Callie had to laugh. “Nice time to tell me.” Rafferty had her too worried about being recognized to go to a local salon, so she’d asked Towner to do it.
During the hair dyeing process, Towner had been running back and forth from the tearoom to the coach house. She was a waitress short today: One of her regular girls whose children were in foster care had been in court all day, trying to win them back.
“I’m not a big fan of foster care,” Callie said. She’d already told Towner she’d been fostered more than once, never successfully.
“The first time was the worst. The father sent me back to the group home and left me on the front steps with a note pinned to my chest.”
Towner stared at her. “No way.”
“Cross my heart,” Callie said.
“What did the note say?”
“You don’t want to know what the note said,” Callie said, remembering.
Towner waited.
“It was a biblical quote. Proverbs 5:5. Are you familiar with Proverbs?”
“Not really,” Towner admitted.
“Her feet go down to death; her steps lead straight to the grave.”
“Oh my God,” Towner said. “Please tell me that didn’t happen.”
Callie did her best to shrug it off. “It really did. I honestly think the man didn’t know I could read.
“There were three or four more foster homes after that. Some with a lot of kids, and not much discipline or attention, the parents fostering just for the money they could make from the state. The last one was when I was a teenager. The mother worked two jobs outside the home, but the father paid a lot of attention to me. All the wrong kind.”
“Jesus.”
An hour and a half and two showers later, Callie was down in the tearoom trying to catch a glimpse of the back of her head with the hand mirror Towner was holding out.
The effect was striking, with little contrast between the dye’s pale color and her porcelain skin.
Towner held the hand mirror up for her approval.
Callie looked at it. “I definitely don’t look like myself,” she said. For a moment, she felt a chill. Callie looked like the memory she’d had of Susan, with her white, white hair and pigmentless skin. “Are you sure tonight’s a good idea?” The fund-raiser was just hours away, and she was having second thoughts about going.
“Don’t worry about it,” Towner said. “Most of the patronesses are so old they can’t see five feet in front of them anyway…God, look how great your eyes look.”
Towner held the mirror up again, and Callie looked. Well, at least the eyes were hers and not Susan’s pink ones. They seemed almost black. She looked like the negative of a black-and-white photo from the thirties that Olivia had once clipped from an old magazine.
Ignoring the Closed sign on the door, a woman pushed her way into the tearoom, where Callie and Towner were sharing a late afternoon pot of Difficult-Tea, and dropped the papers she was carrying down in front of Towner.
“Marta, this is Callie,” Towner said. “Marta’s running tonight’s event.”
“Nice to meet you, Callie,” the woman said, looking at her curiously.
Marta was dark eyed, attractive, and stylish, though not exactly pretty in any classic sense. She looked familiar in a New England way, a type Rose might have referred to as “a handsome woman.” Commanding was the word that came to Callie.
“Callie recently moved to Salem.”
“Why would anyone in their right mind want to do that?” Marta smiled at Callie.
Callie hesitated. She knew the question was rhetorical, but it was a question she might be asked again more seriously, and she hadn’t thought far enough ahead to have formulated a response.
“Oh, come on, Marta, you moved back,” Towner teased.
“Only because my mother was dying.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Callie said, remembering the loss of her own mother.
Marta dismissed her concern with a wave of the hand. “It was a long time ago. I’m just saying, why would anyone move to this dismal place if they didn’t have to?”
I did have to, Callie thought but did not say. The way Marta was looking at her was making Callie uncomfortable. Reflexively, she touched her new hair.
Marta gestured to the papers she had placed in front of Towner.
“Will you please sit down and join us?” Towner said. “You’re making me nervous hovering like that.”
“Only for a minute.” Marta laughed, taking a seat at one of the lacy table settings.
Towner held up the teapot, but Marta waved it away. “I’ve got to get back to make sure the hotel doesn’t screw up the seating list.”
Towner examined the guest list Marta presented. “Impressive.”
“We’re essentially sold out.”
“As usual, thanks to you,” Towner said, then turned to Callie and explained, “this evening wouldn’t happen without Marta.”
Marta shrugged off the compliment.
“She’s kind enough to chair the event every year. She’s also one of the best fund-raisers around.”
“If I were half as good at making money for myself as I am for charity, I’d become a 501(c)(3), fund my retirement, and go back to where I came from.”
Towner laughed. “I don’t think that’s allowed.”
“More’s the pity,” Marta said.
“Where did you come from?” Callie asked.
“Manhattan.”
“She came back because of her mom, but she stayed because she missed New England so much.” Towner smiled.
Marta groaned, gathering up the papers she’d placed in front of Towner and putting them into her leather shoulder bag. “People like Towner make this place tolerable, at least. I’ll see you tonight. Will you be there, Callie?”
“She’s my plus one,” Towner said.
Marta laughed. “I’ll bet Rafferty’s relieved to be off the hook.”
“You know it.” Towner laughed.
“I’ll see you both tonight.” Marta headed for the door, reaching it just as two older women were trying to come in. “The tearoom’s closed,” she said, pointing to the sign posting the hours. “Come back tomorrow.” She waited while they turned around and slowly descended the stairs. Unable to hide her frustration at their slow movement, Marta couldn’t help rolling her eyes at Towner.
“She’s interesting,” Callie said.
“She is that.”
With its mirrors and gilt, the banquet room at the Hawthorne Hotel reflected Old World elegance. Towner and Callie walked the length of the room, stopping every few moments so people could either greet Towner or introduce themselves to her.
After dyeing her hair, they had talked again about how Callie wanted to be introduced. “Pick another last name,” Towner said. “Something you can remember.”
Callie picked O’Neill, which had been the name of her first foster mother, the one who died.
“This is my favorite fund-raiser,” a local dowager in a long-sleeved crepe dress with a too-low neckline said to Towner. “May must be so proud of you!”