5. Mabel
mabel
. . .
The unmistakable aroma of hairspray and gossip hits me the moment we walk through the door of Shear Perfection, and I already know this was a mistake.
"Mabel honey!" squeals Mrs. Henderson from beneath a towering beehive of foil, her voice carrying across the entire salon. "Look at you, all grown up and gorgeous!"
Mom beams beside me, practically vibrating with pride as she steers me toward the reception desk. "We're here for our four o'clock appointments," she announces to anyone within earshot, which in this echo chamber is everyone.
Within seconds, we're surrounded. Mrs. Patterson abandons her pedicure, hobbling over with cotton balls still wedged between her toes.
Betty Carmichael emerges from under a hair dryer, looking like she's been electrocuted, and somehow, even Mrs. Foster materializes from the back room, her face mask cracking as she smiles.
"So tell us everything," Mrs. Henderson demands, patting the empty chair beside her. "Are you seeing anyone special? Your mother mentioned you might have your eye on someone."
I shoot Mom a look that could melt steel, but she's already being whisked away to the shampoo station, conveniently deaf to my silent pleas for rescue.
"I'm focusing on my career right now?—"
"Oh, nonsense," Betty interrupts, waving a manicured hand. "A pretty girl like you needs a good man. What about that Jonas Dillon? He’s still single and quite the catch, honey."
My stomach drops. "Jonas?"
"Mmm-hmm," Mrs. Patterson nods sagely. "Handsome as sin, that one. I just moved back to town, you know. Opened up that fancy law practice downtown."
The room suddenly feels smaller, the chemical smell more suffocating.
"Law practice?" I manage to squeak out while trying not to choke on the cloud of hairspray being liberally applied two chairs over.
"Partner track at Gillespie and Associates," Mrs. Henderson confirms with a knowing nod. "And still unmarried at thirty-four. Criminal, if you ask me."
I'm saved from responding when Trina, my stylist since high school, beckons me toward her chair. But Betty Carmichael follows, dragging her rolling chair behind her like some determined beauty salon stalker.
"You know," Betty continues as Trina drapes the cape around my shoulders, "my Fox says Cole has been asking about you."
My heart does a stupid little flip that I immediately resent. "It’s good to hear that Fox and Cole are still friends."
"Construction crew," Betty says, leaning in conspiratorially. "My son doesn't say much—you know how he is—but he mentioned Cole's been working overtime on that riverside project. Something about needing extra money to..." she pauses dramatically, "expand his house."
Trina's hands freeze. "An expansion? For what?"
"Well, a man his age is probably thinking about a family." Mrs. Patterson chimes in, somehow now positioned at my other side.
The stupid heart flip inverts into a stomach plunge.
"But he’s not seeing anyone," Mom pipes up from two chairs down, clearly eavesdropping despite pretending to be engrossed in a year-old copy of People magazine.
"Not that we know, but some men like to keep their private lives to themselves," Mrs. Henderson says with authority.
Trina, bless her, cranks up the water pressure at the shampoo bowl, drowning out the conversation for a moment. She leans down and whispers, "Cole is single, and he hates people trying to set him up. He told me as much when he came in for a haircut last week."
Before I can process that information, we're back in the styling area, and Mrs. Foster has materialized with a plate of mini muffins and more questions.
"So, how long are you back in town, Mabel? Are you leaving after the wedding or staying through the holidays?"
"Just until Sunday." I try to sound casual like my heart isn't pounding at the mere mention of Cole's name. "I have a big case waiting for me back in Portland."
"Sunday!" They all gasp in unison as if I've announced I'm leaving for Mars.
Trina works her magic with the round brush, creating soft waves that frame my face. I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself—something about being back in Cedar Bay makes me look younger and more vulnerable.
"That handsome little house on Maple Street is for sale," Mrs. Foster says, offering me a mini muffin that I politely decline. "It’s a perfect starter home."
"I have a condo in Portland," I remind her. "With a view of the river."
"Views don't keep you warm at night, dear," Mrs. Henderson says with a wink that makes me want to slide under the cape and disappear.
Mom pipes up, "Mabel's place is beautiful. So sophisticated."
"I bet it is," Mrs. Patterson nods. "But you know, Cole's been doing some incredible work lately. The Johnsons' kitchen renovation was featured in that regional home magazine."
"Cedar Living," Betty supplies helpfully. "He's quite talented with his hands."
The way she says it makes my cheeks flush, and Trina snickers quietly behind me.
"Did you know," Mrs. Foster leans in, her half-removed face mask cracking further, "that he turned down that big Seattle contract? Everyone thought he'd jump at the chance to expand the business, but he said he didn't want to leave Cedar Bay."
"Roots," Mrs. Henderson nods sagely. "That boy has roots."
I try to focus on the sensation of Trina's fingers working through my hair rather than the implication that Cole—my Cole, once upon a time—had chosen to stay in the town I couldn't wait to escape.
"You look just like you did at senior prom," Betty sighs nostalgically. "Remember that beautiful green dress? Cole couldn't take his eyes off you all night."
"That was thirteen years ago," I say firmly, though the memory surfaces unbidden—Cole in his rented tux, the corsage he'd saved up for, dancing under twinkling lights in the gym.
"Some things don't change," Mrs. Patterson says with a knowing look. "He still drives that ridiculous truck."
"The blue Chevy?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Four pairs of eyes light up at my obvious interest, and I immediately regret it.
"Got it all fixed up," Betty confirms. "Fox says he refuses to get a new one, even though that thing breaks down at least once a month."
I remember that truck. Stolen kisses in the cab, stargazing in the bed on summer nights, the way Cole would drum his fingers on the steering wheel when his favorite songs came on.
"All done!" Trina announces, mercifully interrupting my thoughts. She spins me around to face the mirror, and I have to admit, she's worked wonders. My hair falls in soft waves, elegant enough for the rehearsal dinner but not too fussy.
"You look beautiful, honey," Mom says, appearing beside me with her own freshly styled hair.
"Cole always did like your hair down," Mrs. Henderson muses, and the other women nod in agreement.
I stand up, desperate to escape. "Well, thank you all for the... updates. It was lovely to see everyone."
As Mom settles the bill, Mrs. Foster catches my arm. "He asks about you, you know. Not directly—men never do—but he always perks up when your name comes up."
I don't know what to say to that, so I smile and gently extract my arm.
Outside, the late afternoon sun bathes Cedar Bay in golden light. Mom links her arm through mine as we walk to her car.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" she asks innocently.
I give her a sideways glance. "You set me up."
"I did no such thing." Her protest lacks conviction. "I just thought you might want to know what's been happening with old friends."
"One old friend in particular, it seems."
Mom squeezes my arm. "Sweetheart, I just want you to be happy."
"I am happy," I insist, even as something hollow echoes in my chest. "I have everything I wanted."
As we drive through town, I can't help but notice the riverside project coming into view—scaffolding, construction equipment, and a familiar blue Chevy parked near the entrance.
"Can we take the long way home?" I ask quietly.
Mom gives me a knowing look but turns at the next intersection without comment.
Some things in Cedar Bay haven't changed. The gossip, the well-meaning but intrusive questions, the way everyone knows everyone's business.
And some things have changed entirely.
Like me. Like Cole.