Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
CHAR
Sliding my key into the front door of my beauty salon, To Dye For, I step inside before quickly flipping the lock.
I bring my drink to my lips and take another sip before depositing it and the bag containing my chocolate croissant on the counter.
This is my daily routine. As the sound system comes to life, I connect my phone’s playlist. It’s the same rotation of upbeat, motivational tunes each morning.
Ones I can belt out behind closed blinds before the doors open to the public.
Songs that direct my mindset for the day ahead.
Swaying my hips as I flounce about the space, I tidy up anything we missed from the evening before.
My salon is admittedly a bit quirky. Kinda like the owner.
It’s a mish mash of eclectic décor with a laid-back vibe.
If someone wants a pretentious, over-the-top spa experience, they can head to the other side of town for that.
There’s a clear division in Candy Cane Key. The rich tourist crowd as well as those with high-priced oceanfront vacation homes on one side, and those of us who work hard to keep a roof over our head, despite the constant tropical storm damage, on the other.
When I had the opportunity to open this place, it was with the knowledge it’d be a relaxed atmosphere where the townies could unwind and pamper themselves. A place you came to visit a spell, and get your hair and nails done while catching up on local gossip. Think Truvy’s place in Steel Magnolias.
As the familiar beat of the last track begins to play, I take another gulp of my latte before grabbing a hairbrush and lip-syncing with Britney Spears.
Jumping in place, I let the beat feed my soul, singing along as Britney chants that you need to work, bitch.
If you want to live in a fancy mansion or drive a sports car: work.
And she’s right. I may not have much going for me, but this place is all mine. If I want to be successful, it’s all on me. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Knock, knock, knock.
The unexpected sound has me jolting in surprise, my wide-barrel bristle brush microphone skittering across the floor. I dart across the room and retrieve it before flipping off the music and heading to the door. My forehead creases as I look down at my watch. Who’d be here at this hour?
I crack the door to find Norma Jean standing before me. She’s wearing a knowing smirk, two cups of coffee in hand.
“Hey. You’re here early.”
“Did you forget you told Margaret you’d fit her in first thing this morning so she could get in and out before too much of the riffraff came in?” Norma Jean laughs.
“Holy crow. You’re right.” I can’t believe I completely forgot.
“Poor thing has that big meeting with the town council today and wanted to get a few moments of peace before they started in on her. I honestly think you should charge her for To Dye For therapy, Charlene.” She snickers. “Hell, it’s not like she can’t afford it.”
My smile widens at the thought. Wonder what the going rate is for salon psychotherapy?
I need to get more organized. Where has my mind been that I’d forgotten all about Margaret dropping by this morning?
“Thank you for remembering and coming in early.” I practically facepalm myself.
To think the wealthiest woman in Candy Cane Key could’ve arrived to find me screeching out “Work Bitch” into a hairbrush microphone.
Norma walks over to her station and deposits her coffee before bringing the second cup to mine.
Her strawberry blonde tresses, styled in beachy waves, sway with each step.
Wearing tapered black capri pants and a fitted white button up crop top, she’s giving more sixties Ann-Margaret vibes than her namesake, Marilyn Monroe.
“Thought I’d get her a better cup of Joe than the stuff we have here.
She usually has a cup of tea when she drops by.
But she made the comment once when I was doing her nails that she prefers coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon. ”
“Good thinking. Thank you for doing that.” I make a mental note to talk to Gina at The Gingerbread Man about getting a good deal on some of their best brew for occasions such as this in exchange for some promotional signage for her bakery.
Heck, most of our clientele would rather have a Bloody Mary or a mimosa when they’re here.
The few who actually drink coffee pour so much flavored cream in there, they wouldn’t notice a rich Columbian blend from Salty Jo’s gas station swill. But Margaret sure would.
Margaret Montgomery is a staple in this town. She’s a filthy-rich widow who grew up in Candy Cane Key. She’s respected by all who know her, and deservedly so.
Most people hear filthy rich widow and assume she inherited her wealth from her late husband. But that guy was lucky to have landed her.
Margaret’s a classy lady who comes from old family money.
Most of her relatives had packed up and moved to Miami, Palm Beach, or Boca Raton by the time she settled down.
Whichever location they felt was the right fit for their social class.
Word was, the family patriarch made his millions as a tirelessly industrious shipping tycoon.
The rest of them only seemed to work hard at managing their investment portfolios.
But Margaret used a percentage of her personal fortune to create a charitable organization benefitting those impacted by the severe tropical weather in our area.
My dear friend Harrison owns Hightower Construction.
His company has partnered with her on many a project.
This selfless, affluent woman has taken on a role in service to others.
May not be nursing or the like, but she has spent her life giving back.
The least I can do is offer her an ounce of peace before dealing with the town’s officials, all clamoring for more of her generosity year after year.
Not to mention the riffraff, as she refers to them.
Those classless people who cozy up to her, merely for the opportunity to gain a handout.
Norma looks down at her watch. “Okay. Guess we better raise the sails,” she singsongs, tugging up the blinds before flashing a sarcastic smirk over her shoulder. “Time to get to work, bitch.”
My ears turn red at the Britney Spears reference, realizing I haven’t hidden my crazy morning antics well. Blinds or no blinds.
Good gravy. How embarrassing.
“Don’t sweat it, doll. I think it’s great what you’ve created here. And not just because it keeps my paycheck coming. You should be really proud of yourself.”
My shoulders relax. She’s right. If Norma Jean only knew how much I’ve had to overcome to get to this place in my life. “Thanks, babe.”
She gives me a reassuring wink before turning back to flip the lock long enough to usher Margaret in. “Good morning, Mrs. Montgomery.”
“Good morning, Norma Jean. Good morning, Charlene. How are my favorite ladies today?” She strolls into the salon with an air of sophistication befitting a duchess.
I can’t help picturing the older woman trussed up in a wool, columnar dress accessorized with a bejeweled hat and gloves befitting an episode of Downton Abbey.
I shake my head at the vision. “Couldn’t be better,” I answer. “Come on over and have a seat. Just how sassy do you want to feel for this meeting?” I chuckle, handing her the coffee Norma Jean so generously brought for her. “Compliments of my partner in crime.”
“Why, thank you, Norma Jean. You’re too good to me.
” She takes a careful sip. “Perfect. I’ll take classy sassy today, my dear.
They’ve already managed to get me to donate the grand prize for this year’s Christmas in July festival.
No telling what’s on their agenda next. Ha.
They probably want me to underwrite the renovation of the town hall. ”
Norma balls her fists onto her hips. “Well, I’ll be a possum in a punchbowl. That grand prize is worth $25,000. This meeting should be about declaring a town holiday in your honor.”
I let out a snort before I can stop myself.
Where does this girl come up with these sayings?
Reaching for a round brush and some styling gel, I start to work on Margaret’s hair when I see Fancy stroll up to the front door.
“Ugh. Already? I knew we should’ve left the blinds down a little longer,” I grumble.
“That girl likes to stir the pot and then acts shocked when it boils.”
“You’re right. Every time Fancy opens her mouth, a group chat starts.” Norma shakes her head in disgust. “I can just tell her to come back later.”
“If we turn her away, she’ll only use this as an opportunity to tell everyone who’ll listen that we’ve got Margaret on our payroll.” Margaret dips her head in agreement. “That’s just how she is. Loud, wrong, and real confident about it,” I add. “Just let her in.”
“Riffraff,” Margaret whispers as she takes another ladylike sip from her cup.
“Well, good morning, everyone. Didn’t realize you were opening up early today, or I would’ve made an appointment.” Fancy deposits herself into the pink velvet chair at the manicure station.
“Like you’d ever make an appointment,” Norma grumbles.
“What? Like I need one?” She gazes about the place dramatically.
Margaret and I share a look in the mirror and simultaneously roll our eyes.
Lifting a brightly colored bottle of polish, Fancy reads the label. “I think I’d like candy apple red today. Oh, did you hear?”
“Here we go,” Margaret mutters.
“That jezebel, Lorraine, has done left her husband. I blame you, Charlene.”
Frozen in place, my eyes snap over to Fancy. “Me?”