“How is that even anatomically possible?” Lainey asked, as she settled into the porch swing. “No. Don’t tell me. I’m going to drink away the memory.”
“Cheers,” Marigold said, toasting her with her glass. “And I do yoga, that’s how.”
*
“I’m not so sure about this.” Lainey patted the curlers in her hair nervously.
This morning, Imogen, Emma and Alma had dragged Lainey to the Kurl Up And Dye, and she’d agreed to let Hepzibah set her hair in rollers. She hoped against hope that it didn’t look dreadful, because she was meeting Tate for lunch and she wouldn’t have time to fix it if they ended up making her look like Shirley Temple.
There was something charming about the old-timey feel of the hair salon with its row of women with their hair rolled up in pink rollers, giant plastic bubble dryers lowered over their heads as they read magazines and gossiped.
“It’s going to be stunning,” Emma said. “Your young man will love it.”
“Well, I don’t know if technically I have a young man…”
“Oh, pish tosh. Of course you do.” Alma and Emma spoke at the same time.
The plastic bubble shut off with a loud ding, and the warm air vanished. Hepzibah tipped the plastic bubble back, freeing Lainey’s head.
“What are you all going to do on the day of the wedding?” Lainey asked.
“We’re going to the reception, not the actual wedding,” Alma said. “The salon is closed on the wedding day, because all the stylists will be at the Beaudreau mansion, styling Ginger and the ladies in the wedding party.” Hepzibah began unrolling the pink rollers and dropping them into a round wicker basket on the countertop. She’d used giant-sized rollers for Lainey, to give her big, loose curls.
The old landline phone rang. It was a shiny black contraption that was actually connected to the wall like the one at the boarding house. Imogen walked over and picked it up as if she owned the joint. “Kurl Up And Dye,” she said. “Well, hello, Beatrice, yes, it’s me. Getting my rinse and set. You don’t say. She did, really?”
Hepzibah carefully brushed out the curls as Imogen chattered away, and then she spun Lainey around to admire her hair, which now flowed in a Veronica Lake style, dipping in a wave over one eye.
“That is amazing,” Lainey said happily. “It looks perfect.”
Imogen strolled up, and Hepzibah turned to her impatiently. “Well? Spill it!”
Lainey wondered idly what the people in this town would do if they were deprived of gossip. She suspected that the withdrawal symptoms would be immediate and severe, and treatable only by the copious consumption of mint juleps.
“Portia’s mother has apparently hired some big shot psychic from California named Rainbow Moonchild, who is going to help her track down her daughter, who definitely has skipped town and possibly may have stolen the wedding tiara. Portia did that, not the psychic.”
All the ladies in the beauty parlor began buzzing with excitement, peppering Imogen with questions.
“This is terrible, all this happening right before the wedding,” Lainey said, shaking her head. “Poor Ginger.”
“Oh, she’s lived in Blue Moon County for a year, so she’s used to it,” Imogen said. “There’s always some commotion going on around here.”
“Well, I hope they find the woman. I have to head out to get some lunch now.”
“Tell Tate we say hey!” Emma said.
“Yes, he’s welcome to stop by for some pie any time,” Imogen added, and then she turned back to the group of ladies who were crowded around her, pressing her for more details.
Lainey headed out into the hot, bright day to meet Tate for lunch. She paused by a magnolia tree, breathing in the sweet perfume that drifted from the fat white blossoms. Heaven. She’d never smelled magnolia blossoms before she’d come to Blue Moon Junction.
Then she walked to the Henhouse, which she knew would be bustling with the lunchtime crowd and bathed in its own kind of perfume, the coffee beans and the sizzling meat on the griddle swirling together in the unique scent of the small town diner. Her stomach rumbled at the thought.
When she reached the Henhouse, she paused to look at her reflection in the picture window, admiring the big silky waves of her chestnut hair. The retro look really works for me, if I do say so myself.
Tate was already at the restaurant. She could see him through the window, standing by the countertop where customers sat on round spinning stools, and arguing with a slim woman with a big bouffant of frosted hair.
Her mother.
Her heart sank. What had her mother done now?
She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and walked in the door and up to the counter. Tate turned to her and put his arm around her protectively.
The din of conversation had died down when Lainey had walked in. Lainey glanced around. The diner was, as she expected, packed with customers. There was nowhere for her to hide. She felt dizzy and sick.