Double Trouble (41 page)

“It’s wonderfully thick, very healthy despite the obvious abuse.” He surveyed my ends, his expression adequately conveying his opinion.

Beverly stood slightly behind me, her arms folded across her chest. Both she and I were wrapped in terry robes so thick and swish that I was wondering how I could nick one without anyone noticing. “I think it’s too heavy for her face.”

“Oh, yes, it’s definitely in need of shaping.”

“She has such lovely cheekbones.”

“Great blue eyes.” Adrian twisted my hair up in his hands, studying my reflection in the mirror as he mocked different lengths of cut. He pulled a few strands free, arranging them over my brow. “Maybe we should take it to the shoulders, work in some long layers to get rid of the bulk, give it some swing. Maybe a few long bangs.” He plucked and pushed my hair around, showing what he would do.

I found it interesting that “we” apparently didn’t include me.

“That would draw attention to those eyes,” Adrian continued, fixed on his vision. “Then, we could sweep it up for formal occasions.” He did just that, baring my neck.

“We want something elegant,” Beverly said firmly. “Gracious and graceful.”

Adrian arched a brow. “Yet easily maintained.”

I could have been insulted at his assumption of my prowess with hair care, but then, he had pretty much nailed it. I color my hair, I trim the ends bluntly with a pair of kitchen shears. This is the sum of my hair care regimen.

I guess it showed.

“
We
have to be able to make a ponytail,” I insisted and Adrian nodded, barely listening to me.

He was too busy grimacing. “But the color...” he began, unable to bring himself to finish. He rubbed my hair between his fingers and tsk-tsked

“The black has to go,” Beverly concurred. “It’s too harsh.”

“How about my natural color?” I interjected. They both looked at me as if they’d forgotten I was there, a curious thing since the man’s hands were full of my hair.

“What is your natural color?”

“It’s golden brown,” Beverly said, then faltered. “At least if it’s like Marcia’s.”

“Beverly, we all know how many luscious shades come out of bottles,” Adrian chided gently and Beverly lifted one hand to her lusciously silver coiff.

“It’s brown,” I said with a smile. “The exact color of melted chocolate.”

Adrian studied my roots and the hue of my brows, looking for confirmation of what I said. “It could very well have been,” he conceded finally. “How long since you’ve seen it?”

I shrugged. “Twenty years, give or take.”

He leaned closer, his expression puckish. “I hate to break it to you, darling, but your natural color might be grey.”

I laughed, because he was probably right and he grinned at me in the mirror. Then he pushed my hair around more aggressively. “All right then, we’re going to make some highlights, subtle ones in reddish hues to draw attention to the face.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You’ll get your ponytail, but you’ll look stunning with your hair up or down.” Then he snapped his fingers and called for his girls to gather around.

“A pedicure and manicure, too,” Beverly said with a smooth authority that had the staff bobbing their heads. At my expression of surprise, she smiled. “Don’t worry, Maralys. This is my treat. I find a certain appeal in spending part of my divorce settlement from Robert on you.”

* * *

We actually did lunch, which was a first for me, but in the rosy glow of having been fully pampered at the spa, anything less would have been unthinkable. It was a late lunch, given our efforts of the morning. I really liked my hair. It did swing and the color was something I could never have achieved on my own. Not quite natural, not boring, yet not outrageous either.

I looked expensive. Got to love that.

We zipped down to visit Meg, to check on her progress in the Great Dress Hunt. She was smiling. “I just left you a message, because it’s here and it’s wonderful, like some kind of cosmic justice Maralys it’s the most
perfect
thing for you, no one else could possibly wear it the way you do and check the color! Your hair will go perfectly with it now, I was a bit worried because the dress has a certain attitude and it could have so not worked, but obviously this was meant to be.”

Beverly looked momentarily alarmed by this soliloquy.

“She breathes through her pores,” I explained when Meg disappeared into the back. “She’s been doing it for years. You’ll get used to it.”

Beverly began to nod, then her eyes nearly fell out of her head. I turned to look and gasped myself.

“It’s fantastic!” I lunged at the dress, marveling at its details. It was a flamenco dress, probably the real thing judging by its ruffles and frills. It was literally the hue of flames and quite possibly had been worn on stage. Surely there was no other reason for it to be orange, red and hot pink.

It was hard to look straight at the dress.

One look and I was smitten. I
wanted
this one.

“Try it on, try it on. I hope it fits, Maralys, because it’s just so you and the only reason I took it on was because it made me think of you. It was worn by a dancer who passed away and her daughter brought it in, such sentimental value, they want a fortune for it but look at the workmanship! It’s lined, the seams are French-finished and look at the handwork in the hem...”

I was peeling off clothes in the middle of the shop, which wasn’t as outrageous as it sounds. The place is so packed with clothing racks that it’s hard to see two feet away, let alone glimpse anything from outside the store. Both Beverly and Meg had seen everything I have, and I wanted to get that dress on my back ASAP.

It gaped through the bust—surprise—but Meg was busy pinning and tucking before I could even comment on that. She said the darts were divine intervention because they were exactly where they needed to be for her to make them deeper and adjust the dress for me. The length wasn’t an issue, as it so often was, as the dress had a train. It perhaps had less train on me than on its original owner, but who was to know?

I did a fakey little flamenco dance, liking the feel of the dress very much. It was heavy in the back, which made you sway your hips in a very seductive way, but was cut high to show leg up to the knee in front. The back of the bodice dove to almost the cleft of my bum, what there was of the bodice hugging my curves. Meg would make it fit like a second skin.

It was glamour, writ large.

Beverly alone appeared skeptical. “Where in the name of God would you wear such a dress?”

“I’m having a party. You should come.” I gave her the Readers’ Digest condensed version of the sad saga of Neil and the disappearing money, and my resulting joust with the IRS.

Her eyes narrowed as she considered the dress. She walked around me, considering. “It does suit you. But you’ll need some kind of support and a bra won’t do.”

“What about those cups that kind of stick on your skin?” Meg suggested.

“I’ll swing loose.” I lifted my arms over my head and wiggled, letting my breasts rock.

Beverly gave me a stern look. “I thought you wanted my advice.”

“I do.”

“Hookers swing loose. Sixteen-year-olds swing loose. You are neither. You will show no nipples, which in that dress means you need support. You also will refrain from wearing castanets.”

It was galling to think that she’d seen through me as far as that. I’d thought the castanets would be a surprise. “If I’d known you were going to be such a spoilsport...”

“No jewelry. It will just clutter the look.”

“I’d thought something gold...”

“No. Simplicity is the key with such a dress.” Beverly pursed her lips. “The shoes will make or break it,” she concluded. “They must be the perfect height and the perfect shade of red. When is this party?”

“Next Friday.”

“Then we don’t have much time. We have to shop for shoes and we have to do so immediately.”

I grinned at her. “Now, we’re speaking the same language.”

* * *

It was six when Beverly dropped me off at the loft. We had indeed found the right shoes, after much searching, and they had even been in the markdown bin. Meg had given us a snippet of fabric from the bodice dart that was doomed to get bigger. I had a newfound and healthy respect for Beverly’s shopping abilities by the time she returned me home. I was bagged, too.

I had already decided to introduce her to Krystal, though the two might change the face of the world forever if they shopped together.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Beverly. I never expected you to help me so much.”

“You needed it,” she said wryly, and we both laughed.

“You’ll come Friday?”

“I’ll be delighted to. Here?”

I looked at the sleek leather interior of her car as I nodded. “Maybe you should take a cab.”

“I will.”

“And bring a friend, if you like. There’s lots of room.”

She sobered then and sighed. “I don’t think there’s much possibility of that, Maralys.”

“Then maybe you’ll meet someone here.”

Her smile was thin. “I doubt you know any old men.”

“You might be surprised.”

She studied me. “ Yes, I might be. You seem to be a woman with a full store of surprises.” She tilted her head. “Thank you, Maralys.”

“For what?”

“For a day so busy and so interesting that I forgot all about needing a little encouragement in the middle of the afternoon.”

She looked so careworn that I reached out and touched her hand. “How is it going?”

“Oh, it’s appalling. You sit with strangers and they expect you to confess all your secrets and urges.” She shuddered. “I was raised to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself. I find it quite distasteful to know as much as I do about these people. There are people I have known for decades without knowing a tenth of what I have learned about these troubled souls.”

“Does it help?”

“I don’t know.” She was impatient with the thought. “I suppose that they are right, in that you cannot solve a problem that you haven’t faced. They are right that you must understand why you drink to stop drinking. And they respect that none of this is easily done.”

“Maybe some kind of private counseling would be easier.”

“Oh, undoubtedly. But I’m not certain that it would be very effective. I can’t help thinking that my urge to keep sordid matters private while presenting a good face to the world is a part of this, and a part that I need to address. This compels me to a kind of honesty, which not easy and not pretty and not even entirely welcome. I think, though, that it’s healthy.” She shrugged and smiled. “In my good moments, at least.”

“And in the dark ones?”

“I wonder why the hell I bother. The problem, of course, is that I have always drunk when I felt isolated or lonely. My life right now, in the midst of this divorce, is being played almost entirely in that key.”

“You miss Robert?” I was incredulous and she must have heard it, because she smiled again.

“I miss the sound of others around me. I miss knowing that I could go downstairs and talk to someone else, even though I know that I never did. Condos, although neat solutions, are often chilly.” She sighed. “And I miss the habits of Robert. It has been years since I loved him, but he was familiar and there is comfort in familiarity. It is frightening to face the world alone at my age, no less because the world has become obsessed with youth and wealth.” Beverly toyed with the stick shift. “I lack one and, if Robert has his way, will soon lack the other as well.”

“I thought he wanted the divorce.”

“Oh, he does. He also wants the money.” She shook her head. “It’s very ugly, Maralys, and not worth discussing further. Essentially, Robert’s pride is at stake and he is determined to not let it go cheaply, regardless of the cost to me.” She glanced up. “He has retired as a judge, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“He’s astute enough to see the writing on the wall. He’s a great tactical thinker, is Robert.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Robert is what used to be known as a hanging judge—his supporting vote comes from the conservative right. These are not people who will be particularly compassionate that he was cuckolded, or that he is divorced, when next they go to the polls. He has retired, rather than face them, though his official reason is to rebuild the practice of Coxwell & Coxwell in James’ absence.”

She looked suddenly so tired and defeated that I felt like a jerk for not inviting her up sooner. “Do you want to come up for a cup of tea or something?”

Beverly smiled, my question restoring her gracious mask. “No, thank you, Maralys. But I will see you on Friday. And I may call you on an afternoon when I feel a weakness, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d like that.” I smiled at her and she smiled back.

“One day at a time,” she said, then smiled once again. “Thank you for this one. Now, please remember, no castanets.” She winked as I got out of the car.

“How about finger cymbals? Belly dancers have some really cute ones.”

She smiled and waved, revving the Jag as she drove away. I stood on the pavement and watched her go, feeling tremendously sympathetic to her. I could have become someone like Beverly Coxwell, my shields so secured into place that it would take a nuclear blast to get them down.

Well, she was in for a surprise. I have some big guns at my disposal. Whether or not James and I worked things out, I was going to reach out to Beverly—even if she nipped at my fingers once in a while.

I figured I was the only one with the credentials to understand.

* * *

I managed to wait until 9:32 on Monday morning before calling James at his new job. The receptionist had a bit of fun hunting him down as it was his first day and he probably wasn’t on the roster yet. I tapped my toes.

“James Coxwell,” he said crisply and I jumped even though I’d known he’d answer eventually.

“Hey sailor. Thought I’d congratulate you on your new job.”

“Maralys!” There was warmth and pleasure in his tone, enough to soothe my fretting.

I interrupted him before he could continue. “Look, I wanted you to know something. I respect you to make the best decisions here but you need to have all the facts.”