Split Ends (22 page)

We both stop walking and look at each other. No words are necessary. This dance we've been having in conversation has nothing to do with what we're thinking. It's avoidance. Pure and simple.

“Kiss me, Sarah.”

That's what we're thinking.

He bends down and, unwittingly, I step back. He steps forward and suddenly something inside me breaks.

I will not back away from what my heart wants. Not
this time.

Dane's lips brush across mine, and I relish the touch. He surrounds me with his arms and I kiss him like Ingrid kisses Cary in
Notorious.
There's no thought to the matter; I am lost in his touch, just as Ingrid was when she thought it might be her only moment to tell Cary how she felt. We fall into an embrace of all the emotion neither of us has stated in our conversational dance about beaches and antiques and commodities. The emotion we have fought every time we laid eyes on each other in my cousin's hallway. Every time I caught him peering at me over his business magazine. My chest radiates with the heat I've been avoiding through careless conversation. I'm lost in his kiss, tasting his lips on my own and kissing him back with a hunger I've never expressed before. Never felt before.

I close my eyes. I don't want to forget a thing. When I tilt my chin again, I feel his lips on mine, this time with more fervency.

“Get a room!” someone yells out their car window as they pass, and shocked, I step back, touching my fingers to my lips, hardly believing my complete lack of etiquette.

“The beach . . .” I pause, catching my breath. “Your house . . .” More breathing. “Not a good idea.”

“No.” He shakes his head. He exhales a ragged sigh that holds so much temptation for me, I shut my eyes against the emotion. “But do you see why your caste system doesn't hold water? Attraction is not moderated by logic, and I'm a very logical person, Sarah.”

“Thank you, Spock.” I hold my fingers up in
Star Trek
mode.

“I wish I could take you home.” He shakes his head. I think he said that more for himself than me. “I'll drop you off at Scott's before I go.”

With everything in me, I want to abandon logic for once and give in to this emotion that will take me straight to Dane's beach house. I want to get lost in his clutches from here to eternity in a scene that would make Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr blush. But thankfully, logic wins. If my mother taught me anything, it's that men— especially antiquarians—do not marry Winowski women. It's time for a cold shower and a Cary Grant fast.

chapter 15

Mistakes are part of the dues
one pays for a full life.
~ Sophia Loren

I
'm just heading to my room for a shower when Scott, who definitely noticed that Dane and I arrived home together, bellows at me.

“What?” I call back to him.

“Sarah Claire!” Scott yells again from the kitchen. “Your mother's on the phone. Pick it up in your room.”

Talk about waking up from a dream and finding yourself next to a dumpster. My mother. Brace for impact.

I shut the door to Dane's dangerous smile and enter the lion's den.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Sarah Claire, you haven't called me. It's been weeks.”

“Sorry, Mom, it's been busy. By the time I get home, you're working at the bar. The salon keeps me there until eight.”

“Is it nice?”

“It's incredible, Mom, but more sterile than I thought it would be. I saw Trisha from your soap opera. She was getting highlights and all up in foils. I bet the
Enquirer
would pay for a picture like that. If she was a bigger star and all.”

“Listen, I'm calling about something important.”

“As if seeing Trisha getting her hair done isn't important?”

“I'm going on a road trip,” she continues, ignoring my news of Trisha, when I was perfectly willing and able to tell her about the chunky blonde highlights and which brand they were and everything. I notice the important details. We could have duplicated it at home.

“A road trip, you said?” Now what this means in city speak is that you pack up the car, the family, and head to another town, preferably stopping at a roadside motel along the way to some national landmark. To my mother, it means she's met a man and he has a big enough hog for two, and they'll be tearing up the streets in leather. A month later, she'll be home in tears.

“Mom, you can't go anywhere. You're awaiting trial. Mrs. Gentry said—”

“I told you not to talk to those old biddies about me. They need to mind their own business. Al knows I'll be back in time for the trial.”

Al is our bail bondsman. And yes, we're on a first-name basis.

“Is that such a good idea? I mean, you can't really afford to take off from your job right now, can you?”

“Clyde's driving. He's got a beautiful Harley, Sarah Claire. It looks right off a showroom floor.”

Wyoming isn't so backwoods that I think motorcyclists are tattooed hoodlums without a place to call home. We have our share of wealthy Harley riders who own cattle ranches bigger than some states. However, all that being said, that is not who my mother has found for her planned escape from town. She has found some dreg of society who either got drunk at the Hideaway or knew some friend who got drunk at the Hideaway. Magic was made, and my mother found someone to keep her codependent self company now that I'm gone. It didn't even take a month.
If I wasn't so disgusted, I'd be impressed.

“I'm entitled to a vacation, Sarah Claire,” she barks.

Suddenly, leaving her behind isn't feeling like the best way to the top. “Mom, I don't know how to say this, but you need to focus on your future right now.”

“That's exactly what I'm doing.”

“You met a man, Mom?”

“Who said anything about meeting a man?”

“Are you trying to tell me you didn't meet a man? Who's Clyde?”

“I meet a lot of men, Sarah Claire. I work in a bar and more than half the clientele is men.” Clientele. Now that's stretching things a bit. It's akin to the title “gentleman's club.” No one's falling for it.

“So translate ‘road trip' for me,” I say.

“I'm taking my bike up to Glacier National Park.”

“With Clyde?”

“Don't smart-mouth me, young lady. If I cared what this town thought and ran like you did every time they called me a name, I wouldn't have my self-respect.”

Ah, when the going gets tough, act like a mom.

“Mom, you don't have a bike.”

“I'm borrowing one.”

“So you're just leaving the house?”

“You didn't worry about the house when you left, did you? But in fact, I'm not just leaving the house. A friend is staying here while I'm gone. He'll take care of everything. Your cat, watering the plants.”

“We don't have any plants.”

“He'll just be taking care of things, all right?”

A friend. There isn't a soul in Sable that everyone doesn't know, so why she feels the need to hide who it is can only mean one thing. She's handing the keys over to some stranger who ambled into her bar last night. I wonder if her alcohol will still be alphabetized when she gets home.

“So will you be checking in with me? How will I get ahold of you?”
Translation: if they find you in a ditch
somewhere, how will they notify me?

Here's the thing about being raised by an alcoholic. You learn not to expect anything and that pointing out the practical is pointless. Just go with the flow; it makes life bearable.

“I'll call you, Sarah Claire. I'm not going to Mongolia, and I'll be back before the trial.”

I can't help myself. “Mom, do you know this guy well enough to be going off with him? What if he's wanted by the police or something?”

“You have such an imagination. You just worry about your studies and doing everyone's hair pretty, all right? I'm a big girl. Your scandal has blown over, and now everyone will be back pointing fingers at me. It's time to go.”

My scandal. I roll my eyes.

“Mom, can't you just sit still until things straighten out?”

“And do what, twiddle my thumbs waiting for you to return?”

“No, I was hoping you'd further your education or maybe move to a different town.”

“I'm not leaving here, Sarah Claire. I have ties in this town. Clyde is not dangerous, sweetie.”

“Is there anyone named Clyde who's not dangerous, Mom? How long have you known him?”

“That's none of your business. You make it sound like your mother's easy.”

“Well, call me, Mom. All right?” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. “You remember what you promised me—that you'd make the most of my absence. If I don't get to stay at Yoshi's, does this person at our house know that I might be coming home?”

“You won't be coming home, Sarah Claire. I've rented out the house. How do you think I can afford a road trip? Don't worry about me. I'll call you from Canada.”

“You can't leave the country—”

I hear her giggle and then a man's voice.

“It's against your parole.”

“Gotta run, baby. Give Scotty a kiss from his aunt.”
Click.

Scott bangs on my door as I hang up. “What?” I say too sharply.

“Here's some more clothes.” He tosses them at me. “I have tons right now because everyone's looking for an Emmy dress. I don't need this casual stuff. They're given to me for advertising. I'm sure you're not exactly the kind of press they're looking for, but right now it's what I've got. Work them into conversation, understand?”

“These labels are like hieroglyphics. ‘Hi, I'm Sarah Winston. I'll be your shampoo girl today.'” I turn my der-rière toward Scott. “‘Today I'm wearing wide-legged trousers by Dolce & Gabbana with a fitted shirt, courtesy of Chloe.'”

“Perfect,” Scott says. “The tags are still on most everything; look for a label if you can't find one. Study them like they were your next pop quiz. Do an Internet search if you need to.”

I look at him, at the tired eyes. He's tense, and I don't think it's entirely because of the Emmys. With my own romantic experience still tingling my lips, I decide to play Cupid. “Have you talked to Alexa lately?”

His eyes flash in warning. “It's over.”

“Scott—”

“Give me the benefit of the doubt, will you?”

He shuts the door and I slide down the wall, cupping my arms around my knees, still dreaming of Dane's kiss. I begin to rock and pray. I know God is here, somewhere. I know He comforted me all those dark nights when my mother left me alone. But Dane is here also. Dane, the light sleeper.

chapter 16

Hollywood is a place where they'll pay
you a thousand dollars for a kiss and
fifty cents for your soul.
~ Marilyn Monroe

O
bsessive. That's exactly how I would describe Southern California. Celebrity is a drug here, and everyone seems to drink deep from the same shot glass. I didn't sleep well last night because my cousin was in his room talking to himself about “cutlets”—little rubber things women put in their bras to enhance themselves. I think I could have gone my entire life without having some of the Hollywood secrets exposed. A little mystery is good for the soul.

Of course, regardless of what Hollywood does to perfect themselves, they still look better than me without the help.

My thoughts haven't left that kiss. So much fire.
“It is
better to marry than to burn with passion.”
Now I know exactly what that verse means, and it leaves me with quite the dilemma: no one's asking me to marry, and I don't think I could be around Dane long without putting my faith on the shelf. It's not like we have the luxury of time behind us. I barely know the man. Which makes wonder how real my faith is if I can just forget it and get lost in a simple kiss on Rodeo Drive like a common prostitute. What would Sable say to that?

Never mind. I do not want to know.

At least I'm not orange any longer.

Obsession runs in the family, so I come by it honestly. Scott spends his entire life shopping for other people's clothes and will throw hissy fits over a necklace being wrong. That's a strange occupation for anyone. Speaking of which . . .

“I am never going to find anything! The Emmys are two days away!” Scott is pacing frantically.

“Should she have her dress by now?”

“She should have had her dress and three fittings by now. Look at this girl, Sarah.” He pulls out an eight-by-ten glossy, and let's just say, you know how Dane can spot a fake? Mr. Magoo could spot these fakes from the next town. This girl's so fake that her shirt is a testimony to the engineering of Lycra.

“That is
not
attractive. And look how pretty her eyes are. Not that you'd ever notice.”

“I don't know what I was thinking taking her on as a client. This girl couldn't look good in anything. She has virtually destroyed any hope of wearing couture.”

“I think that's the point, isn't it? I don't think that figure is meant for clothes.”

“I took her on as a favor to a producer who's got her in a new series, but she is impossible to dress. Couture? Are you kidding me? Couture is meant for women with the figure of Kate Moss, not a human Viking ship.” He drops his head to the counter. “What am I going to do? I'm going to be a laughingstock backstage. The stylists will all mumble as I walk by.”

I watch his face fall. Understanding all the garments used to stretch, pull, flatten, and lift has clearly ruined my cousin on the mysteries of women. He probably just looks them and sees what size cutlet they need and where they need a little more elastic.

“What about a shawl?” I ask, knowing he probably
doesn't need my advice.