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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Joan Hamilton tapped her foot impatiently as she waited to capture someone’s attention. She’d been standing in the middle of half a dozen converging cosmetics counters on the main floor of Nordstrom’s for the better part of five minutes and so far, not one salesperson had offered to help her. Admittedly, the staff all seemed to be busy, but where had all these customers come from? Had every woman in Boston suddenly run out of moisturizer? “Excuse me,” she said to a young woman dressed head to toe in black (including leggings, despite the outside heat), but the girl chose to ignore her as she hurried past to service someone else.
Or maybe she just didn’t notice me,Joan thought, recognizing that women became increasingly invisible to much of the outside world as they aged, even to other women. The older you got, the more you tended to blend into your surroundings, to become part of the wallpaper, your voice swallowed up by the noise around you, no longer heard or appreciated. Such a shame, really, because experience had given older women if not wisdom, then at least many more interesting things to say.
She did a slow spin around, trying to ignore the overpowering smell of conflicting perfumes, and catching sight of her reflection in a nearby mirror. The woman looking back at her was only vaguely familiar, being at least two decades older, ten pounds heavier, and an inch shorter than Joan remembered. “Whoareyou?” she asked. “And what have you done with Joan Hamilton?”
“I’m sorry,” a voice chirped from somewhere beside her. “Did you say something?”
Joan spun toward the sound. A skinny young woman with braided black hair wrapped around her head like a towel was smiling in her direction, her eyes seemingly focused on something just beyond Joan’s left ear. The name tag on her black sweater identified her asGray.“Your name is Gray?” Joan asked.
“Like the color,” the girl said.
“How unusual.”
“Not really. There was another girl named Gray in my class all through high school, and a boy named Grayson. And a friend of mine is dating a guy named Grayden. Not to mention, I know two Haydens, a Kayden, and a Tayden.”
“Tayden?”
“I know, right?” She shrugged. “Can I help you with something?”
Joan was still trying to come to terms with all the Haydens, Kaydens, and Taydens. There were such interesting names now. Not like when she was a kid, when all the girls were named Sue or Carole or Mary. Or Joan, she realized, her lips curling into a frown.
“Something wrong?” Gray asked.
“Just trying to remember what I came in for.”
“You’re so cute,” Gray said with a giggle.
I’m cute?Joan wondered.When did I get cute?She’d never been cute in her life. She decided it must be code for “old.” “I need some moisturizer. And maybe some new lipstick. Usually I just go to the drugstore and buy whatever’s on sale, but I don’t know. I feel like treating myself. My skin’s been feeling a little dry lately, and I have this big party to go to next week…” She broke off mid-sentence, realizing she was nattering on about something this young woman obviously couldn’t give two figs about. And what century hadthatexpression come from?
“Yeah? What kind of party?” Gray surprised her by asking. She pulled a nearby high-top chair toward them and motioned for Joan to sit down.
“My brother-in-law’s eightieth birthday,” Joan said, stepping up into the seat.
“Yeah? Wow. Eighty. Good for him. Do you mind my asking how old you are?”
“Seventy,” Joan said, the word emerging as a sigh. Just the sound of it hit Joan right between the eyes.
“Well, you look fantastic. I never would have guessed. You have great skin for someone your age.”
“Thank you.”I think.“I still feel thirty.”Maybe forty.
“Well, you look great. My grandmother is seventy and she looks way older than you do.” Gray reached under the counter and pulled out a jar of something creamy and white. Then she gently pushed Joan’s wispy blond hair away from her face and dabbed some of the thick cream onto her cheeks, massaging it in with delicate, but firm, fingers. “How do you like it?”
“Feels wonderful.”
“It’s the best. Use this every morning and night and you’ll see a difference in no time. Let me show you the proper way to apply it.” She held a small mirror to Joan’s face so she could watch her demonstrate the proper circular motion.
Joan cringed at the close-up view of the enlarged pores and lines that had laid siege to her face sometime during the last decade. The one good thing about the decline in your eyesight as you aged, she decided, was that you didn’t notice the ravages of time unless you were wearing your glasses. Or someone was shoving a mirror up under your nose. “Do you have any eye creams?”
“We certainly do.” A small, green bottle materialized between Gray’s fingers, as if by magic. “This serum is a real miracle worker, and the good news is that you only need to use a tiny bit.” She deposited a few drops under Joan’s eyes, patting them gently with her fingertips until the thick liquid was completely absorbed. “And I’d really recommend this cream as well. It firms and lifts. Do you use masks?”
“Sorry. What?”
Another round, white jar miraculously appeared in the palm of the girl’s hand. “Brush this on every other night, let it sit ten minutes, then apply the two eye treatments—first the serum, then the cream—and finish up with the moisturizer. I swear, you’ll be glowing. Plus, I think I have just the perfect lipstick for your coloring. Here,” she said, rubbing something peachy-pink on the back of her hand and holding it out for Joan to examine. “Strong but subtle. What do you think?”
“I think you have a deal.” Joan slid off the chair and reached into her purse for her credit card. “How much do I owe you?”
