“Thanks. I’ll see you in a few.”
“You drive carefully.”
“I will.”
I hung up, grabbed the duffel, and toted it into the bathroom. I tossed in the shampoo bottle, the conditioner, and my deodorant. I paused to brush my teeth and then packed my toothbrush and toothpaste. I set aside thoughts of Felix, knowing I’d have plenty of time to process that development once I was on the road.
I flipped off the light and then picked up my jacket and shoulder bag. I reached the door and took a last look around, making sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Checking out wouldn’t take long, especially since I didn’t intend to argue about a refund. I thought about returning the sixty-watt bulb to the office but decided it would be my gift to the next guest.
The telephone rang.
With one hand on the doorknob, I stared at the instrument. Probably Big Rat. I’d just spoken with Henry and Big Rat was the only other person who knew I was here . . . except for Ethan, of course, and I couldn’t believe he’d call. Might be the desk clerk calling to say he’d found me a hundred-watt bulb, but that was hardly late-breaking news. What difference would it make? By bedtime, I’d be gone.
Two rings.
Why answer the phone? If I’d been a little quicker through the door, I’d have been gone anyway. I was a heartbeat away from hearing the Mustang grumble to life. I knew how the road would feel under my wheels. If I’d been a dog, I’d be anticipating the wind in my ears, my head hanging out the window.
Third ring. I picked up. “Hello?”
“Hey, Kinsey. This is Big Rat. I just got in. Glad to hear you found Ethan. How’d he take the news about his dad?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s heartbroken.”
“Sometimes takes a while to sink in. I know it was like that with my dad,” he said. “You asked about Anna?”
“I did, but something’s come up and I need to get home. I was on my way to the office to check out when I heard the phone.”
“Good I caught you before you left. Name of the salon is Hair and Nails Ahoy! With an exclamation point. I don’t have the street address, but it’s on Chester down around Nineteenth. Sign’s in the shape of an anchor.”
“Thanks. I appreciate this. It looks like I’ll have to make another trip if I want to talk to her . . .”
“Why not stop by and chat with her on your way out of town? Salon’s open until six, so she’ll be there for sure.”
I was silent. The pull to Santa Teresa was so intense, I thought I’d be sucked out the door.
“You there?”
“I’m here. I’ll think about it,” I said. “But the situation at home is an emergency.”
“Up to you,” he said, and the phone went dead.
I set my duffel on the floor and paused to tally up my mental and physical states. Ethan’s combativeness had taken its toll, but the impact hadn’t really hit me until now when I thought I was safe. This must be what a prizefighter feels like after leaving the ring. During the bout, you’re too busy dancing and feinting and dodging blows, trying to anticipate your opponent’s next move. Now that I was back in the locker room, so to speak, I could assess my psychic injuries. I was exhausted. I felt bruised. There was an ache between my shoulder blades. My neck muscles were tight, and a tension headache was squeezing my skull like a bathing cap two sizes too small. Add to that the news about Felix, and my energy was at a low ebb. I put a hand against my forehead as Aunt Gin had always done when she was checking for a fever. She wasn’t sympathetic to illness, so the gesture was usually the prelude to her telling me to suck it up. Which was exactly the counsel I now gave myself. I’d driven 150 miles to take care of business and I wasn’t done yet. What could I do for Felix except to stand in the hall outside his room and fret? A thirty-minute delay wouldn’t make a difference.
I trotted up to the office as intended and turned in my key. I returned to the car, threw my duffel into the backseat, and slid under the steering wheel. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed east. At Chester I turned right, watching the numbered streets drop from Twenty-second to Nineteenth. The salon wasn’t hard to spot. Right-hand side, halfway down the block. There was even a nice long stretch of curb out front.
At 4:00, I was seated in the reception area at Hair and Nails Ahoy! It was fortunate for me the salon took walk-ins and Anna was the only manicurist. She was currently with a client. I didn’t want a manicure, but when the receptionist asked what she could do for me, it seemed easier to book an appointment than to stop and explain. While I waited, I leafed through a three-ring binder filled with photographs showing a variety of hairstyles. Most were clipped from magazines and none looked right for me. Why pay a salon when you can take care of it yourself at home?
Of the two hairdressers I could see, one was clipping a gentleman’s hair and the other worked on a woman customer, painting strands of hair laid out on a band of aluminum foil. A third customer came in and another stylist appeared from somewhere in the back. I watched the woman take her seat while the stylist assembled her tools. She flapped out a cape that she placed backward over the woman’s clothing to avoid showering her with clippings. The gentleman got up, left a tip, and stopped at the front desk long enough to pay for his cut. Anna moved the client from her work station to an empty one close by. The woman sat down and placed her newly painted nails in the maw of a tiny cave where a violet light bathed her fingertips, apparently to speed the drying process. I glanced at my watch and saw that ten minutes had passed. I was itchy to be on my way, but resigned to completing the task I’d set for myself.
17
Anna crossed to the desk and checked the appointment book, then gestured that I was next up. I set the binder aside and took a seat at her rolling table. I’m ignorant about the dictates of beauty salon etiquette. I murmured a greeting without introducing myself. Anna neither offered her name nor asked for mine. The tabletop immediately in front of me was padded with fresh white towels. I extended my hands, palm down, while she leaned and peered at my fingernails.
“Where do you get your nails done?”
“I’ve never had a manicure.”
I expected a comment but her expression was neutral. Nail technician’s creed: A nail professional makes no judgments. Nor does a nail professional criticize those who’ve come to her for help. If my nails had been in order, why would I need her?
“Nails would be nice if you took better care of them. I’ll give you some sample products before you leave,” she said. “You want straight across or shaped?”
“What do you think?”
“Shaped. Slender fingers, it looks better.”
I peered more closely at my fingertips, trying to see them as she did. Okay, a bit ragged here and there, but my nails were clean and I didn’t bite them, which surely counted in my favor.
To her right, there was a miniature Lucite rack where bottles of nail polish were perched in the equivalent of stadium seating. Every known color was represented, from dark funereal hues to fire-engine reds. The pinks ran from a neutral beige to a fuchsia shade I didn’t like at all. “You know what color you want?” she asked.
“I don’t wear polish.”
“I’ll buff them. I’m short on time anyway. This is my busy day. You’re lucky Lucy managed to slot you in.”
She opened the shallow drawer in front of her and took out an emery board. She picked up my left hand as if it were an inanimate object, one of a pair of gloves. She filed and shaped the nails on that hand and then placed it on the table while she got up and crossed to the sink and filled a shallow plastic basin with warm soapy water. She sat down again and placed the fingers of my left hand in the water with my hand resting on the shallow lip of the reservoir. While the left hand soaked, she addressed the nails of my right hand, which she filed and shaped to match my left.