2. Oakley
CHAPTER TWO
oakley
This is not how I had my life planned out—rolling perm rods into an old lady’s gray, thinning hair. Momma always said, “You’ll be a stylist to the stars.”
Scoffing under my breath, I mumble, “Maybe the Golden Girls .”
I rotate the chair where Mrs. Pinkston can see her perfectly curled hair.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
Her lips press together in a flat line. “Hmm. Sweetie, my hair has… pink streaks.”
I smile proudly because Mrs. Pinkston looks hip and younger. Did I ask her if I could add a touch of light-pink highlights to her hair? No.
“I know. You look fantastic, and it matches your name.”
Mrs. Pinkston’s eyes narrow. “Take it out. Now. Can you? Oh Lord, what will the ladies at church think?”
Popping my hip out, I look at her in the mirror. “If they judge you for looking fabulous, then they aren’t very good church ladies.”
She shakes her head, and her eyes cloud with tears.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “It washes out immediately. Just wear it one day, and you’ll feel on top of the world.”
“You’re not getting a tip, young lady. You do what the customer wants. Not what you want.”
She pulls out her credit card, gets confused on whether to tap, insert, or slide and finally inserts the card and pays thirty-five dollars for the perm and style.
Before I clock out of the salon, I settle up with the owner. Saturday is the busiest day for hairdressers, yet I’m walking out with one hundred twenty-five dollars. Not enough to cover my rent.
I stop at the grocery store and apply for two jobs, one for third shift stocking shelves and one for first shift floral department. They’ll probably want a degree in horticulture to make flower arrangements, so I’m not counting on that one. And they’ll possibly want spatial analytics for stocking positions.
When I arrive back at my apartment, there’s a note on my door that says I have a package at the office. Debbie, the office manager, hands it to me as soon as I enter. “It’s from a fancy law firm. You think some old lady is suing you over coloring her hair blue?”
“Funny.” I guess it’s possible, but it can’t be Mrs. Pinkston. She hasn’t had time to get home and use her landline to call an attorney. “Thanks, Debbie.”
“No problem, honey. Anything I can do?”
“Lower my rent.”
“Wish I could. I just work here.” She chuckles.
So many of us struggle to pay rising rent costs. After my mom died, the landlord let me stay in our apartment for two months while I handled the funeral and the legal stuff. I was eighteen. Hard to believe it’s been three years. I had to move into an even cheaper apartment in a less than desirable area, miles from the city.
I slip my backpack from my aching shoulders and toss the yellow manila folder on the kitchen table. Nothing from a lawyer is ever good news, so I put off opening until I’ve let my dog out of her kennel and take Dixie for an outside walk. Then I change into my pajamas that have her adorable face scattered on the fabric.
Dixie looks up at me with her big, brown eyes, wanting to be fed. Kibble with leftover chicken, which is her favorite, so I fill her bowls with food and water, then I grab an apple and slump into the chair.
I use my finger to tear the envelope. Apprehensive, I take a deep breath and pull out the papers, unsure of what I will read.
Hammerstein & Gould
Attorneys at Law
Dear Ms. Oakley James,
We hope this letter finds you well. Upon your twenty-first birthday, your father, who has asked to remain anonymous, has left you a sizable trust fund. As you are turning twenty-one on Friday, it is our duty to inform you of this trust and to schedule a meeting for that day at our office. Please be advised that to access this inheritance, it is necessary for you to attend this meeting. I look forward to meeting you and discussing the details of your inheritance. We have included a prepaid credit card for incidentals as you travel and have made a reservation at the Grand Fornay next to our law office.
We look forward to discussing the details of your trust.
Sincerely,
Joshua Gould
Reading the letter over and over again, tingles of excitement travel through my body. I do a happy dance in the kitchen. I’ll be able to pay my rent, but the happy thoughts quickly turn to anger.
My father has known about me all along. Why did my mom keep him a secret from me?
Dixie and I head to Atlanta in my rusted-out Toyota Corolla. The poor girl has anxiety. The farthest she’s been in a car is to the dog park about five miles away. Otherwise, we usually play fetch in the park just down the road.
When we arrive, the hotel charges me an extra one hundred dollars pet fee.
“I don’t have that kind of money unless we can take it out in trade. I’m a hairstylist.”
The front desk employee lifts her brow, and her eyes rake over my appearance. Yeah, she probably doesn’t want me anywhere near her hair. Instead of taking a shower in my apartment and using water I have to pay for, I thought I would just shower at the hotel for two days and save some money.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll charge it to the card on file. Here’s your key card and please have your pet use the designated areas and pick up after him.”
“Her. Dixie’s a female dog,” I say to clarify.
The employee dressed in a suit with a vest rolls her eyes and says, “I can help the next person. Welcome to Grand Fornay.” I notice there’s a completely different tone to her voice when checking in the tall, handsome man next to me.
He oozes money, and she flirts. As I’m grabbing my bag and dog, he says, “Yes, the Nashville Notes.”
The hotel room isn’t big, but its style is a cross between traditional and modern. Behind the bed is painted a charcoal gray with a long picture of the old Atlanta skyline framed in gold. Since I’m on the third floor, I don’t have a decent view except of the street below me.
My stomach is in knots so as much as I want to eat, I don’t. I take a quick shower, put on my jeans and a blouse, kiss Dixie goodbye, and walk to the law office.
The elevator takes me to the twentieth floor and when I step out, I’m greeted by a perky blonde. “Good afternoon. You must be Oakley James.”
“I am.”
“Mr. Gould will be with you in just a moment. You would like something to drink? A Coke, tea, water?”
“Coke please.” She comes back with a can and a glass of ice. “Thank you.”
I’m popping the top, and the fizz seems loud when the same man from the hotel walks out of Mr. Gould’s office. “Thanks, Josh.”
I don’t see Mr. Gould, but he says, “Don’t worry, your secret is safe.”
“Yeah. I wish… well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure she hates me.” The man’s shoulders slump and for a moment, I feel sorry for him.
“See you at the wedding.”
The man with the secret leaves and a few minutes later, the receptionist stands and says, “You were a little early, but Mr. Gould can see you now.” She has a sparkling smile and a warm presence.
Mr. Gould stands when I come in. “Ms. James, I’m Joshua Gould, attorney for your father. Nice to meet you.”
“It would have been nice to meet him. Is he still alive? It sounds like from the letter that he is. Can I meet him? I have questions,” I ramble and rant.
He slips his fingers between his collar and his neck, adjusting it like he’s hot. He has round glasses, curly hair, but his arms stretch against the fabric of his suit coat, like a nerd in a jock’s body.
“Unfortunately, I can only discuss the details of the trust. The basics for you gaining access to your trust fund have two major requirements. They are dependent upon each other so each one has to be met before you actually can use the money. One, you have to be twenty-one. Happy Birthday, by the way. Two, you have to be married.”
My eye twitches, and my brows draw in toward my nose. “Why? I mean why does he care if I’m married? He hasn’t cared enough about me to visit me after my mother died.”
“Ms. James, your father is a good man. I’m sure he had his reasons.”
He’s alive.
His tone almost sounds sympathetic, but resentment crests through my voice like abrasive saltwater pounding against the shore. “There are no good reasons for abandoning the mother of your child and your freaking child.”
You can hear an ant crawling in this room until he stands and puts his hand on my shoulder. “My father left my family when I was four. It doesn’t change the fact that he left. I knew who he was, but I wish I didn’t. Oakley, sign this paperwork and when you fall in love and get married, you’ll be a fairly rich woman.”
“My mom used to say being rich in money doesn’t compare to being rich in love and relationships.” We pause, letting the weight of my thoughts sink in, before I confidently pick up the pen and sign where all the little yellow tabs are pointing for my signature.
“You have my card if you have any questions and most importantly, let me know when you get married.”
I nod, as he opens the door for me to leave. I’m shocked at the turn of events. Happy that I have a trust fund. Sad that my dad still doesn’t want to get to know me. Pissed off at my mom. Anxious that I don’t even have a boyfriend, much less someone I want to marry.
“I will. Thank you.”
The next day, I wander around Atlanta on foot so Dixie can get some exercise before we head back to Tennessee.
When Dixie’s exhausted, it’s time to load up the car. She’ll probably sleep the entire way home. The music plays on the FM radio station, but I can’t tell you a single song that played. I’m in deep thought about the sum of money I’ll get each month once I’m married. It’s a staggering amount. Will I be an instant millionaire? No. What I will be is a woman who can pay her bills and not have to get a second job and have money left over to go out with my friends.
We’re about an hour outside of Atlanta when my car sputters. It sounds like a cat trying to throw up a hairball.
I have The. Worst. Luck.
The car shakes, and my first thought is I hope we’re having an earthquake. The nearest exit has a Buc-ee’s truck stop. I’m praying I can make it there before the car blows up or quits completely. As my car hobbles into the truck stop, I can’t help but feel a surge of frustration and anger at my financial limitations. Maybe if I call Mr. Gould, he’ll give me some money to get a new car.
Smoke billows from my car, and I park away from other vehicles in case it explodes. I grab my purse, Dixie, the luggage from the trunk, and sit a few spaces away on the curb.
I take out Mr. Gould’s business card and call his office. When his receptionist relays the call, he asks, “How may I help you, Ms. James?”
“I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but my car broke down, and I was wondering if the trust fund could pay to fix it or buy me a newer car.” I sound desperate, and that’s an adjective that should never be used to describe me. I’m better than desperate. I’m Oakley James, badass hair stylist, mother of a dog who lives life to the fullest on a hair stylist salary.
“The trust has strict rules and unfortunately, they’re set in stone. It’s not my money or rules, or I would. Anyone you could marry?” He chuckles.
“Not yet. Can you call my dad and ask?”
“Sorry, Ms. James, but I can’t.”
As we disconnect, I hang my head between my legs. Dixie’s licking someone, but it’s not me and when I raise my head, the sun is beaming down on the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Brown shaggy hair, taller than average, maybe six-foot-one or two, and he’s smiling at my dog.
A way to a woman’s heart is through her dog, right?
“What’s her name?” he asks as he crouches down, and I notice his brown globes as he fluffs Dixie’s curls.
“Dixie,” I say with a flat, dejected tone.
“Hey, Dixie. You sure are cute.” His eyes pop to mine. “What’s wrong with the car?”
Rolling my eyes and with a fair amount of snark, I snap back, “Do I look like I know?”
“Did you call a tow?”
“No. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom.” I stand and hook Dixie to the leash.
When I take a few steps to cross the parking lot, the man says, “You can’t take dogs into Buc-ee’s. I can stay out here with Dixie if you want.”
Damn, I’m not in the mood for a good-looking man to be nice to me. “Do you honestly think I would leave my dog with a stranger?” I ask as I cross my arms and pop my hip.
He erases the distance between us, looking down at me like a god from a Greek novel. He’s so close I can smell the watermelon scent from the gum he’s chewing. The air crackles between us when he says in a deep, buttery whisper, “If you want to pee, then yeah, I think you will.”