Chapter 17
“Are you Greta?” A twentysomething woman with piercing blue eyes and pink-streaked hair approaches as I’m waiting in the reception area of Manes on Main, flipping through a magazine featuring trendy haircuts. Because that’s what one does at a salon. I don’t make the rules.
“Yes.” I smile. “You must be Brandy.”
“Uh huh.” She tucks her phone in a pocket on her smock and waves a hand, her glittery fingernail polish catching the fluorescent lights. “Come on back.”
I’ve passed this place nearly every day for as long as I can remember, but I’ve never been inside until today.
This building is old like mine, but whoever designed the interior cleverly blended the vintage with the modern.
The original brick makes up a side wall, but the surrounding ones are sleek black.
The silver tones from the exposed ductwork pair well with the dark hardwood floors.
Of course, this space is all decorated for Christmas from the white twinkle lights framing the storefront windows to the tree nestled in the corner.
Brandy points to a chair at her station, which is overwhelmed with the tools of her trade, her cosmetology license, and pictures of herself and her daughter. “Have a seat, and let’s talk about an updo.”
“I have a Christmas party tonight and thought it’d be nice to get my hair done.
” I sit in the red chair and fight the urge to squirm.
I can’t blame the plush cushion. No, I’m not comfortable in my own skin.
I hyped myself up on the way by imagining this task as undercover work, channeling my inner spy.
Problem is, I don’t have an inner spy. I’m a horrible liar and an even worse actress.
My debut as the Star of Bethlehem in second grade didn’t prepare me for casual espionage in the name of Christmas.
Brandy talks to my reflection in the oversized mirror. “Is this a formal event?”
“No, much more relaxed.”
Her head tilts. “Ooh, something fun.”
About as fun as menstrual cramps, but I nod anyway.
She bites her lip and stares at my hair as if envisioning her future work. “We can definitely do fun.”
I give an enthusiastic thumbs up like I’m five.
Apparently, I don’t need much of a strategy because for the next twenty minutes, Brandy is braiding, curling, and pinning my hair while divulging her life story.
How she considered a career on Broadway.
How she lived in Las Vegas before ending up in Silver Creek.
How she’s raising a young daughter as a single mom.
I keep encouraging her with well-placed questions. “And you say your daughter’s two?”
“Yeah, a total terror. But a lovable one, ya know?” She turns my chair away from the mirror. “What do you think we spruce this up a little? I have the cutest Christmas accessories.”
I shrug. “Do what you think’s best.” At this point, I don’t care if my hair looks as if I’m going to junior high homecoming or a Comic-Con. I’m this close to getting the information I need. “It sounds like she’s at a fun age.”
Brandy pulls a small basket from a nearby closet. “Oh, I can’t complain. I don’t have half the problems I had a few weeks ago. My luck has turned.”
“Brandy.” A new, yet vaguely familiar, feminine voice enters our conversation, but my chair’s turned so that I can’t catch sight of anyone. “You shouldn’t speak like that.”
Brandy laughs and steps in front of me to slide a pin in my hair. “Well, my luck did turn. I got a house that’s fully paid off.” She busts into a dance move that makes me think she made the right choice in not pursuing Broadway.
“Yeah.” The mystery voice continues, “But your uncle had to die for you to get it.”
I suck in a quick breath, and my lungs protest with a coughing fit.
Unfazed, Brandy smacks my back. “Eh, he was old.”
Her blasé outlook on her uncle’s demise doesn’t exactly give the “peace on Earth, goodwill toward men” vibe, but at least I got my answer.
Brandy doesn’t need help with her rent because she inherited a house, and I’m back to the proverbial drawing board.
As I’m trying to consider my next move as the World’s Worst Secret Santa, Brandy continues to work on my hair, piling it atop my head and dipping her hand into the basket of Christmasy hair stuff.
“I’m going to raise your chair and turn it the other way.
” She pumps the pedal beneath my seat. “I don’t want you to see your hair until the final reveal .
” The sing-song emphasis on her final two words is somewhat frightening.
She angles my chair to the left, and I finally glimpse the mystery voice.
It’s Josie Dubois. My former nemesis.
She’s getting her hair trimmed at the station beside mine.
No wonder I recognized her voice. Josie’s chair’s facing forward, meaning she’s had a full view of the mirror, including my profile’s reflection. So yeah, my presence isn’t a surprise to her. However, currently, Brandy stands between me and the mirror, keeping me from sneaking a peek.
“Hello, Josie.” I break the weird silence between us. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
She averts her gaze and studies the floor. “Been a busy year.” At first glance, I notice her skin tone is … normal. She doesn’t look like a human Cheeto.
Her hairdresser grabs the thinning shears and addresses Josie. “Next time, you need to let me color your hair. Bring out those warm tones.”
“I think I’ll keep it like this for a while,” Josie says in a soft voice.
Her natural complexion isn’t the only thing that’s changed.
Yeah, it’s the same Josie, but with a different font—one that’s far less flashy and softer around the edges.
Sometime between last December and this one, the haughty glint in her amber eyes has dulled.
“Pssh. Your roots are an abomination. I can give you the glow-up you deserve. I’ve got an opening right before New Year’s. Let me pencil you in.” She reaches for her phone.
Josie sits straighter in her seat. “I can’t right now.”
Brandy scoffs. “A little splurge isn’t going to make a difference.” She looks at me. “Josie wants to get a service dog for her youngest brother. The sweet boy’s on the autism spectrum,” she says by way of explanation.
The pinch in Josie’s brows tells me she’s not thrilled with Brandy broadcasting her personal life, but the dejection lowering her gaze has me doing the unthinkable, offering my high school rival comfort. “I’ve heard service dogs are amazing companions for those on the spectrum.”
Instead of stiffening up like a toy soldier at my words, Josie smiles sadly. “We’re on a waiting list, but even if we’re next, I can’t afford it. Noah could really use one.”
I’ve never seen Josie this … human. She’s always worn the mean girl mask, carefully hiding the person beneath. This makes me wonder how often I tuck the truest version of myself behind a carefully curated front. Wait, wait, wait. Did she say Noah? Something feathers my mind.
I remember reading a Secret Santa letter from someone requesting support in getting a service dog for her little brother with cognitive disabilities. I had no idea it was from Josie because the bottom of the paper was illegible. It was one of the damaged letters from the café.
I’m trying to process this information while also responding to Josie.
“Service dogs are expensive because of the extensive training involved. I know someone who just started—” An idea hits.
Of course! My lips ease into a smile because I don’t need to be the Silver Creek Secret Santa for this one.
Though I could have Josie’s brother as the candidate, except for the media coverage aspect.
It bothers me that Fletcher insists on plastering the Secret Santa stuff all over the news.
This little boy just needs a dog, not a camera in his sweet face.
I know what I have to do. “Excuse me a minute.” I stand just as Brandy is about to put …
garland? … yes, garland in my hair. “I’ll be right back.
” I grab my phone and find Patricia in my contacts.
“Hey, Greta,” Patricia answers. “You finally taking me up on my offer to spend the holidays at our farm?”
“Not this time,” I say graciously. “But I plan to stop by sometime and see where you hung the painting, if that’s okay?”
“You know it is, girl! I can’t thank you enough.”
A family heirloom was accidentally sold at her aunt’s estate sale.
Everyone was flipping out because it was a framed landscape their great-great-grandfather painted.
It took some time, but I was able to track it down and recover the piece.
She promised me a freaking huge favor . Her words.
So here we are. “I’m calling to see how the nonprofit is going. Hope Unleashed, right?”
“You know we got the funding. One litter just went through initial training, and we have another ready to go soon.”
“Have you got the families selected yet?”
A pause. “Yeah, we did that pretty early on.”
Oh.
“But funny you should ask, because we just had a family back out. They discovered their kiddo was allergic to Labrador dander. They’re looking into finding a hypoallergenic breed.”
Hope billows. “Can I suggest a replacement family? I know someone who’s looking for a service dog for her little brother on the autism spectrum. Her name’s Josie Dubois.”
“Does she know we’re just starting out?” Patricia asks. “We can’t officially assign dogs for training until after the new year.”
I sneak a glance at Josie. Looks like she’s nearly finished with her cut. As the hairstylist’s removing her cape, I angle away and lower my voice. “I haven’t told her anything. I wanted to talk with you first.”
“Also, the family needs to be able to commit to at least a month of handler training.”
“Okay, I’ll let her know.”
The following pause seemed long enough for me to recite “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” … backward. Not that I could do that. She finally says, “If they agree to fill out the paperwork and complete the training, then I think we can make it happen.”
I jump up and down like a lunatic. Brandy yells something about my hair not being sprayed yet. “Thank you, Patricia. You’re amazing.”
“Be sure to give her my number. Then we’ll start the process.”
We hang up, and I approach a wary Josie, who’s now signing a credit card slip at the counter.
I wait for her to finish with the cashier, then blurt out, “My friend Patricia owns a nonprofit service dog organization. She’s got an opening for your little brother, if you want it?”
Josie claps a hand over her shocked mouth. Then, as quickly as the surprise hits, so does the skepticism. Her arm falls to her side, and she assesses me. “You’re not pranking me, are you? This isn’t the school cafeteria.”
Okay. That’s fair. I may have once replaced her mashed potatoes with art paste.
“This is legit. Her name’s Patricia Caffrey, and the organization is Hope Unleashed.
” I snatch a pen from the counter, write Patricia’s number on the back of Brandy’s lip-shaped business card, and hand it to Josie.
“Call this number. She’ll explain everything. ”
Josie’s eyes well with tears, and I have a nanosecond to brace myself before she squeeze-hugs me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she squeals as she cuts off my air supply. “I can’t believe you did this.”
I can’t reply. Mostly because I can’t breathe, but also because I’m starting to see what Gran meant.
It’s a different sort of feeling to relieve a burden.
To offer some sort of hope. This is more heartwarming than any Christmas movie.
Instead of watching these kinds of moments unfold as a detached audience, I get to live it.
Josie practically floats out of the salon, and I’m smiling as I return to my seat. Contentment spreads through me as Brandy finishes my updo.
“Okay.” She beams. “Just need the star.”
The what?