Not Your Everyday Housewife (6 page)

Clydesville was the kind of town a person stopped in for a night if he were so exhausted he risked ramming his car into a tree. People called it a pass-through, where they made the sign of the cross if they were religious, rubbed two stones together if they were superstitious, and just hoped the carburetor didn’t blow.

There was always a rinky-dink bar or restaurant serving half pound burgers and crispy onion rings, the place stuffed with locals sipping long necks. And Ford F150-350’s lined up out back, plastered with
Local U.A.W.
or
God Bless America
decals

Derry, Shea, and Cyn sat in a red vinyl booth at The Blue Eagle, a joint that specialized in hot dogs smothered in chili sauce, battered onion rings on a stick, and $1.50 drafts.

“Those men over there are staring at us,” Shea said, fingering her black, freshly-dried hair.

“It’s probably been a while since they’ve seen women with teeth.” Derry flashed a smile at the two men in question. One waved back, the other just kept staring.

“It’s our hair,” Cyn pronounced, ruffling hers with both hands. “And the red lipstick. I haven’t worn red in”—she paused, considered—“I don’t think I’ve ever worn red.” Her sleeveless top was a shimmery black knit, one of Derry’s, a medium though she usually wore large.

“New hair. New face. New look.” Derry slid a cigarette from its case, lit it and extended her long neck toward the ceiling as she exhaled.

Shea coughed. “Derry, please.”

“Sorry, I forgot.” She snubbed out the cigarette, lifted her beer and saluted. “You both look great. Cyn, you’ve got great boobs, you shouldn’t hide them under those tents you always wear. And Shea, the cleavage peeking out of that zipper will drive men wild.”

Shea yanked the zipper to the base of her neck. Derry laughed. “That’s not going to keep them away. They can see the curves beneath all that pink velour. Any man’s fantasy.” Derry wore a red jumpsuit, her near perfect body poured into it. “And in three months, I’ll be a size 38 DD,
every
man’s fantasy. Though I’m not so sure about this hair, it’s more Susan Powter than Marilyn Monroe.”

Derry would look gorgeous with her head shaved, GI Jane style.

“Look at those men.” Shea motioned to the two who’d been ogling them. “They’re coming this way.”

“God, Derry, get rid of them,” Cyn muttered under her breath, wishing she were hiding behind a Washington Redskin sweatshirt right now instead of a stripped down version of a Victoria’s Secret ad.

“Relax, I can handle these local yokels.”

“We’ve done our something different for the day; let’s just get out of here.” Shea grabbed her purse, clutched it against her stomach.

Too late. Barney Fife and his cohort surrounded them with big smiles and extra doses of heavy cologne. “Hey, little ladies,” the taller one said in a bad John Wayne imitation. “You’re not from around here, are ya?”

Derry leaned back in her chair and lifted her glass. “No, we’re not.”

Encouraged, the taller man moved closer. “Mind if we join you?”

Derry shrugged, “Sure, why not?”

The shorter one—Cyn thought of him as Barney Fife—smiled at her and dragged two chairs to their table. Barney was small and wiry with a wide-striped polyester tie, a short-sleeved white shirt and brown pants cinched with a three inch tan belt. “Pleased to meet you, ladies,” he said quickly, his words sifting through the huge gap between his front teeth. He extended a wet, sticky hand. “Elroy McGill.”

“Hello, Elroy.” Derry pulled on the vowels making them sound like sex talk.

“I’m Ed Johnson, people call me Big Ed,” the other man said as he slid Derry a once over. “Or you can call me Big Johnson.”

“I’m Marilyn, and this is Liz, and Sophia.”

“Dang! Like the movie stars.” Elroy’s grin widened as he plopped down next to Shea. His gaze settled on the soft mounds of velour. “Hi, Liz. You sure are something.”

“Uh, thank you.”

“Where you from?”

“Hollywood.” Derry sipped her beer.

“No kidding?” Big Ed edged closer to Derry and spread his large hands flat on the table. “
Are
you movie stars?”

“You could say that.” Derry slid a glance toward Cyn and Shea. “Actually, we’re passing through on our way up north to a shoot.”

“What’s the names of the movies you been in?” Elroy gaped at Shea’s chest, mouth open, fleshy tongue flicking his wet lips.

“We’ve been in a few,” Derry purred.

“We’ve been in lots,” Shea burst out. “Tons, with massive, muscular hulks. Big, big muscles.” She stretched her arms wide. “They should be here any minute.”

“They’re monsters,” Cyn piped in.

“Hey, I think I’ve seen you before,” Elroy said, giving Shea a knowing nod. “I just didn’t recognize you at first.”

“That’s quite all right.” Shea beamed. “It happens to us all the time. Without all the hair and makeup it can be confusing.”

“No.” Elroy shook his head. “It’s the clothes that threw me.”

“Oh well, I don’t usually dress this way.”

“It’s the clothes, period,” he repeated. “I’m used to seeing you without them.”

“Damn.” Big Ed cracked the table with the flat of his hand. “That’s her, the one from Lemon Meringue.”

“Yup.” Elroy nodded, his gaze roaming up and down Shea’s pink velour body.

Shea’s mouth opened slowly and the words drizzled out. “You think I’m a
porn star
?”

“Honey, I’ve seen you, I mean I’ve
seen
you. I watched Lemon Meringue six times just to see the part where you and—”

“Stop!”

“Don’t get all upset, Liz. We know you girls don’t like to advertise it except when you’re in front of the camera.”

“That’s right, we don’t.” Derry stood and motioned for Cyn and Shea to do the same. “Nice meeting you, Big Ed, Elroy.” She nodded to both men and extended a hand. “And don’t forget to look for our new movie due out next March. All three of us are in it”—she paused—“it’s called Pink Peacock Persuasion.”

***

The Tuscan Grille prided itself for its seared tuna and shark, Long Island Iced Teas, and two hour waits. Sam usually avoided the place, refusing to frequent a facility which couldn’t accommodate customer needs. On the rare occasion when Cyn talked him into going, he spent his wait reconstructing the interior; waterfalls nixed, aquarium down-sized, ceilings raised, coat room relegated to hooks on the side of booths, tables inched closer to eliminate extra steps and improve economy of motion.

Tonight he found himself at the Tuscan Grille, seated in five minutes at a table overlooking the river. The waiter, a young man named Philip, deposited a Long Island Iced Tea at his table and evaporated into the background. Sam knew it wasn’t luck or happenstance that facilitated such service. It was Alec Rohan.

He’d called Derry’s husband because something wasn’t right. Cyn never made demands, especially for herself, but she’d done just that a few days ago. And the demand had been astronomical, at least in Sam’s mind. He’d heard of other women who up and left their families for a week or two to reunite with college friends. And some moved hundreds of miles away to start a new job while the rest of the family stayed behind. But Cyn didn’t have classmates or a career to pull her away.

What she had was Derry Rohan.

Odd, that in the five years since Cyn and Derry became friends, Sam had never met Alec. Now why was that? Was the man too tied up with his D.C. connections to bother with his wife’s comings and goings? Maybe that’s why Derry was such a wild card. And what about the kid? Charlie, wasn’t it? How could she just up and leave a little kid? Cyn had a hard enough time saying good-bye to two teenagers.

And that’s why he’d called Alec Rohan, because things didn’t add up. Cyn phoned last night and told him Shea was with them, but Sam didn’t bother calling Richard Donovan. If there wasn’t a commission involved, Donovan wouldn’t be interested.

“Sam Cintar?”

The man standing over him was a few years younger than Sam, with
a movie star smile
, as Janie would say, and
great hair
. Sam pushed back his chair and stood up. “You must be Alec.”

“Good to meet you.”

“Likewise.” They exchanged handshakes and sat down. “I’ve avoided this place because I think a two hour wait is ridiculous. But five minutes? That’s shorter than a drive-through window.”

Alec laughed. “Don’t be impressed. I did some work for the owners.”

“I see, people in high places.”

“I guess.” Alec shrugged. “It can work against you, too.”

“Cyn said you lived in D.C. for a while. Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes. It’s the pulse of the country, who wouldn’t want to be there? But it’s not the type of place to raise a family. It leaches your time until you’re spending seven days a week at work, and even when you’re not there, you’re still working.”

“That can be any job,” Sam said, thinking of his own work. “There must be some genetic predisposition that forces men to put work first, everything else second.”

“It’s called testosterone.”

“Exactly.”

They fell silent a moment and then Sam said, “This whole trip didn’t make any sense to me. Cyn never asks for anything but she was adamant about this trip. How could I say no? But from the second she pulled out of the driveway with your wife, I’ve regretted giving in so easily.” He rubbed his jaw, adjusted his glasses. “And not getting any real answers.”

“Where do I fit in?”

“I thought you might know something.”

Alec shook his head. “The cleaning lady knows more than I do these days. Didn’t your wife tell you about Derry and me?”

“She mentioned there were problems.”

“That’s a socially appropriate response.” His laugh stripped the emotion from his voice. “I think my name will be on the court docket once she gets back in town.”

Divorce?

Alec went on, “Do you want me to help you find out what your wife’s up to?”

Sam stared blankly at the man across the table. He and Cyn had always joked about spying on each other.
That new mailman looks like he belongs on Ventura Beach pumping iron. Have you noticed him, Cyn?
Or,
Does that cute little secretary know how to type, Sam?

“I think I’m overreacting,” Sam said, because now
he
felt like a fool and a betrayer.

“Has she given you any reason to suspect this trip is more than just a girls’ vacation?”

“No.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Twenty-one years next June.”

“Would you say you know your wife fairly well?”

Sam nodded. What was he getting at? Cyn would be mad as hell if she found out he’d doubted her like this.

“And you trust her implicitly?”Alec asked, his tone even, his words smooth.

“Of course.”

“Those words are every husband’s death march.”

“Look,” Sam said, suddenly annoyed, “I just called to see if you knew anything about this trip, not to have you paint my wife as a liar and a cheat.”

Alec held up his hands and shrugged. “It’s the lawyer in me. Don’t take it personally.”

“My wife isn’t cheating on me.”

“I didn’t say she was.”

“You implied, isn’t that what you lawyers do? Imply?”

“Not always.”

Sam took a drink, narrowed his eyes on Alec. “Maybe calling you was a mistake.”

“Look, you’ve heard the phrase, ‘The husband’s always the last to know?’ I’ve had friends whose wives have stripped them blind. I see it every day, so maybe I’m more cynical than the average guy, and if I’ve offended you, I’m sorry. I’ve already got a guy tracking Derry. It wouldn’t be a problem to add your wife to his list.”

“You’re actually spying on your wife?”

“I like to think of it as information-gathering.”

“Jesus.”

“Think about it, and let me know.”

“I don’t have to think about it,” Sam said. “I’m not spying on my wife.”

“Okay.” Alec Rohan nodded. “But if you change your mind, give me a call.”

They were minutes from their destination, Ogunquit, Maine, a tiny art community which Derry visited when she was a graduate student. Brilliant swatches of gold, red and orange dappled the landscape, mesmerizing the casual passerby with easy familiarity. This was the kind of place a person escaped to for gulps of salt air and introspection.

Cyn had never been this far north before. She and Sam had talked about a trip to Bar Harbor a few years ago, but then he’d lost his job.

Guilt visited her in tiny pockets each day of the trip—a missed call from Sam, late hour good nights that dangled with the unspoken, even the phone calls from her daughters, which didn’t come.

Did they all resent her for doing this?

And what about the neighbors? Had they noticed she was gone?

And the school?

And St. Michael’s? What would Father Grazi say?

And the clerks at Fresh Mart?

What would
everyone
say when they discovered she’d left her family for a month?

Why did you leave? Where did you go?
They’d make assumptions.
Are you and Sam having problems? Are you in rehab? Are you coming back to stay?
And of course, they’d judge.
I could never do that, you should never do that,
but some might say
, I wish
I
could do that…

“I’ve called three bed and breakfasts,” Derry said, maneuvering the Navigator off the exit. At the bottom of the hill, the sign read, Ogunquit, two miles.

Shea slouched in the backseat, staring out the window. She hadn’t spoken much since last night, when she got back to the motel and discovered the whole underside of her head was still red
.

“The one I’m really interested in is a mile from the water, a big, old country home, three meals a day, a tub to share, and get this, Salsa classes.” Derry laughed. “The woman sounds like a real fruit, asked me if we liked carrot juice and Bob Marley.”

“I think staying in someone else’s home is creepy.” This from Shea. “How do you know they won’t sneak into your room at night and slit your throat?”

“Come on, Shea,” Derry said. “I’m sorry about your hair, okay? How was I to know you’d need two bottles? I told you we’d get it fixed as soon as we got to Ogunquit.”

“Now I really look like a freak.”

“You know, all that negative crap is bad for the baby.”

“Poor thing.” Shea rubbed her belly and murmured, “You’re already screwed up and you haven’t taken your first breath.”

“If that’s how you feel about it, get rid of it.” Derry snapped. “We’ve got enough messed up kids in this world, we don’t need another one.”

“I could never do anything to harm this baby!”

“If you don’t get it together, the kid will be in therapy before he’s five.”

“I’m trying.” Shea’s voice quivered. “It’s just hard.”

“Look, there it is!” Cyn blurted out, pointing to the
Welcome to Ogunquit
sign stenciled in blue and white and encircled by a cluster of pink roses.

Ogunquit mirrored the
New England Living
magazine Cyn picked up yesterday. Baskets crowded with petunias, impatiens, vinca vine and nasturtium hung from street lamps. Wooden tubs of red geraniums stuffed with dusty miller lined both sides of Main Street. Stained glass in blue, purple, and pink hues added a cozy welcome to storefronts. Wicker rocking chairs lined up outside New England Beanery, Estes Creamery and Olander Confections.

There was even a trolley, red with white trim, a lazy man’s alternative to sightseeing.
Sam would love this
, Cyn thought, and then felt immediately guilty because she was here and he wasn’t.

“Let’s find The Bird’s Nest,” Derry said. “We can check in and then hit the water.”

“I’m not doing anything until I get my hair fixed,” Shea said.

“We’ll find a CVS or something and buy another bottle. It’ll be quick and easy, you’ll see.” Derry downplayed it, but from the back, Shea’s red hair seeped through the black dye like a net.

“No thank you. I think I’ll find a professional to take care of it.”

“Fine.” Derry shrugged. “If you want to trust a stranger rather than your friend, go for it.”

“You are
not
a cosmetologist,” Shea reminded her. “If you were, you would have known how much goop to put on my hair.”

“We were working in the bathroom sink of a motel, remember? Not exactly a lot of room, and we were pressed for time. I’ve dyed my hair hundreds of times and never had a problem.”

“Well, this time you did.”

“So fine, we’ll ask Tula Rae the name of a salon for you.”

“Tula Rae? What’s that?”

“It’s the name of the owner of The Bird’s Nest.”

“I think I’ll just trust the phone book,” Shea said, falling back into her seat with a sigh.

***

“Name’s Tula Rae, girls.” The wiry creature with the gray braid trailing half way down her back hefted Shea’s luggage from the trunk with one hand. “Born in Mayesville, South Carolina, lived here since 1955 when I came with my first husband, Eddie Mame.” She grabbed one of Cyn’s bags and trekked up the front steps, talking over her shoulder in a deep Southern accent, “We was one of the first mixed couples to settle in Ogunquit.” She grinned at the women behind her, revealing the huge gap between her front teeth. “Tula Rae’s always giving them something to talk about, most times something to think about, too.”

Shea hoisted her suitcase up another stone step, trailing after the spitfire who referred to herself in third person. The woman was all legs and arms, no chest, with a little potbelly sticking out of her spandex shorts. Years of weathering and New England winds had wrinkled her skin to a crisp, raisin brown.

“There’s four bedrooms upstairs,” she said, pointing to a stairway in front of them. “This here’s the parlor, where you can entertain guests. That room to the left is the living room. It’s got a television but we got no cable and no remote. I like to say that straight up because too many people depend on a remote control like it’s part of their body. One couple refused to stay here on account of that.”

“I don’t think we’ll have a problem with that,” Cyn assured her.

“I sure as to God, hope not. This town’s got more to see than years to see it in. How long will ya’ll be staying?”

“Four weeks,” Derry said, “give or take a day or two.”

“Fine by me.” Tula Rae nodded her head and continued, “Kitchen’s in through there, three meals a day. Anything else you want, you got to buy it yourself, and do your own dishes.”

“Do we get a key to the house?” Shea checked the door on the way in and it was awful flimsy with no deadbolt.

“A key? Tula Rae ain’t locked her door since she and Eddie moved here in 1955.”

“This isn’t 1955 anymore, Ms. Rae,” Shea said. “I think you need a lock.”

“Never been necessary.”

“Well, I expect a lock for my bedroom door then.”

“Jumpy one, ain’t you? Honey, we don’t lock doors—house, bedroom, bathroom, we don’t lock doors.”

Derry jumped in. “It’s fine, Ms. Rae. May I call you Tula?”

“Call me Tula or Tula Rae, either’s fine by me.” She eyed Shea, tapped a bony finger to her chin. “This here town’s a place to settle down and relax. If you can’t do it here, you won’t find a stretch a land anywhere in the U S of A where you can do it.”

Shea turned away, pretending she didn’t know Tula Rae was talking to her.

“That’s some hairdo you got, missy,” the older woman cackled. “I seen black hair and I seen red, but I never seen the two together, except on the young crowd.” She lowered her voice, “And honey, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re too old for that.”

Shea twirled around, grabbed her hair in her left hand, forcing the colors together. “Yes, I’m well aware of the sad state of my hair.” She glared at Derry. “I need to have it fixed.”

“Marcus at Franco’s Salon can fix it. He’s the best. I’ll give him a call, tell him you’re coming.”

“Uh”—Shea scanned Tula Rae’s frizzy gray braid—“thank you.”

“De nada.” Tula Rae laughed. “That slipped out. My second husband was from Tijuana. Fredo Lay couldn’t speak a word of English when I met him. Nada.” She laughed again. “Rooms are upstairs. I’ll call Marcus for you.” She pointed to Shea. “And then I’ve got to run. My kickboxing class starts in fifteen minutes.”

“You take kickboxing?” Shea stared hard at the woman. She must be sixty-eight, maybe seventy.

“No, I
teach
kickboxing.”

An hour later, Shea was still thinking about Tula Rae as she wandered down Main Street, notepaper in hand with Franco’s Salon written in Tula Rae’s chicken scratch.

If Marcus cut and styled that woman’s hair—which looked like it belonged to a frizzy Granny Clampet without the bun—what would he do to hers? Maybe giving Derry a second chance wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Or not.

Richard, why did you do this to me? How could you?
If it weren’t for him she wouldn’t be wandering around this odd-named town looking for a hair stylist named Marcus, who was going to do God knew what with her hair. Hopefully, he’d be gay, then he’d know what he was doing. Gay men had a sense of style.
Please, be gay.

“May I help you?” A startling young woman dressed in a silver blouse and black tuxedo pants painted to her thin thighs, approached Shea.

“I’m here to see Marcus.”

The young woman raised a perfectly arched black brow. “I’m sorry but he only takes clients by appointment. If you’d like to book something,”—she flipped through several pages of appointment book—“his first opening is six weeks from Tuesday.”

“No.” Shea started to shake her head but stopped when she remembered the red and black lattice work from Derry’s efforts. “I thought Tula Rae was supposed to call.”

“Oh! Why didn’t you say Tula Rae sent you?” The young woman’s smile sparkled apologies. “Can I get you any coffee? Tea? Bottled water?”

“No, thank you, I’ll just wait.”

Shea sat on a sea foam leather chair facing the salon. There were three men and three woman cutting, coloring, and blow drying. She honed in on the men. Which one was Marcus? The first man stood about a head taller than Shea; lean, well-built with black curls glistening on the top of his head. His jaw was unshaven, his eyes a rich cinnamon, and he wore a leather wrist band, two silver rings, and a silver medallion around his neck. He could be Marcus. The second man was taller, broad and muscular with tattoos scaling his right arm, weaving curls of ink beneath his Under Armour shirt. Shea heard someone call him Rick. Her gaze settled on the third man as he leaned forward, fingers easing through his female client’s hair in a slow scalp massage. It was hard to tell his height, but Shea guessed just under six feet. He was well-built, too, in a black T-shirt, tight jeans, and clogs. She spotted a single tattoo on his right forearm, but couldn’t make out the design. His black hair was spiked and gelled, his skin tanned, his ears pierced with silver hoops.

When he lifted his head, Shea knew he must be Marcus. His cheekbones were high and well-sculpted, his lips full, and he had the most brilliant blue eyes she’d ever seen. It was Marcus all right. No straight man could be so beautiful.

Shea leaned back and sighed.
If that’s Marcus, I have nothing to worry about.
Nothing at all…

“Shea Donovan?”

She jerked her eyes open. Mr. Gorgeous with the blue eyes stood before her.
Thank God.
She smiled, and said, “Thank you so much for seeing me. Marcus, isn’t it?” She extended a hand and he took it in his own warm, callous-free hands.

“I’m Marcus Orelean. Tula Rae said you needed some help?”

His eyes are even bluer than Alec Rohan’s.
Shea lifted a piece of hair. “It’s a mess.” She laughed. “My friend decided we should all dye our hair, you know, to look like movie stars. I was supposed to be Liz Taylor, she was Marilyn Monroe and my other friend—” she stopped mid-sentence, realizing she must sound ridiculous.

“Who was she?” he asked, his full lips curving to reveal stark white teeth. “Raquel Welch? “

“Sophia Loren.”

“Ah, Sophia. Good choices.” He leaned over and she inhaled his cologne, a spicy mix of musk and nutmeg. “But why would anyone ever cover such exquisite hair?” Marcus sifted chunks of her hair through his fingers, lifted the underside. “Was it virgin?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your hair, was it virgin before this?”

“Oh, yes. Yes it was virgin.”

“Good. Let’s give it a treatment and see how close we can match this to your natural color.” He let her hair fall and stepped away. “You do want to go natural, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she said, though she’d been thinking of keeping up the Liz ruse until a second ago.

“Okay.” He extended a hand and helped her from the chair. “Right this way, Shea.”

She walked beside the gorgeous young man with the blue eyes and tight jeans, and felt old and dumpy. And lumpy. Why hadn’t she listened to Derry today and worn the pink velour again instead of green scrubs? At least she could look neat, even if she was twenty-five pounds overweight with bi-color hair.

What did it matter anyway? Her self esteem lived in the basement, no sense trying to yank it up the stairs now.

“Let’s give your scalp a massage and then we’ll get started,” Marcus said, motioning toward a chair.

He was well-spoken, polite, with just a hint of familiarity.
That’s how he gains the trust of his clients
, Shea thought as he massaged peppermint-lavender oil into her scalp with long, capable fingers. His voice swirled around her, dipping and pulling like warm taffy.

“Where are you from, Shea?”

“Reston, Virginia.”

“Ah, the city. Let me guess, you’re a nurse.”

She laughed. “How’d you guess?” His fingers were wonderful. Her eyes slipped shut and she tilted her head forward.