Wave Good-Bye (4 page)

“Okay, I’m done here,” said Rachel, closing a cabinet door. “You ready to go? I’ll walk out with you.”

“No, I’m going to stick around and finish up these baseboards.”

“You sure? I bet they can wait until Monday. It’s not like we’re going to get busy again. Not soon, anyway. I’ve been going to this site called Scissors in Hand. It’s this chat room for stylists?” She hitched one hip up over the arm of a shampoo chair. Looked mighty uncomfortable to me, but Rachel is young and super flexible. “They were all talking about what happens when a Snippets comes to town. Everyone says that their business goes south”—and to emphasize this, Rachel made a swooping gesture with one hand, starting at her shoulder and gliding down to the floor—“for at least twelve months. It takes about six months to start
getting customers back, but that’s only after you slash your prices to match theirs.”

Honestly, I thought I’d puke.

“Oh, really?” I said. I was trying not to sound overly concerned. “Did they share any strategies for winning back customers? I mean, something we can do right away?”

“Nope. Although most of those shops didn’t give away their customer list, either. I know because I asked.”

A slow burn started at my neck and worked its way to my cheeks. “You asked?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. They didn’t know it was me. I mean, I didn’t give away where I work or anything.”

“Right,” I croaked. “What else did they say?”

“Oh, they said that if you gave away your customer list, you were toast.”

“Toast.”

“Yeah, but I figure you’ll think of something. You wouldn’t let your mom’s business go under, would you?”

Chapter Four

AFTER RACHEL LEFT, I SCRUBBED THE BASEBOARD so hard that I lost two of my press-on fingernails. I attacked the moldy molding around the doorframe with such a fury that the paint started peeling off. Seeing how black the water was in the bucket, I decided it was time to dump it and start over. On my way to the sink, Beauty got underfoot. It took some fancy footwork to keep from stepping on her, and in the process, I dumped half the bucket on the floor. It took me five towels to mop up the mess.

Beauty jumped up on the wicker chair in the waiting area and supervised my work.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be one of those girlfriends, the kind of grasping women who don’t know when to back off. I’d made a deal with myself not to bug Marty, especially
within forty-eight hours of a visit, but I couldn’t stop myself. I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse and called him.

“Grace Ann? What’s up?” He sounded out of breath.

“Well, I’m having a bad day, and I just—”

“Hang on.”

I could tell he’d put his hand over the phone. In the background I heard a high-pitched woman’s voice, and then I could hear Marty saying to another person, “Yeah, just give me a sec here.”

I heard the sound of a zipper being zipped up. At least I assumed it was going up and not down.

“Sorry about that. Just needed to get my briefcase closed. Right? You were saying?”

“Who’s there with you?” I could have slapped myself, but the words tumbled out.

“Caitlyn, my new intern.” He covered the phone again, and I heard a muffled, “Yeah, I’m coming. Hey, don’t do that!” and a smothered laugh.

Then he was back again. “You remember Caitlyn? I showed you her picture.”

“Right, Caitlyn. Tell her I said, ‘hi.’”

Caitlyn was five foot ten, weighed 110 pounds, with long blond hair, and was all of twenty-three. I am five foot six, weigh 135 pounds, and every minute of thirty and ten weeks away from thirty-one. Don’t get the wrong idea: I don’t have a bad body image. Growing up in a beauty salon, I’ve always taken good care of my looks. I’m not a ten, but I’m a respectable eight and a half. That said, I’m not stupid. I know how younger women idolize older men, and, yes, it’s true: Blondes do have more fun. The statistics show that.

“Look, do you mind if we talk later? Tomorrow even? I mean, can this wait? I promise I’ll be there this coming Tuesday. Go ahead and make reservations at that new restaurant you e-mailed me about. But I’ve got to go now. Caitlyn and
I were almost out the door. We’ve been working on that new story all day and we’re both starved.”

So they were going to dinner together. Big deal. Colleagues often did that.

“Sure,” I said. “Sure thing. See you Tuesday.”

“I’ll call you before then.”

*    *    *

THE CLOCK CONFIRMED WHAT MY STOMACH ALREADY knew: time for dinner. I couldn’t stop by Denny’s and use my coupon because I didn’t want to run into Mom. Besides, the deal was a two-for-one special and I didn’t have anyone to share it with. So I ripped it into teensy, tiny pieces and tossed them into the recycling bin.

I didn’t want to go to Angelini’s because I knew I’d run into Rachel and her mom, and I wasn’t in the mood. Not tonight.

I had a taste for barbecue, but I knew if I showed up at B-B-Q Heaven, Althea and Kwasi would think I was stalking them, and I didn’t want to hear another lecture from Kwasi about imperialism and the economy of Africa.

I would have given my eyeteeth to go to Enchanté, the new, hot French restaurant that got rave reviews in the Savannah paper, but I was saving that as a romantic treat for Marty and me to share.

When it came to going out to eat, I was out of luck. There was nowhere to go without running into someone from work. Or seeing someone from my high school who was happily married or at least engaged.

Heck, I couldn’t even order carryout because all the restaurants in St. Elizabeth are zoned for what we locals call Restaurant Row, so you can throw a stone from one eatery to another. Even if I managed to dodge my friends inside the restaurant by ordering ahead and picking up my food, there was a good chance I’d run into at least one of the
Violetta crew in the municipal parking lot that all the restaurants shared. Especially tonight when people would eat early and go to the bonfire at seven.

That left only one option: Walk-Inn Foods, a convenience store that’s kitty-corner from Enchanté.

Now, I don’t know who the marketing whiz is that came up with the name Walk-Inn Foods, but he or she should be shot at dawn without a blindfold. Every time I see that sign, I get this visual of food stuck to the bottom of my shoes. Weird name aside, they have a perfectly respectable hot food counter that satisfies all my nutritional needs. It’s cheap, it’s fried, and it’s fast. I usually go for the Southern Fried Chicken Bucket, which gives me three pieces of chicken. I couldn’t tell you what those three pieces are because they don’t resemble any part of any live chicken I’ve ever seen. With the Bucket, you also get two handfuls of greasy fries, a big piece of cornbread, and a foam cup full of overcooked green beans. Tonight I planned to knock that gourmet meal back with a Bud Light or two, so I grabbed a six-pack. Nothing cuts grease like a beer. After I picked up my Bucket, I tossed into my hand basket three of those individual fried cherry pies, a box of Good & Plenty, a Goo Goo Cluster, and two Snickers bars. I was deciding between pork rinds and Doritos when I noticed a familiar head of hair over in the personal items aisle.

Mom always says that my younger sister, Alice Rose, would walk a mile to stay out of a fight, whereas I, Grace Ann, would walk ten miles to get into one. Ever since Hank and I got divorced three years ago, I’ve worked really hard on controlling my flash point. Right before he and I filed the papers, I visited a marriage counselor over in Savannah. I guess I wanted to assure myself I’d done everything I could before I called it quits.

The therapist’s name was Mrs. Klaus. She looked
exactly like Santa’s wife, I kid you not. “Grace Ann, sounds to me like your marriage is already over and has been for a long time.”

I nodded.

“Then why are you really here?”

“I’m worried that if I leave him, I’ll just make the same mistake over again. I’ve seen my friends do that. I mean, maybe this is the best I’ll ever have—and he’s the best I’ll ever choose. Relationship-wise. If that’s the case, why bother getting divorced?”

She smiled at me. “There are no guarantees that you won’t make a mistake again. You can’t change your spouse, that’s for sure. But you can change yourself. Here’s an important question to ask: What is it like to be married to me? Answer that honestly, and it will point you in the direction you need to go.”

I nodded and thought about what she said. “I do have a nasty temper.”

“Then see this as an opportunity to work on it,” she said. “May I make another suggestion? Be yourself, Grace Ann. My sense is that you are trying too hard to be perfect. Stop trying to be what everyone else wants you to be. Be yourself.”

I’d pretty much ignored that last suggestion until recently. Vonda gave me a set of self-help books for Christmas. I brought the books into work with me and put them behind the counter so I could read them when it got slow.

“I’m pretty happy with the old Grace Ann,” said Mom. “I like you just the way you are.”

With that, she and Althea launched into a karaoke version of Billy Joel’s iconic song.

It was nice of them to say that, but even so, I figured Vonda was onto something, so I started reading and tried to put into practice the principles. Mainly, I asked myself,
“What do I really want?” rather than just going along with what everyone else wanted or expected.

Right now, what I really wanted was to strangle Lisa Butterworth. My fingers itched for the chance to grab her by the throat and squeeze until her eyeballs popped out. The fact that I’d been complicit in helping her steal our customer list just made me all the more angry.

So when I spotted her standing in the personal care aisle and reading the back of boxes, I marched right up to her and tapped her on the shoulder. “What the heck did you think you were doing? You worked for us under false pretenses. You stole our client list. You’re a cheat and a crook! I trusted you!”

A couple of other customers turned around at the sound of my raised voice.

“Excuse me? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Either she was wearing eyelash extensions or she’d been ladling on the Latisse, because I could barely see her irises when she batted her eyes at me, feigning innocence.

I have to admit, despite the fluff around the eyes, she looked terrific. While I was in my wet, lemon-scented, anti-mold-solution-soaked cruddy jeans and a tired tee shirt, she wore a form-fitting blue dress the color of the ocean on a stormy day. My tennis shoes were grubby, but the flashing red soles on her sky-high, flesh-colored heels screamed Christian Louboutin, a designer whose work I’d only ever seen in magazines. Yes, she was definitely dressed to impress, and I looked like the neighborhood bag lady. But I didn’t care. I was loaded for bear and ready to take her on.

I set down my basket and crossed my arms over my chest, intending to look menacing, because I was good and mad. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You were hired to manage a social marketing campaign, and instead, you stole our client list! How can you live with yourself?”

She tucked the box she was carrying under her arm and jabbed a bright red fingernail at me. “Actually, I’m rather pleased with myself. It’s called business, Grace Ann. I’m the manager at Snippets, a
real
salon, not some rinky-dink little pretend salon that a bunch of untrained women run out of their home. Which, by the way, is a travesty! How zoning ever agreed to let you mangle that perfectly beautiful, historic Victorian house, I’ll never know.”

“Rinky-dink? We’ve been in business—” And then I noticed that people were watching us.

A small crowd gathered on the other side of the aisle. We were providing great entertainment at a reasonable fee—free!

“Yeah, yeah, blah-blah-blah. Talk to the hand.” And she waved five beautifully manicured nails at me.

Self-consciously, I hid my own pathetic dirty hands with their broken-off press-on nails behind my back.

“And you’ll be out of business in no time. Snippets will mop the floor with you and your pathetic group of losers. And it’s all thanks to you! You gave us a wonderful start. Oh, and a real career boost for me. The company already sings my praises because we’ve done triple the projected business since day one because of my innovative marketing ideas.”

“What?” I screeched. “Innovative—”

“Ladies?” The pimple-faced young man behind the counter craned his neck all the better to see us and scold us like we were a couple of naughty school kids. “Could you keep it down? Better yet? Take it outside? I really don’t need a hassle here tonight. If you keep it up, I’ll call the cops.”

Exactly what I didn’t need, getting my ex-husband involved in my no-good, horrible, terrible bad day.

“No problem,” sang out Lisa. “She’s just leaving. Do you have any Feline Feast? My cat won’t eat anything else.”

“Try the pet store next door, miss. Look, you’re welcome to shop here,” said the boy behind the counter. “I just don’t want a conflict, you dig? You-all make nice, okay?”

I ignored him. I wasn’t done. Not yet. No, I was just getting started. “There’s nothing innovative about stealing. Ever heard of the Ten Commandments? Probably not! And let me make you a promise, we are
not
going out of business. Violetta’s is a staple in this community. We have loyal customers who—”