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Chapter Twenty-one
Nadine’s is located four storefronts downfrom Starbucks, between a RE/MAX office and that of half a dozen certified public accountants, Richard Atwood’s name at the top of the alphabetized list etched into the glass. The handwritten sign in the salon’s window reads:Receptionist wanted. Apply within.“Don’t do this. Keep walking,” Maggie tells herself, even as she is pulling open the heavy glass door and stepping inside the cool, air-conditioned space. Immediately, the combined smells of fruity shampoo and hair dye reach deep into her nostrils.
It’s a pleasant space—wood floor, pale pink walls, white enamel sinks, lots of mirrors, comfortable-looking black leather chairs, six of them along one wall, three on the wall opposite, four of the chairs already occupied. One client is having her hair washed, another is having hers blow-dried, while the third sits, rifling through the latest issue ofVogue,waiting her turn. The fourth woman, whose head is covered in strips of tinfoil, is busy scrolling through her phone, a male stylist examining her roots to see how the dye is taking.
“Be right with you,” a birdlike, middle-aged woman with skinny legs and asymmetrical red hair chirps in Maggie’s direction as the phone at the front counter rings. The woman quickly leaves her client to answer it. “Nadine’s,” she says into the receiver. “Nadine speaking. What can I do for you?”
Maggie watches the whirlwind that is Nadine check her computer and type in the caller’s information. “Certainly, Mrs. Peters. We can do a color and cut at two o’clock Thursday with Jerome. Perfect. We’ll see you then.” She hangs up the phone, takes a deep breath, and steps around the counter to do a quick appraisal of Maggie’s head. “Honey, have you ever come to the right place,” she pronounces, pulling at the sides of Maggie’s hair. “So many split ends. How long’s it been since you had your hair styled? And have you ever thought of going blond? Blond would be perfect with your coloring. Just look at these cheekbones,” she says, her hand on Maggie’s chin, turning her head from side to side. “You have wonderful bone structure, but trust me, what you’ve got going on now with your hair isn’t doing you any favors.”
Holy shit,Maggie thinks, taking a step back. “Actually, I’m here about the receptionist job….”
“You’re hired,” says Nadine.
“What?”
“My receptionist eloped last week and left me high and dry. I thought I could manage without her over the summer, but you can see how busy we are. When you’re good, word gets around. You look smart. Please tell me you’ve had at least a little experience.”
“Yes, but it was a long time ago,” Maggie demurs, not quite sure what’s happening, “when I was in university, but it was only part-time and—”
“You’re familiar with computers?”
“Yes, but—”
“Shouldn’t take you long to figure everything out. It’s not exactly rocket science. I’ll pay you twelve dollars an hour. When can you start?”
“Uh…I’ll need a day or two to get things organized….”
“Fine. You can start Wednesday. Of course, we’ll have to do something about that hair. I can’t let this”—she makes vague motions around Maggie’s head with her hands—“be the first thing clients see when they walk through the door. Jerome, can you fit in a color and styling for our new receptionist?”
Jerome motions toward an empty chair. “Sit yourself down, sweetheart,” he tells Maggie, patting the back of an empty chair. “I’ll be with you in a flash.”
—
It’s almost three hours later when Maggie turns onto Carlyle Terrace. She’s been sneaking peeks at her reflection in the rearview mirror the entire drive home, alternating between terrified and thrilled by what she sees. “Oh my God,” Jerome had proclaimed when he was done coloring, snipping, and styling, taking several exaggerated steps back to admire his handiwork. “It’s Michelle Pfeiffer’s younger sister!” Everyone in the salon had burst into a round of applause.
Maggie is still so preoccupied with the unexpected events of the morning that she doesn’t immediately register that the pajama-clad girl talking to the skinny young man on the lawn of the house to the right of hers is, in fact, her daughter. “Shit,” she says, pulling into the driveway and turning off the engine, tapping the outline of the gun in her purse as she climbs out of the car. “Erin, what are you doing outside in your pajamas?”
“Holy crap!” Erin exclaims, ignoring her mother’s question as she walks toward her. “What happened toyou?”
Maggie abandons both her outrage and her gun to pat at her hair. “Do you like it?”
Erin makes several complete circles around her mother. “It’s amazing. You look, like, ten years younger.”
“You really think so? I mean, it’sveryblond.”
“It’s very…everything. Wow.”
“Wow?”
“Wow,” says the young man ambling toward them. “You look great. Mark Fisher,” he reminds her, tucking his own straggly hair behind his ear. “Julia’s grandson.”
“Yes. I remember. It’s so nice that you visit your grandmother so often.”
“Actually, Mark’s staying with her for a while,” Erin explains.
“Oh? Are you from out of town?” Maggie hopes he won’t be around for too long.
“No. I’m just hanging out here for a bit.”
