downturn as the rest of the country. Then along came Horatio, and
poof
! Things went from bad to worse. I expected our customers to try Snippets, take advantage of the savings, and then come back to Violetta’s, but so far that hadn’t happened.

“It’s almost like they’re buying our customers. Trying to run us out of business,” groused Althea, her mocha cheeks flushed hot pink with irritation. She was mixing up a batch of one of her fabulous exfoliate creams made of oatmeal, aloe, and avocado. “First they offer one special and then another and another. You’d think they had an inside track on our business. They sure seem to know who likes what.”

I knew Althea was thinking about those offers—and how to compete with them—as she watched Mrs. Everly, who was standing there smack-dab in the middle of our waiting area. She said, “I’m not much for coupons, but I tried the place, figuring if they made a mess of my hair, I’d have you fix it. As you can see, they did a credible job.”

Mom’s lower lip trembled, but I’ll hand it to her. She kept a sweet smile plastered to her face. “They certainly did. You look lovely as always, Mrs. Everly.”

“That lady manager over there threw in a free manicure, too. And a foot massage. Even gave me a sample of a new perfume with roses in it.”

“My, my.” Mom’s voice retained its polite tone. “Wasn’t that nice of them?”

“Being a good church-going woman, I’m bound to ask you—how come you’ve been overcharging me all these years? If they can cut, wash, and style up my hair for half price, what do you mean handing me a big bill the way you do? You know that since poor Geoffrey died, I’ve been pinching pennies!”

“I have always charged my customers a fair price,” said Mom quietly.

Although her voice was pleasant, I knew her feelings were hurt. I swallowed hard and dipped my rag in a mixture of lemon-scented Mr. Clean and hot water. But the swallow didn’t dislodge the lump in my throat. How dare Mrs. Everly suggest my mother ripped her off! I wanted to remind her that when “poor Geoffrey” died, Mom went to the funeral home and styled his hair for free. When Mrs. Everly’s sister, Jeannie Rae, was laid up after a bad fall she took while visiting, Mom made a house call to fix both women’s hair at no extra charge.

I guess I took my anger out on the furniture, because a china statue of a shepherdess on the top shelf tumbled down and hit me smack on the top of my head.

“Ouch!” With my free hand, I rubbed away the pain.

Stella Michaelson, our manicurist, closed the cabinet that housed her rainbow-colored bottles of nail polish. “I’m out of here.” She hoisted her purse over one shoulder. The
squeak-squeak-squeak
of her sensible shoes echoed sadly on the wide heart-of-pine floorboards as she headed for the back door.

Over the course of the day, four of Stella’s customers had cancelled their appointments at the Nail Nook. Stella took it pretty well, but Mrs. Everly’s mention of the “free manicure” pushed her right over the edge.

Beauty, Stella’s white Persian, stepped off her blue velvet pillow to wander over and take a swat at the fallen porcelain figurine, sending it spinning like a hula hoop across the pine floor.

“I suppose being a single mother with two little girls, you did what you had to, so you could keep a roof over your head and food on the table,” said Mrs. Everly, her voice softening a bit.

“A widow,” corrected Mom. “Not a single mother. If you compared the cost of my services to those at any other area salon, you’ll see that we were less expensive until Snippets came along. But you have to understand, Mrs. Everly, it’s not unusual for a big chain like that to come in and undercut local merchants. They have the financial backing to go for years without making a dime. Once they run small salons like mine out of business, they’ll be free to charge whatever they want.”

“Harrumph. That’s what they told me you’d say. Not that it matters. I’m switching my business.” Mrs. Everly moved her walker in a half circle so she could leave the way she came.

Rachel Whitley, our seventeen-year-old shampoo girl, rushed to hold the door open for the elderly woman. What a contrast they made! Mrs. Everly with her short white hair and Rachel with her shoulder-length jet-black hair.

“Mrs. Everly, if things don’t work out,” said Mom, “and
you decide to come back, I’d be happy to welcome you as a customer again.”

“Will you do my hair for half price?” the old woman asked over her shoulder.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then don’t hold your breath!”

Chapter Two

“I FOLDED THE REST OF THE FOILS FOR YOU, GRACE,” said Rachel, an aspiring beautician, who wore her black chunky motorcycle boots with the silver buckles and chains on them every day, no matter how hot the weather got. As she handed them over, the “cracked” black nail polish on her hands gleamed menacingly. Rachel alternately experimented with Goth and grunge, frequently surprising us when she came into work.