Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAR
“Good morning, sunshine,” Norma Jean chirps in a singsong voice as she strolls into the salon. “I can’t believe you made that trip there and back by car and are already fast at work looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” She giggles, bracelets jingling as she shrugs out of her sweater.
“I don’t know how bright-eyed I am,” I mumble through a yawn. “I could use a week-long nap.” Just saying it makes me want to curl up under one of the dryers and hibernate like a bear.
“I bet.” She drops her purse in the rear of the salon and bounces right back out, clapping her hands like she’s about to open a present. “I cannot wait to hear everything. Don’t leave anything out.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, already planning exactly what I’m going to leave out.
Namely, a six-foot-three hunk of amazing, who smelled faintly of cedar and smoke.
There’s no way I can share details about our time together without Norma Jean putting two and two together.
And I don’t just mean our heavenly one-night stand.
It’d be clear as day I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that dreamy boy next door since the moment I drove away.
The bell over the door jingles as I flip the sign to Open. The scent of the new lavender shampoo I tried out this morning mixes with fresh, albeit bad, coffee brewing in the back. And just like that, another Wednesday morning in To Dye For begins.
I make a mental note to press Gina to set up that Gingerbread coffee station. I just need to promise I’ll still be stopping by her place each morning on schedule for my regular order on top of what we will be selling of hers in the salon.
Norma Jean settles at her station, pulling out a handful of rollers. “All right, Miss Traveler,” she says, eyes sparkling, “Spill it. How was the big mountain wedding?”
I tie my black apron around my waist, trying not to look as lovesick as I feel. “It was… magical,” I say finally, grabbing my coffee for another sip. “Like something out of a dream.”
“Oh, you know I love a good wedding story,” she says, settling in like she’s front row at the movies.
“Well, picture this,” I begin, holding my hands up like a director would on a movie set.
“A little mountain town, tucked so high up you feel like you could reach out and touch the clouds. The ceremony was outdoors. It was right on a ridge overlooking the valley. The air was so fresh, it smelled like pine and rain. And they had these strings of lights woven through the trees. Wildflowers were everywhere.” I wave my arms around dramatically.
“Like the whole mountain decided to bloom just for them.”
Norma Jean presses a hand to her chest. “Holy crow, Char. That sounds heavenly.”
“Oh, it was. Ellie looked like she’d stepped right out of a bridal magazine.
She wore this long, flowing bohemian-style dress that caught the wind.
And I’d placed tiny wildflowers in her long red hair.
Oh, and, Norma Jean,” I gush. “The way her groom looked at her when she walked down that aisle…” I pause, smiling softly at the memory.
“You could see it on his face clear as day. I thought love like that only happened in the movies.”
She lets out a dreamy sigh. “That’s the kind of look every woman wants.”
“I know,” I agree softly. “It made me cry, and you know I don’t cry easy. All of the grooms looked at their brides that way.”
“How many ceremonies were there, again?”
“Four. It was actually really smart, particularly given the size of the town. I mean, two of the brides are the primary florist and baker in town. And Ellie catered the whole reception. It would’ve been tough repeating that scenario for three additional weddings.
” I chuckle, mindlessly straightening my station as I recount the weekend’s events.
“The entire thing was absolutely perfect., the music, the dancing, the food. And Sycamore Mountain at sunset…” I pause again, remembering the way the light turned everything gold.
“Who needs fireworks when you live there? It felt like the mountain sky was putting on a show.”
Norma Jean laughs. “Sounds like a slice of heaven. And what about the guests? Any eligible bachelors worth mentioning?” She rubs her hands together as if she’s waiting for a slice of cake.
I wander to the reception desk and take a slow sip of coffee, pretending to study the appointment book. “Maybe one.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Maybe?”
Mrs. Fletcher checks in for her usual blowout, so I hold up a finger to pause the story until I can get her hair washed.
I can’t help but giggle, questioning just how much is safe to share with Norma Jean.
“There might’ve been a hot firefighter at my table,” I whisper as we walk past her to the sink.
Not sure why I feel the need to lower my voice.
Paige Fletcher is hard of hearing even with her hearing aids at maximum volume.
After I have Mrs. Fletcher’s conditioner rinsed from her hair and have returned her to my station, I start to quietly spill the tea on Dave when the doorbell jingles. As if her radar could sense there was juicy gossip to be had, in walks Fancy Weaver, Candy Cane Key’s one-woman gossip news network.
“Darn it. And we were just getting to the good stuff,” Norma Jean mutters under her breath.
We both know Fancy’s the last person you’d trust in this town to keep anything hush-hush. Heck, I wouldn’t tell her a secret if we were the last two people on earth. And she was a deaf mute.
“Morning, girls!” she trills, waving like she’s on parade. “Y’all seen the paper yet? I swear, that reporter’s got no shame. Printing all that nonsense about the sheriff’s niece.”
Norma Jean gives me a subtle side-eye.
“Can’t say I have,” I answer quickly, sweeping imaginary hair off the floor. “Why would I need to buy the paper when I’m sure you’ll fill us in?” I snicker.
Fancy grins. “Well, it turns out she’s been cut from participating in this year’s Christmas High homecoming court on account of getting caught keying her ex-boyfriend’s pickup.
One of the cheerleaders spotted him on the beach with some trashy tourist.” Fancy makes a face of disgust, likely directed at the trashy tourist, not the cheating ex.
Grabbing my hairdryer and brush, I begin blowing out Mrs. Fletcher’s hair. Fancy’s too busy gossiping to notice half her volume is lost in the whir. Leaning toward Norma Jean, I mouth as best I can, “I was this close to saying too much.”
“You’d have been tomorrow’s front-page headline,” she whispers back. “Jeez. That girl could start drama in a room full of house plants.”
“Local Hairdresser Runs Off With Fireman,” I say, and we both snort, trying not to laugh loud enough to draw Fancy’s attention.
Norma Jean gives Fancy a rinse before applying a new leave-in hair conditioner.
Afterward, she escorts her to the dryer before returning to pat my arm.
“All right, before Fancy’s done bakin’, tell me more.
You can save the details of the hot guy ’til later.
” She uses air quotes around the “hot guy.” “Tell me about the drive. How was it?”
I decide to leave out some of the sketchier portions of the trip. “I stopped at this crazy huge gas station that reminded me of a theme park. Buc-ee’s.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about that place.”
“It was nuts. Picture if the Super Walmart and a gas station had a baby. Then decided to sell every gift shop item you could think of. T-shirts, caps, soaps, lotions, candy… and all of it covered in their logo, a little beaver wearing a red cap.” I laugh.
“Then I drove through St. Augustine. Oh, Norma Jean. I wouldn’t mind visiting there one day. It looked amazing. A quirky mix of old and new.” I spritz some hair styling spray into my hands and rub them together before applying to Mrs. Fletcher’s locks.
“But the best part? I met this woman named Betty who runs a barbecue joint next to the motel I stayed at. She appointed herself my redneck fairy godmother.” I hooted.
“She was loud as thunder, but as kind as pie. I honestly enjoyed meeting her so much, I stopped there again on the way back home. She handed me a plate of ribs big enough to feed a family of six and said, ‘Darlin’, you look like a woman who needs meat and mercy.’”
Norma Jean hoots with laughter. “Lord, I love her already.”
“She even talked me into trying her peach cobbler moonshine,” I add. “It was so damn good, I thought I was gonna meet Jesus right then and there.”
Norma Jean fans herself, still giggling. “Only you, Char. Only you.”
I grin, but it fades a little as my thoughts wander back to that night. The dance, the stars, and the way Dave had made my body come alive with his electric touch.
Norma Jean can sense the change in my mood. Nothing gets past my friend. “So. Anything happen between you and the hot firefighter?” She mutters softly, her eyes darting over to where Fancy is sitting, preoccupied by her phone.
“No,” I lie. “Just a great night of dancing and a scorching hot kiss.” I fan myself at the memory. “They were all getting together the following morning for brunch, but I snuck out before sunrise to head back.”
Norma Jean’s eyes soften. “You didn’t even say goodbye?”
I shake my head. “No. I was afraid he was too tempting. I might not have left.” There’s more truth in that statement than I’m prepared to admit.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. She’s teased me on many occasions about my lack of interest in a long-term relationship.
I’ve always tried to make it sound as if I’m not willing to risk my heart getting broken when I have a business to run.
But secretly, I think she has an inkling there’s more to the story.
She’s always been perceptive like that. Norma Jean clears her throat gently.
“I’m gonna run down to The Gingerbread Man for an iced coffee and a pastry. You want one?”
Reaching for my cup, I shake my head. “No thanks. I’m still working on this one. Not to mention, I need to watch my weight after overindulging at the wedding.”
She laughs. “Girl, you’re as tiny as a hummingbird.” I snicker. Don’t I wish. “But all right. I’ll be right back.”
The bell jingles behind her, leaving me alone with the hum of dryers and my own thoughts. Just as I’m finishing up with Mrs. Fletcher’s hair, the bell above the door chimes again.
I look up, expecting Norma Jean to have forgotten her wallet.
She’s famous for that. But instead, a man in his thirties strolls in.
He’s the picture of casual wealth. An overpriced golf polo, crisp khaki pants, and leather loafers that have never met a speck of dirt.
Around here, that’s the uniform of rich tourists who take a wrong turn off the highway and somehow end up downtown instead of at the resort spa.
The local men don’t come in here. They head to Big Sal’s Barber Shop around the corner, where there’s sawdust on the floor and football playing nonstop on the TV.
“Hi,” I say, setting my hair spray bottle down. “Can I help you?”
He flashes a bright smile. It’s too bright. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hi,” his tone is friendly enough, but something about it feels off.
I can’t help but feel a prickle of unease crawl up the back of my neck.
Maybe it’s my constant paranoia from living in a town where gossip travels faster than a thunderstorm.
Yet this guy doesn’t look like someone who wandered in by mistake.
“Just need a trim?” I ask, trying to sound casual when the nerves jumping beneath my skin are anything but.
He hesitates. “Actually, I was just passing through. Thought I’d check the place out.”
Check the place out? What does that even mean?
Nobody “checks out” a small-town salon like it’s a roadside attraction. I force a smile. “Well, if you want to make an appointment, I can—”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he says quickly, glancing around the shop, eyes darting over every mirror and chair before landing back on me. “Maybe some other time.” And with that, he nods politely, turns on his heel, and strolls out.
I stand there for a moment, my reflection in the mirror looking even more unsettled than I feel. I can’t shake the strange heaviness that settles in the pit of my stomach.
At the end of the day, I’m finishing a root touch-up and a quick trim. She’s chatting about her grandson’s T-ball game, the same story she’s told twice already, and I’m nodding, half-listening, half-focused on the rhythm of the scissors in my hand.
That’s when I notice him.
Across the street, leaning against the brick wall of the laundromat, is a man dressed entirely in black, from his rolled-up black shirt to his polished shoes.
His hair is cut short, neat. The sunlight catches on the edge of his watch.
It’s chunky, expensive. Out of place in a town where half the locals wear a cheap sports watch. And even from here, I can tell.
He’s looking at me.
My hand falters just slightly, the comb snagging a strand of hair. Thankfully, my client doesn’t notice.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. Could it be the same guy from earlier? I should’ve gotten a much better look at him.
Maybe I’m imagining it, I tell myself. He’s probably just waiting on someone. But my gut doesn’t buy a single word of that excuse.
I’ve lived in this town long enough to know when something, or someone, doesn’t fit. I glance away, pretending to check the back of my client’s hair in the mirror. When I look up again, he’s still there. Same stance. Same unnerving stillness.
And then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he pushes off the wall, turns, and disappears down the street.
“Char?” my sweet client, Sally, asks, catching my reflection in the mirror. “You all right, honey?”
I paste on a smile. “Yeah. Just thought I saw someone I knew.”
But I don’t know him. And that’s what scares me.