Chapter 14 #2
Deacon met Peter when he was Petey DeMarco from Quincy, MA.
He got his first clippers at age twelve from his Uncle Pietro, who owned Goodfellas Barber on Lexington Ave.
Deacon had been Peter’s first customer. It was dicey those first few months.
Deacon got grounded for allowing his friend to practice on his head, but Petey got better, and now Peter was at the top of his game.
“Nope, I’m going to see someone new.”
Tabby’s jaw dropped as she stage whispered, without even knowing what stage whispering was, “Uncle Peter’s gonna be so mad.”
“No, he won’t.” Yes, he would.
Peter regularly threatened imaginative, disturbing scenarios of torture or death if Deacon ever let another person or alien or sentient being touch a strand of hair on his head. But his friend would have to understand these were mitigating circumstances.
“Can I cut my hair?” Tabby’s tone vibrated with anticipation.
“You still want to do that?”
“Yeah, for the sick kids, Daddy.” Her tone sounded like she was speaking to someone who wasn’t all there or was losing it.
“You know when you cut your hair, then it takes a long time to grow back.”
“I know, Daddy. It took me so long to make it go from here, to here.” Tabby put one hand on her shoulder and the other on her waist. “But I did it ’cause the sick kids don’t have any hair, and they need my hair, remember?”
He did remember. He remembered two years ago, the MRI waiting room.
They were there for a routine test due for Tabby’s murmur.
He remembered Tabby meeting a girl named Harper and telling her that her bald head looked like moonstone, and then Tabby giving her one of her crystals.
He remembered Tabby asking, “Why don’t you have hair?
” and Harper’s mom explaining about chemo, about cells that misbehaved, and about medicine that sometimes took away more than it gave.
He remembered how Tabby, all of three years old, had looked at the girl and said, “You can have mine.” Simple as that.
Like hair and hope and health were all things you could trade or just hand over to someone who needed it more.
Harper’s mom explained there was a program that she could donate to and now, two years later, Tabby still wanted to keep that promise.
Tabby had never forgotten, not even when he’d tried to gently redirect her, worried she wouldn’t be ready for the aftermath, for how different she’d look in the mirror.
The memory always made his throat constrict.
“If they have an appointment and they can see us, then we can ask if it’s ready.”
He knew there were very specific rules for Locks of Love, rules that he was fairly confident Jenna would know.
Tabby scrunched up her nose. “You don’t have an appointment?”
“Nope.”
“But you always say to make an appointment, so you don’t waste time.”
That was a motto he lived by. His creed. His rule. That was the problem with Jenna all that went out the window. When it came to her, all bets were off.
Deacon pulled up in front of The Beauty Spot. He couldn’t believe he’d lived in town for months, driven by the salon hundreds of times, and never known the woman who haunted his every waking thought was inside. It was almost laughable. Almost.
He got out of the SUV and opened the door for Tabby.
She reached up and grabbed his hand, and they walked inside.
The place was full. He counted eight stylists’ chairs, and five were occupied.
The waiting area was a banquette under the front window, upholstered in navy velvet.
There was only one person waiting, a man, in his late forties in a suit that looked slightly too expensive for Hope Falls, but he wore it with the slouched indifference of someone who’d spent too many hours in airports.
He flipped through a magazine, but his eyes were fixed on the phone in his lap, his thumb scrolling compulsively.
As he took in the salon, Deacon instantly recognized just how much this place was a physical representation of the woman he’d spent the night with over a year ago in that hotel room. It had an air of elegance, but somehow fit into the small town, mountain environment.
Pale gray walls and white accents created a backdrop for eight stations, each with oversized antique mirrors framed in brushed nickel and gold that reflected the warm Edison bulbs overhead, the kind of space that made you feel like you belonged there, even on a first visit.
His boots met polished concrete floors that had been sealed smooth, and when Tabby’s hand squeezed his, he noticed the air itself felt softer there, conditioned and easy to breathe.
A blend of salon products and essential oils drifted through the space, professional and welcoming, like eucalyptus softened with honey.
He was struck, almost immediately, by the sense that Jenna had built something there.
Not just a business, but a little empire of belonging.
He was so distracted taking in his surroundings he nearly missed the loud declaration being made regarding him.
“For the last time, I am not, have not, and will never date Deacon fucking St. Claire!” Jenna’s voice wasn’t shrill.
It was crisp, clear, projected with the authority of someone who’d spent years commanding rooms without ever needing to raise her volume.
It cut through the salon like a gong hit, leaving a vibrating echo in its wake.
Every head swiveled in unison toward the source, and then, after a beat, toward Deacon and Tabitha still standing in the entryway.
He felt Tabby’s hand tighten. She looked up, cherubic face peering at him with steadfast sincerity and borderline awe, and again stage-whispered. “Daddy, that princess said a ten dollar word and your name.”
It didn’t surprise Deacon that Tabby had clocked Jenna as a ‘princess.’ Since seeing Enchanted, his daughter was convinced princesses walked among them just like Amy Adams’ character did when she fell into New York through the manhole, and Tabby was convinced she had the power to spot them.
Today, Jenna wore her hair down, her thick, wavy blonde locks flowing past her mid-back. She wore a pale blue apron over a white t-shirt and jeans. She easily passed as a modern-day Cinderella. Deacon wouldn’t be surprised if she felt like one, too.
The entire salon, which was now staring at him, including Jenna who was now aware they’d walked in, and had heard his daughter's assessment.
He figured there was no reason to try and pretend any different. “She sure did. Should we see if the princess has an appointment available?”
The man at the front desk grinned. “You are in luck, the princess just had a cancellation.”
“Robbie!” Jenna beelined to the front desk.
Deacon wasn’t sure if Robbie was getting that tone because he’d also called her a princess or because he’d revealed she had a cancellation.
On her way, Robbie spoke quickly, the words tumbling from his mouth. “Kelly King rescheduled, she said her toothache got worse, she thinks it’s an impacted wisdom.”
Tabby released his hand, lifted her arms, and placed her hands on the reception desk beside a vase of wildflowers, lupine, yarrow, and mountain daisies which added a touch of unruliness to the cultivated calm.
She stood on her tiptoes to speak as she peeked over the slab of repurposed butcher block, sanded and sealed to a glossy finish that stood counter height.
“I’m gonna give my hair to the sick kids! ”
“She’s been growing out her hair to donate it to Locks of Love, and she wanted to check and see if it is long enough to cut it today,” Deacon explained.
There was a collective awe from the entire salon, Robbie, who added, “Bless her heart.”
Jenna stopped and looked at him with an expression he’d never seen on her face before.
One he had no clue how to read. He wondered if she thought he was playing her or something.
He wanted to tell her his plan had been to get his haircut, it wasn’t his fault his daughter was the best wingman in the world.
“I grew it out from here to here.” Tabby lowered back down onto her flat feet and put her hand on her shoulder, then her waist. “Cause when I met Harper, she had no hair, cause of the medicine she had to take, so I told her I’d give her mine.”
Jenna bit the inside of her lip, and he sensed she wanted to say no.
He could tell that she didn’t want them there, and he suddenly felt guilty for ambushing her.
In his defense, he hadn’t thought he’d walk in to hear her declaring that she’d never fucking date him, so there was that.
If anyone should be the injured party, shouldn’t it be him?
She was the one lying. They had dated. Sort of.
He was going to apologize and say they should have made an appointment when Jenna smiled widely down at his daughter and his heart exploded in his chest. There it was. That was the smile. Having it directed at his daughter was even more potent.
“Okey dokey artichokey, do you want to come back to my chair so we can see if those buns are hiding enough for a donation?”
This morning Tabby had wanted her hair in space buns. He wondered if she got it cut today, would she even have enough hair for him to put in braids or buns? That thought made him a little sad, but obviously, it wasn’t about him.
Tabby nodded enthusiastically as she hopped up and down and clapped.
“Hi, I’m Jenna,” Jenna introduced herself.
“I’m Tabitha, but everyone calls me Tabby.”
“What would you like me to call you?”
“Tabitha.”
“Okay, Tabitha it is.”
That surprised Deacon. Was his little girl so grown up that she wanted people to stop calling her Tabby? Tabitha skipped beside Jenna, and Deacon tried not to think about how the sight of the two of them walking side by side made him feel.
Jenna glanced over her shoulder, her smile was textbook forced friendly when directed at him. “You can come to, Dad.”