CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
She decided to walk home, partly for the exercise and partly because she wanted to clear her head of all things Heather before seeing Paige. She wondered how many minutes—make that seconds—had elapsed before Bev told her daughter about the new man in Paige’s life. No doubt the news that Paige would be bringing him to the party would influence Heather’s choice of what dress to buy. No way would she chance being outshone by her cousin. Knowing Heather, who no longer had Paige’s taste to rely on, and whose own imagination had always been limited at best, that meant she’d probably select something tight, low-cut, and ultra-sparkly.
Joan did a mental run-through of Paige’s closet, trying to select something from the predominantly low-key options, not finding anything with enough “wow” factor. Paige had already nixed the idea of purchasing anything new for a party she was loath to attend in the first place, insisting that she wasn’t going to compete with Heather on any level.
Of course, that didn’t mean Joan couldn’t compete on her behalf.
Maybe she’d buy something for Paige. If Bev could treat Heather to a new dress, well, then, she could certainly do the same forherdaughter.
Except she couldn’t.
Paige had made her feelings crystal clear, and Joan had to respect her wishes. Her daughter was an adult, and her mind was made up. There would be no new dress, and that was that.
Damn that Heather anyway.
Not doing a very good job of clearing my head,Joan thought. “Time to move on,” she announced to a photograph of a comely young model, whose picture took up half the large front window of a hairdressing salon sandwiched between two upscale designer boutiques. The model was sporting a similar haircut to the one worn by the oddly accented salesperson at Nordstrom’s—chin-length on one side and closely cropped on the other.
Joan studied her own reflection in the glass, trying to superimpose her face onto the model’s, to fit her forehead under the girl’s straight bangs, to picture what it would be like with only half a head of hair.
It was then that she spotted another reflection, this one of a young man—the same man who’d touched her arm in Nordstrom’s earlier?—leaning against the door of a shop across the street, watching her. She spun around.
But if anyone had been standing there, he wasn’t there now.
So now she was seeing things. And it wasn’t just a bunch of squiggles and bright lights. Joan shook her head, wondering if hallucinations of handsome young men could qualify as an ocular migraine.
In the next second, she was pushing open the hairdressing salon’s heavy glass door and approaching the buxom brunette behind the reception counter.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.
Joan glanced back at the window, then took a deep breath. “I was wondering if anyone was available to do my hair.”
—
“Mrs. Hamilton?” the concierge asked, as if he wasn’t sure, as she entered the beige marble lobby of her condominium.
“Yes, Eddy. It’s me,” she told the clearly startled young man, stopping briefly to pat the newly shorn side of her hair. “What do you think?”
“Oh, my God, look at you!” a voice exclaimed before he could respond. “It’s Linda,” the woman reminded Joan, leaving the bank of elevators where she’d been standing. She was wearing the same hot-pink top and navy leggings as when Joan had last seen her at the gym, and the slight flush to her cheeks told Joan she’d probably been out jogging. “Are you all right?” she asked, approaching cautiously. “Rick told me about having to call an ambulance for you the other night. What happened?” Her eyes circled Joan’s hair. “Did the doctors have to shave your head?”
“God, no. Nothing like that. It was just indigestion. I’m fine.” Joan’s fingers fluttered around her head without landing. “I’ve just been to the hairdresser’s.”
“You did that on purpose?”
“Oh, God. Is it that bad?”
Linda quickly backpedaled. “No. Of course not.” She coughed into her hand. “You just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
“I felt like a change.”
“You got it.”
“Oh, dear.” Tears filled Joan’s eyes. What had she done?
“No, no,” Linda said. “It’s justsodifferent, that’s all. Once you get used to it, it’s actually quite…cute.”
“Cute?” There was no mistaking the horror in Joan’s voice.
“Flattering,” Linda amended.