“Jeez, Mom, she still looks exactly the same,” Lia said, and Daisy could have hugged her.
“Which isn’t necessarily a good thing,” their mother stated, and both Lia and Daisy sighed. There was just no winning with her. “A woman’s look needs to evolve, become more refined and more mature.”
“Mom, I’m a vet. My clothes suit my way of life.”
“Sweetheart, you’re not a vet twenty-four seven, no matter what your father says. You’re allowed to have a life.”
“Look, save this intervention business for a worthier cause than dinner with Mason Carlisle. The guy’s just a friend. I promise, when I find someone I’m romantically interested in, you’ll have free rein”—she paused a beat as she thought about that and then added—“within limits. But this is really not the right occasion on which to waste all that makeover mojo.”
“At least run a comb through your hair.”
“A comb can’t get through this mess,” Daisy snorted, and both Lia and Daff giggled.
“Oh, for goodness sake!” Their mother handed Peaches over to Lia and forcibly grabbed hold of Daisy’s elbow.
“Ow! That hurts,” Daisy protested as her mother dragged her toward her bedroom. The older woman—despite being as thin as a rail—was at least four inches taller than Daisy’s five three, and she used that height difference to her advantage. Her other two daughters had inherited her height and her body, while Daisy took after her paternal grandmother.
“Sit down, Daisy,” her mother said as she pushed Daisy down toward the bed. She was using her no-nonsense “Mom voice,” and Daisy knew arguing would be futile. Her sisters had trailed them into the room and were both watching with interest as their mother picked up a brush and dragged it through Daisy’s thick curls.
“Ow!” Daisy winced again when the brush snagged in her hair. Her mother gentled her movements and began to soothingly stroke the brush through Daisy’s hair. Her mother had always known exactly how to handle Daisy’s uncontrollable curls, and the gentle tug of the brush brought her back to her childhood.
“You have such lovely hair,” her mother said softly. “But you never do anything with it. Braiding it or tying it up does it a disservice.”
Daisy shrugged. “It’s an uncontrollable mess. And it takes way too long to fix it, so it’s easier to just put it up. I need it out of my face for work anyway.”
“Yes, but you’re not going to work now, are you?” Daff piped up, and Daisy glared at her. As far as she was concerned, her oldest sister had committed the ultimate sin in calling their mother, and Daff knew it too. She returned Daisy’s glare with an unrepentant grin, and Daisy—refusing to be charmed—focused her attention on Lia, who at least looked sympathetic.
“So tell me more about this young man of yours,” Millicent McGregor said as she continued to brush Daisy’s hair with long, hypnotic strokes.
“Oh, for God’s sake. He’s not my young man,” Daisy muttered. Her mother tugged one of her curls sharply, and Daisy sucked in a pained breath.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” the older woman reprimanded.
“Sorry.” The word was surly, and Daisy sighed inwardly, disgusted that she always allowed her mother and sisters to drag the latent teenage drama queen out of her.
“So what’s he like?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only had one conversation with him. But he wanted to . . . to discuss his dog with me.” The lie tumbled over her lips without thought, and her mother’s brushing stopped for a millisecond before she continued on.
“But he can do that during office hours,” Lia pointed out.
“I got caught in the rain this afternoon, and he gave me a ride home. We were talking about his dog, and he suggested we continue the conversation over dinner.” Oh God, where were all these crazy half-truths coming from? Daisy wasn’t exactly a master of subterfuge, which made her plan with Mason even more insane. She would never be able to keep up the pretense.
“So you see, it’s more like a business dinner or something. No need to get all dolled up.”
“Daffodil, hand over your hair clip,” her mother commanded, ignoring Daisy’s words, and Daff reached up and tugged a pretty, ultra-feminine floral crocodile clip from her hair. Her sleek hair, which had been held out of her face by the clip, slid forward like a silk curtain, and Daisy sighed in envy. Her sisters both had perfect hair. Naturally.
“There,” her mother announced happily as she stepped back. “Lovely.”
Daisy glanced at her reflection in the mirror, and her jaw dropped. How did her mother always do that? It hardly seemed fair that no matter what Daisy tried, she couldn’t work the same magic on her own hair. It looked like such a simple fix too: her mother had dragged back the hair that usually just hung on either side of her face and pinned it back, while at the same time twisting it into an exotic, slightly off-center loose knot. The rest of her hair feathered down in soft, dreamy little curls that made her round face look a little less plain.
“Now we can see your pretty face,” her mother said fondly, her expression softening as she gently stroked one of Daisy’s cheeks before stepping back.
“Next we need to do something about this top,” she said, immediately back to business. She took a step back and perused Daisy from head to toe before gasping in horror. “Oh, good grief, Daisy! Are you wearing one of your father’s shirts?”
“Men’s shirts are all the rage now,” Daisy said, pretending indifference, when really she was mortified. She had grabbed the first thing she could find, and she now saw that it was one of her dad’s shirts. She often borrowed his shirts if she went to her parents’ place for dinner after work. God knows she couldn’t fit into her mother or sisters’ clothes.