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“Sure you have. The women at Paths are crazy about these products. Crazy enough to talk to strangers about it.” She pointed to herself and grinned. “We need to sample more of the market, but indications are good.”
“They want to support me.”Just like I would any of them.
“You’re too modest.” She glanced at my barely touched coffee. I lifted it to my lips and took a long swallow. “Where do you want to place your product?”
“Umm . . .” The lobby of Holt’s garage popped into my head. It didn’t make sense to have beauty products in a garage, though I loved the idea of a boutique space. That took money I didn’t have. An online store made the most sense, but I hadn’t let myself think of that.
Having dreams of any kind wasn’t something I deserved, yet I couldn’t seem to help myself.
“How much are you selling the gloss for at Trish’s food truck?” Hayden carried on before I could give a proper answer.
I gaped at her. How did she know all of this? “Two dollars.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Two dollars? For this? You’re losing money.”
I had no idea. The point was the enjoyment I got out of making my own makeup. An image of Holt with lip gloss and powder on popped into my head. I liked my guinea pig too.
“Who did the logo?” Hayden forged ahead, examining the cap for the gloss.
“Cricket.”
“The quiet girl?” I nodded. “She’s talented. This is a great start.”
“I told her to make something that conveyed natural and feminine.”
“You’ve got the foundation. We just have to build on it. And I’m going to help you.”
“You don’t have to do that. Thank you, but you have the magazine and . . .”
Like yesterday, becoming overwhelmed sent me spiraling into a panic that closed my throat.
“I want to do this. I want to be part of it.” She frowned. “Have I inserted myself here without invitation?”
“No. I’m grateful for your enthusiasm. I just—this has blown up into something I didn’t expect.” The confession lifted a weight off my chest.
Her expression softened. “Do you think I planned to build one of the most powerful magazines in the world?”
I nodded. Yes. I absolutely did.
A faraway look glazed her eyes as she glanced out the window. “I loved fashion. I loved products. I loved women’s issues. And I loved to write. So I did it. Somewhere along the way, I discovered I had a knack for presenting all of those things.”
She reached into her bag again and slid a worn out group of pages bound together by plastic comb binding.
“That’s the first magazine I ever produced.”
The photographs were cut out polaroids pasted onto a thick paper. The articles were done in the same fashion.
“Did you use a typewriter?” I asked, thumbing through the short magazine. It was rudimentary, but there was something about it I loved. The magazine now was just a glammed up version of this very thing.
“Early eighties, baby,” she said with a grin. “When you look at that, do you see what we have today? No way. And neither did I.”
“Maybe not, but this is the magazine.” I paged through it again.
“That’s the work of a kid who loved what she loved and thought other girls might too.”
“It’s obvious in these pages.” I squinted at a photograph. “Is that you?”
“That’s me.” She motioned toward the image of her younger self. “Think I should do my hair that way again?”
