Epilogue 2
It’s just before dawn on Thanksgiving Day. I wake to the sound of hushed whispering between a male and female voice—in Italian. Twisting the rings on my finger, today is going to be a big day—in addition to the meal.
Mikey and I are going to tell our families what we did while in New York, hope they don’t disown us, and let them plan the reception celebration with Margo.
But who’s out there? Does Mama already know?
Is she holding Mikey hostage? He went home last night to not raise any suspicions.
We’re still figuring out where everyone is going to live.
There’s a large walkout basement at his house, our dream home, that the Cruz crew could finish off for her—then we’d all be under one roof.
I exit my bedroom to find my mother and brother at the kitchen table with an oversized piece of paper rolled out between them, heads bent together.
Asher’s gaze snaps up when I enter the room.
Mama rolls up the paper and says, “Nothing to see here.”
I rub my hand down my face. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to make some espresso,” Asher says.
“Why are you awake?” Pausing as my thoughts return from the dream I was having about turkeys baking pumpkin pie, I add, “What are you doing here?”
“Thanksgiving,” Asher says.
“No, I mean, what are you doing here?” Suspicious, I snag the rolled-up paper from Mama and open it to reveal a building plan schematic. Tilting my head, I ask, “Is this the salon? Have you been the ones sabotaging me?”
Asher gets to his feet. “No, of course not. Mama was concerned, so she called upon my expertise.”
“Your expertise? The Cruzes completed the remodel weeks ago.”
He nods slowly. “A different kind of expertise.”
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t understand.”
Our mother says, “Maybe it’s best you just leave this to Asher. You’re sleepwalking. Go back to bed.”
“Mama!”
She winces, chastised.
“What is going on?”
“I asked for your brother’s help with the salon.”
Still not computing, I say, “As far as I know, he does not have a cosmetology license or business experience or much of anything other than running off to Thailand with Her and leaving us behind.”
It’s his turn to look apologetic and he presses his lips together as if trying not to blurt something out. His mouth loses the battle, and he says, “Catagen, Ionic, Alopecia.”
“So you are studying to be a hairdresser?”
Asher repeats, “Catagen, Ionic, Alopecia.”
I blink a few times because I stayed up late, um, baking pie, and other things with Mikey, and it’s early.
He says the three words from my state board exam one more time.
My jaw falls open. “C—”
Mama interrupts. “Don’t say it. You never know who’s listening.”
My brother is a CIA officer? “Yeah, I need espresso for this.”
No more is said about the nature of my twin’s employment, but I do glean that Mama was concerned about my dream salon being ruined, so she called in the big guns, literally. How did she know about his job? Why didn’t he tell me?
My phone beeps from where it’s plugged in to charge, but it’s not a text.
Asher opens it, apparently knowing the password because he’s a sneak—and a professional, as it turns out. “It’s the security camera. We have to move out. Now.”
Mama, dressed in black, even though she recently went back to her non-mourning clothes, grabs a cast-iron skillet. “In case I need to defend myself or knock some sense into the perp.”
“The perp? What’s going on?” I ask as I pour a shot of espresso.
Asher says, “I’ll explain on the way. Put on some shoes.”
I do better than that and tug on a Knights hoodie and leggings, then race to the car as Asher backs out of the driveway.
The horizon is barely gray and the moon still shines overhead as my brother navigates the streets of Cobbiton as if he’s been here before. The day of Erica’s wedding filters back and his surprise visit. Did he wiretap the salon? Booby trap it? Do some other kind of spy craft?
“Okay, guys. Explain.”
“We have reason to believe that not one but two people have been involved in the strange occurrences at the salon—the ceiling, the smoke machine, the tow truck, the plastic wrap, the eggs, the pudding, oh, and the insurance adjuster visit.”
“Are we talking about the pranks someone was playing because I didn’t hear about all of those?”
They’re both quiet.
It takes me a moment to realize that Mama, my salon assistant, must’ve kept them from me.
“You’ve been working so hard, we didn’t want you to be upset.”
“That’s sweet, but you’d better believe I’m upset. We should’ve contacted the police. Do you even have jurisdiction here, Asher? What if we all get thrown in jail?”
While driving, he cranes over the seat and says, “Mama wanted to keep it in the family.”
Maybe she just wanted him to come home. All the same, I sulk in the backseat like a sullen child.
Asher cuts the headlights as we turn onto Fourth Street. I notice a stream of vehicles lined up on the incoming side of Main.
“I didn’t hear about a parade today.”
“It’s backup.”
“So you did call the police?”
Asher chuckles. “Juniper, let’s just say it isn’t just us that have your back.”
As Mikey and I did numerous times, he parks a little bit away from the salon.
“Mama, leave the frying pan in the car. In fact, stay here,” Asher says.
My mother and I both get out of the vehicle. Must be where I get my stubborn streak from.
She says, “No, I want to see the woman who gave my daughter an unfriendly welcome go down.”
Understanding dawns as the first, faint gray light of day illuminates the eastern sky. The low rumble of the vehicles down the road gets closer. I hear the faint sound of feet on pavement, the shifting of clothing, and a low murmur of voices.
“Am I in the middle of a C—”
“Don’t say it,” Mama says.
A low voice whispers in my ear. “It’s a Cobbiton Sting Operation.”
I turn to Mikey, smelling fresh like aftershave. “What are you—?”
He holds his finger over his mouth in the universal signal for quiet. Also dressed in black, he holds his hockey stick and then disappears into the darkness.
Looking around, I spot the looming figures of large men with their hockey sticks lifted like a massive human fence, surrounding the salon.
Maybe I should take cover.
What seems like a very bright sunrise suddenly shines on the building, illuminating the Junie’s Hair Salon sign. Only, it’s the Cruz crew with their work lights on full blast.
In a booming, amplified voice, a woman with a familiar Italian accent, but who is not my mother, says, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
A shiver runs through me.
“We have you surrounded,” Carlotta says. “Come out with your hands up or face the music.”
I almost, but don’t quite, giggle. However, this is no laughing matter.
With the bank of work lights and the sun peeping over the horizon, my family, the entire Cruz crew, and the Nebraska Knights hockey team showed up at an obscene hour on a holiday, no less, to ferret out whoever has been trying to destroy my salon.
My eyes sting and my throat feels thick. As odd as it sounds, it almost seems like Papa is here. Ever so faintly, it’s like I can hear his voice, telling me that I’m not alone. That I don’t have to do things on my own.
Before I get too emotional, a woman with a ball cap on and with her hands lifted in surrender exits the salon.
It’s Nancy Linderberg. Maybe there is a Thanksgiving parade, hosted by the Cobbiton Activities Commission, that I didn’t hear about.
Mama marches forward. “You tried to cheat at that last canasta game and you were attempting to ruin my daughter’s shop.”
Nancy stammers, denying it when Mikey’s four brothers appear with a man in a tatty jacket who tries to get away from them.
Mr. Cruz removes his wallet from his pocket and reads his ID. “Max Linderberg.”
“A husband and wife operation?” I ask, stepping forward.
Coach Badaszek from the Nebraska Knights appears. “Exes. Trying to get back at each other through you, Miss Popovik.”
I clear my throat. “Actually, I’m Mrs. Cruz.”
Badaszek winks. “I know. I just wasn’t sure if they did.”
“What do you mean you’re Mrs. Cruz?” Mama asks.
Maybe she was a spy too. At this point, it wouldn’t surprise me if she was a member of Italy’s intel agency, Dad was a Russian spy and they fell into star-crossed love with Carlotta threatening to rat them out.
Biting my lip, I flash my rings. Mikey laces his pinky around mine.
His mother appears with her hands on her hips. “Do we have to shake down you two as well?”
“We can explain,” I say.
“First, I want to know what’s going on here,” Mikey says, pointing to the Linderbergs.
They both start talking at once.
“One at a time,” Carlotta says.
Nancy sneers. “Oh, that would be a first. He never lets me say what I need to say and—”
The two of them start bickering and I quickly glean that they were using the commercial space, aka my shop, as a way to get revenge on each other because it used to be Nancy’s quilt store before Max started selling hockey merch.
It seems they went their separate ways and when I showed up, I got caught in the middle of their grudge match.
I sense Mikey’s gaze on me. Married or not, he still makes my heart flutter.
His eyes are wide with horror. He mouths, That could’ve been us.
I shake my head and say, Never.
He scrunches up his shoulders.
Turning to face him, I wrap my arms around his middle. “That never would’ve happened because I love you.”
He kisses me in response and everyone cheers, congratulating us on our marriage.