Beauty Shop Tales. Nancy Robards Thompson

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СКАЧАТЬ paper, I’m touched that these people would take the time to make a banner, much less come all the way to Orlando—a good hour’s drive from the coast—to make me feel welcome.

      Ready or not, I’m home.

      “All this is for you?” Max smiles and a dimple winks at me from his left cheek.

      I hitch the tote with Chet’s ashes upon my shoulder, feeling oddly sheepish and a little unfaithful that all of them will see a strange man talking to me.

      “Beauty operator to the stars, huh?” He whistles. “I didn’t realize I was sitting next to royalty.”

      “They’re good people,” I say, suddenly protective of the folks, who, just a moment ago, embarrassed the living daylights out of me.

      “I can see that. They’re really glad you’re back.”

      The escalator reaches the bottom, delivering us to the baggage claim, and my friends and family surge forward.

      “Nice to meet you, princess,” he says.

      Princess? Normally, I’d spit out a snappy retort, but with my welcoming committee rallying around me, I don’t want to encourage any further conversation with Max. That would only lead to questions from the fine people of Sago Beach. Especially Mama.

      I do the next best thing. I pretend I didn’t hear him as everyone envelopes me.

      Mama is at the helm, of course, hugging me first. Her hair is the same rusty-carrot shade that it’s been for as far back as I can remember. It’s long and big, as if Dolly Parton had a run-in with a vat of V8 juice. She’s a beautiful sight, and I feel so safe in her slight arms that I want to cry.

      There’s Justine Wittage and Carolyn Hayward, Mama’s longtime customers, Bucky Farley and Tim Dennison, among others in the crowd, who hug and kiss me and say, “Oh, darlin’ ain’t you a sight?”

      My old friend Kally is conspicuously absent from the fray. It gives me a little pang that she didn’t come, but we haven’t exactly been on good terms the past five years or so.

      “I suppose you’re too good for us now that you’ve been hobnobbing with them movie stars?” Marjorie Cooper, Sago Beach’s token busybody, smiles her wonderful gaptoothed smile.

      “Of course not, Margie, I’m still the same girl you’ve always known.”

      “I know ya are, hon. I’m just yanking your chain.” She enfolds me in a hug that threatens to squeeze the stuffing out of me. “It’s so good to have you home.”

      Finally, after everyone has a chance to say hello, they decide to head for home.

      “No sense in you all standing around and waiting for the baggage,” Mama insists. “Y’all go on back home.”

      This incites another round of hugs and welcome-homes and I feel a twinge of guilt that they all made the two-hour round-trip for less than five minutes of togetherness.

      “We’ll see you soon,” says Bucky Farley, who has lingered behind the rest of them.

      “Bucky, you go on now and get out of here. We’ll manage just fine.”

      Mama growls the words like a tiger. I wonder what’s got her back up all of a sudden. For a split second, I wonder if she’s going to object to any and all men who show interest in me. Not that I’m interested in dating Bucky. He’s not my type at all—not quite old enough to be my father, more like an uncle.

      If there’s one thing I don’t need it’s my mother screening my friends. But she loved Chet. We’d been a couple so long, we were like one person. It would take everyone a while to get used to me being on my own.

      Mama links her arm through mine as we move to carousel number four to get my bags. I glance up and see Max standing alone across the way. He smiles and tips his hat.

      “Who is that?” Mama blurts.

      I shrug nonchalantly, looking everywhere but in his direction. “He sat next to me on the plane.”

      “Handsome.”

      “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

      “He certainly noticed you. Look at him staring.” So much for the Bucky Farley theory. “Did you give him your number?”

      “Mother.”

      “Well, he certainly is nice-looking—”

      “Stop it.”

      “Avril, honey, I know you loved Chet. We all loved him, but you’re a young woman. There’s no harm in giving a good-looking guy your phone number.”

      I haven’t even been home for a full hour and already she’s pushing my buttons.

      “He didn’t ask for my number. Okay? Besides, I don’t have to hook up with the first guy who’s nice to me.”

      “I didn’t suggest anything of the sort. But you’ve got to start somewhere and well, why not go for one with looks?”

      One of my bags pops out of the chute and I retrieve it with hopes this interruption will preempt further discussion about the cowboy. I don’t want to argue with my mother on my first day back. Now that I’m home, I’ll have the rest of my life to do that.

      When I turn to haul the big, black bag over to her so she can watch it while I collect the rest of my things, she’s not there. I make a slow circle until I finally spot her on the other side of baggage claim talking to Max, pen and paper in hand.

      “IF HE WANTED MY telephone number, he would’ve asked me for it.” I feel murderous as I heft my bags into the trunk of Mama’s pristine 1955, cherry-red T-Bird, which she’s parked catty-corner across two spaces in the airport garage.

      It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her parking like this is begging someone to key the gleaming paint, but when I turn around, she’s standing there watching me with her arms akimbo, one hip jutting out, an undaunted smile on her face.

      Vintage Tess Mulligan.

      “Oh, don’t get your panties in a wad, baby. Do you really think I’d give your phone number to a total stranger—even if he was a tall hunk of handsome man? Even if the number I’d be giving out is my phone number? Hmm. Maybe I should’ve given him the number.” She mutters this last part under her breath and I want to tell her to go for it, to knock herself out.

      I love my mother. We’re close, despite her ability to drive a stuffed elephant up the wall. If I’m completely honest, I suppose the things I do don’t make sense to her. It’s one of those weird codependent relationships.

      I can get mad at her, but if anyone else uttered a cross word about her, they’d have to deal with me. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

      When I lived in California, the miles between us helped. She flew out to see me about four times a year—and about every two months since I lost Chet—because of my fear of flying. In fact, I haven’t been home in years since she was so good about coming out to visit.

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