“Once again, I have to ask: how many dead aunts do you have?” asked Dominic, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.
I glanced up from the wigs and grinned. “Just the two. Aunt Rose, who you met in New Orleans and may or may not see in the foreseeable future, and Aunt Mary, who we’ll see again at Christmas. She always brings fruitcake from this old lady she knows in Denver who actually bakes fruitcake you can eat without breaking your teeth, it’s amazing.” This said, I looked back to the box. “Hmm.”
“Hmm?” echoed Dominic.
“Yeah. Hmm.” Valerie Pryor was a redhead. It was a decision based half on vanity—I always wanted red hair when I was a kid, and I was never allowed to dye it, since that would have made me stand out too much—and half on practicality, because again, red hair stood out. Between the costumes and the hair, few people remembered much about “Valerie’s” face. They came away with an impression of color and semi-nudity, and didn’t really look at things like the shape of my cheekbones.
Unfortunately, while my costumes had fared reasonably well during the move, my wigs were outdated and disheveled after their time in the box. It would look odd if I showed up on television with the exact same hairstyle I’d had three years ago, and if I tried to rehab the wigs, there was a chance I’d wind up damaging them.
“Is that real human hair?” asked Dominic, sounding somewhere between amazed and appalled.
“Yup. Expensive, but you’re not going to find anything that looks more realistic, or does a better job of fooling tracking spells. I buy them from a wig shop in Salem. It’s run by a very sweet harpy and her daughter. They have feathers in their hair, and pulling them out would hurt like hell, since living feathers have blood vessels in them. They make wigs instead. They do a good business among the gorgon community and with other cryptids who have reasons to hide their scalps.” I was already running the numbers in my head on how many wigs I could afford. Dad would probably give me the money if I asked, since he’d approved this mission, and it would be nice to have something styled in a braid or updo, just to make the rumbas easier.
“I see,” said Dominic. He paused, and then said, “When we met, I thought your dancing was frivolous. I suppose I still do, on some level. Your work is more important than the dance floor.”
I glanced up, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head; he wasn’t done.
“But your joy when you dance . . . it’s radiant. The preparation, the work, the thought you put into every element of the presentation . . . this isn’t frivolous. It may not be what I recognize as important, but that doesn’t mean it’s worthless. I’m glad you’re going to do this reunion show. I think that, as your husband, I owe it to myself to take more time to watch you dance.”
“That sort of thing gets you kissed, Mister,” I said, before standing and doing just that. Dominic looped his arms around my waist and pulled me close. He’d always been an excellent kisser, from the time that I first put my lips on his in an alley in New York, but time and comfort had elevated him to an Olympic level. If there had been a gold medal for kissing, I would have given it to him hands-down.
When I finally pulled away, my cheeks were hot and felt like they were as red as my wigs. “Okay, handsome,” I said. “Let’s go call Artie about getting you that credit card and fake ID. We’re going to Hollywood.”
Four
“Chin up, shoulders back, trigger finger ready. Now go out there, my darling girl, and prove that you’re the one.”
—Enid Healy
The lobby of the Crier Theater in Hollywood, California, six weeks later
THE AIR INSIDE THE LOBBY was at least five degrees cooler than the air outside. It felt more like my native Portland than like Hollywood, land of sunscreen, tanning beds, and movie stars with thousand-dollar skin. I shoved my sunglasses into my oversized dance bag, blinking rapidly to adjust to the switch from outdoor bright to indoor dim. Everyone around me was doing the same thing, which gave me an excuse to hang back from the crowd and get a feel for the situation.