CHAPTER TWO
The door was locked, the lights were off—even the hallway light that we usually kept on—and it was hot as hell inside. I cranked the a/c, turned on the oil warmers, and lit the candles in the lobby and in Elodie’s workroom and mine.
My first client wasn’t until ten thirty. Elodie’s wasn’t scheduled until eleven thirty. She was still snoring on the couch when I left the house, which meant she’d rush through the door at forty past eleven and give her client a sweet smile and a quick apology in that cute little French accent of hers and all would be fine.
Elodie was one of the few people in the world I’d do most anything for. That was especially true now that she was pregnant. She’d found out about the baby just two days after her husband’s boots hit the dirt in Afghanistan. That kind of stuff was the norm around here. I saw it with my parents, with Elodie . . . and countless other women I met throughout my life who raised their kids mostly alone. Military wives are a rare breed of women. As much as I had endless respect for them, I never wanted to be one. My version of loneliness seemed easier than waiting for your love to come home—or, worse, not come home at all.
As soon as I started thinking about all the women and men who had lost their spouses, my heart sank and I could feel the cloud coming over my mind. I tried to distract myself but couldn’t help the overwhelming sadness. I needed some music in here. I hated silence. I wasn’t one to linger in silence; my mind wouldn’t allow it. Recently, I convinced Mali to let me play more relevant music over the speakers while we worked. I couldn’t handle another shift of relaxing spa tunes on repeat for hours. The sleepy sounds of waterfalls and waves got on my nerves and made me drowsy, too. I turned on the iPad and within seconds Banks was washing away the memory of all that soft, dreamy babble. I walked to the front desk to switch the computer on. Not two minutes later, Mali came in with a couple of big tote bags hanging from her thin arms.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, as I took the bags from her.
“Um, nothing?” NoHi?NoHow’s it going, Karina?I laughed and made my way to the back room.
The food in those bags smelled so good. Mali made the best homemade Thai dishes I’d ever tasted, and she always made extra for Elodie and me. She graced us with it at least five days a week. The little avocado—that’s what Elodie called her baby bump—wanted only spicy drunken noodles. It was the basil leaves. She had become obsessed with them since getting pregnant, to the point where she’d pick them out of her noodles and chew on them. Babies made you do the strangest things.
“Karina,” Mali said, smiling. “Answer me. How are you? You look sad.”
That was Mali for you.What’s wrong? You look sad.If it was on her mind, it came out of her mouth.
“Hey—I’m fine,” I said. “Not wearing any makeup.” I rolled my eyes.
“That’s not it. You never wear makeup,” she said, poking my cheek.
No, that wasn’t it. But I wasn’t just sad. And I didn’t like that my mask had slipped enough for Mali to notice. I didn’t like it one bit.