Hysterical Blondeness (17 page)

“What are you going to do about it, Paul?”

“I’m going to fight back. But I’m not sure what that looks like yet. You know how a kid wants something they can’t have more than something you just give them? That’s what Patricia reminds me of right now.”

Pinky sipped her port. “That’s so true. I’m going to help you any way I can, sport. I can’t see Patricia becoming Mrs. Martyr Nordquist, you know?”

“Just tell me one thing. Has she slept with him?”

“Nope.”

Paul heaved a huge sign of relief. “Thank God for that. So the big rush isn’t like…she’s
got
to get married, right?”

“Right.” Pinky sounded cagey.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s pretty complicated, but to cut to the chase, Lizbeth Summers is pregnant and got herself engaged to Eric Nordquist. Just between you and me and the fence post I’m not so sure it’s Eric’s baby, but as she told Patricia while she bought the big fat ring from fine jewelry today,
it’s a Nordquist for sure
.”

“Oh my God, my God, what the hell has
Patricia gotten herself into?” Paul slapped his forehead after Pinky finished her twisted tale of Nordquist intrigue.

“I tried to talk some sense into her, but she’s on cloud nine and wearing Brett’s ring. We have two choices. Bump him off, or do some sort of intervention with her involving duct tape and a therapist.”

Paul laughed a bitter laugh. “I’m liking the duct tape so far. Okay, Pinky, I can’t take any more tonight. Thanks for the information and the port, but get your fanny out of my bed. I need to be alone and sort out my feelings.”

Pinky hauled herself off the bed. “Paul, you are beyond Osgood.”

“I’m what?”

“Never mind. Get some rest and we’ll figure this thing out in the morning.”

“This is something I have to handle myself, Pinky, but I appreciate your support,” Paul said. “How’s the fine Dr. Bender anyway?”

“He is very fine. We are not getting married in November or anytime this year, but we are enjoying ourselves. Thanks for asking, Paulie.”

“Goodnight, Pinky.”

She waved goodnight, shutting the door be
hind her. He finished his port in one more swig. The sharp mellow bite of the wine helped make his head swim into dullness, which was exactly what he wanted. He didn’t want to feel or think or figure anything out.

What he’d really like was to go out there into the kitchen where they’d heard Patricia clanging dishes, probably warming herself up some dinner because Brett never fed her, and make her remember their first night together. He wanted to push her up against the refrigerator and kiss her until she stopped thinking she wanted to marry Brett and realized it was him all along.

He knew one thing: he wasn’t going to beg her or try and make her see the senselessness of her infatuation with Brett. That would be stupid. He could only wait. He would wait for her to remember who really loved her.

He kept going back to his image of how powerful it was to want what you couldn’t have. It applied to him right now as well. And the bottom line was he loved Patricia too much to let her go.

Expectation is the root of all heartache.

Shakespeare

Patricia was surrounded by
diamonds. She ran her fingers over the pretty little stones in their snug little boxes in the fine jewelry display case.
Her
new diamond ring glittered under the case lights like a star that had fallen from the sky.

But her nails were atrocious. She had to make a lunchtime appointment to get them done. What was the use of flashing the ring for all to see if her nails were their usual plain-Jane,
clear-polish, clean-but-boring selves? Maybe red would be good.

There was only one thing clouding her shiny bright happy mood, and that was the way Paul had turned without a word and gone into his room without congratulating her. How unlike him.

Paul had been gone a whole week, and she had missed him every morning. She missed his wonderful meals, too. She’d been eating fast food on her trips back and forth from Brett’s to home. Yuck. Somehow they’d always already eaten at Brett’s and she didn’t bother to ask for anything during her visits. It was starting to show on her—a few extra pounds had crept on over the last week.

It wasn’t just Paul’s great dinners, though; it was the wonderful times they’d had sharing those meals. It was the care Paul took of her. She knew it was going to be hard to break up their little family.

But they couldn’t just stay the same way forever. She felt a pang of emotion run through her. She’d probably be feeling like this for quite a while.

“You see what happens when you come to work in fine jewelry?” Madam had come up close beside her and Patricia jumped. “Did I frighten you?”

“I’m sorry, Madam, I was lost in thought.”

“About your engagement to Brett Nordquist?”

“How in heaven’s name would you know that?” Patricia stared at Madam Gaffer in shock.

“Women always fall for the wealthy man who treats her bad. Why is that?” Madam crossed her arms and shook her head at Patricia.

“Brett doesn’t treat me bad, and how did you know?”

“Nordquist’s is like small neighborhood. I have ways.” Madam shrugged. “So you marry the man who stood and watched when you fell on your face, but you don’t marry the man who picks you up off the ground? You young people are so crazy. And I see you have his mother’s ring. I sold Lars Nordquist that ring in 1973. He and Gloria have been married more than thirty years. So when is the wedding?”

“Thanksgiving.” Patricia was too stunned to defend herself.

“So soon. Be sure and invite me. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. And how long do you
think you can work here? Because you have much to do to prepare for a wedding in three weeks.”

“It’s going to be simple.”

“Not if Gloria Nordquist has anything to say about it. You’ll be married in the family church and your reception will be at the Sons of Norway hall. I know this woman. She’s already bribing people to make this happen. Her sons do not marry in city hall. Can you afford a dress?”

“I haven’t even thought about it—affording it, anyway. I always thought Pinky would make my dress, but I haven’t given her enough time.

“I’ll have Virginia in bridal make special arrangements for you. I’m sure Gloria will be happy to pay for the dress. Have you told your parents?”

Patricia thought she might just faint. She steadied herself on the glass counter.

“Tsk-tsk, you’ll have to get some Windex and clean off your fingerprints there.” Madam shook her head at Patricia.

“Sorry,”

“I think you must take some time off. You are a great little salesgirl, and I’m sorry to lose you, but the future Mrs. Brett Nordquist needs to go talk
to her parents, and buy a dress, and for heaven’s sakes get your nails done immediately—and your hair, while you are at it. I think you are going to need a touch-up before the wedding, don’t you?”

Forgetting the fact that she had just been fired or at least laid off, Patricia ran to the oval countertop mirror. A touch-up? She bent her head back and forth in the light. She moved sections of hair back and forth. No no,
no
! It just couldn’t be. The tiniest shadow of her former self was creeping steadily up from her roots. She was going to turn into a brunette again!

Madam came up behind her. “Don’t take it so badly, Patricia. Your new life awaits you. Now go get your things and shoosh. I’ll make up a paycheck for you, and if you find yourself needing a job for any reason, such as Brett getting cold feet, just let me know. You are welcome back here.”

Madam actually spun her around, gave her a quick, rather odd hug, and slapped her on the back with a little push toward the exit.

Patricia opened the lock drawer, left her department keys on the counter, and gathered her belongings. Mandy had apparently been listening in and since she’d already squawked at her
about the sale of Lizbeth’s engagement ring while she was away, as if it were Patricia’s fault, Patricia gave her a smug look. Screw Miss Mandy. She was marrying the boss. It almost looked like Mandy remembered that and kind of slunk off into her corner.

Patricia grabbed her blue wool coat, which she wished she’d bought after acquiring her new, bigger employee discount. But at least she’d used it to buy the matching blue skirt and sweater she had on. She wondered if she had room on her credit card for nails and hair.

She stumbled out of fine jewelry. Oh my God, what just happened? And what just happened to her hair? What about her damn DNA, didn’t it alter itself?

Madam was already on the phone chatting away in her interesting accent to someone. Probably talking about her.

She got on the escalator and switchbacked through the entire store all the way up to the crazy fourth floor where the junior departments took up most of the sales area with their driving bass beat and music video screens all over the place. The young men’s department rocked a little harder, but the junior women’s department
wasn’t far behind in decibels. Wouldn’t it be nice if they played the same thing?

The Pizzazz Salon had its special corner. It wasn’t a place she usually came to visit, but she needed to use her employee discount. Good grief, she still had her employee discount, didn’t she? Was she fired or just laid off? She’d have to ask Madam for a little more information when she was done here. Surely she’d have a day or two. Or was she on the Nordquist discount now, being Brett’s fiancée? Wow. That was a weird thought.

“Hi, I’m Patricia from fine jewelry. I was wondering if you had any openings. I know I need an appointment, but it’s sort of an emergency.” She held out her hands.

“I’ll say. Come right this way, Patricia. We were expecting you. I’m Star.” The girl in the pink smock with pizzazz embroidered on it stood up and took her hand. “Wow, Madam was right, it’s one stunning ring. Congrats, honey.”

Patricia wondered if the entire store would know when she took a pee at this point.

Star the smock girl motioned for her to sit in one of the hairstyling chairs. “We’ll do your nails and toes. What else?”

“Um, my hair is sort of a problem.”

“Let’s see.” Star ran her fingers up and around and inside the pathways and byways of Patricia’s odd blonde hair. “What a funky color. It almost seems natural, but I see the hint of some other color at the very edge of your scalp. Did you have this done?”

Patricia debated how much to tell Star. If she told her it was a science experiment gone bad it would get all over the store. And after all, every bit of her hair all over her body had turned platinum blonde.

“I used to be a brunette when I was younger, then it turned blonde.” She tried that one.

“Wow, that’s so unusual. Well, it looks like you’re headed back for brunetteville. We could squelch that for a while if you like, but you’ve got a good week before it starts to be noticeable. Other than that, you’ve got beautiful hair; a nice natural wave. We can get all thirties and spit-curly or wherever you want to go with it for the wedding. When is the wedding?”

“Thanksgiving.”

“Wow.” Star’s favorite word. “It’s okay to use chemicals on you, isn’t it? Because, um, well, we could use other products.”

“I’m not pregnant.” Patricia figured it would help get the news out to the entire store if she just met it head-on.

“Oka-y-y, then! I’d say if you haven’t colored your hair in the last six weeks then we can do a double process on you and keep that amazing shade of yours going for at least through the wedding. Wow. You are going to be a stunning bride. Be right back with Marc. He’s our colorist.”

Patricia had a full-blown bridal fantasy after Star vanished. It was full of white lace and promises and organ music and fat white orchids and Pinky in her chocolate mousse latte dress and brown velvet ribbons and the groom in a brown suit and her in that beaded amber and peach gown with the amazing back detail.

She could see herself walking down the aisle toward Brett, his mother in a light blue silk suit and her mother in brown velvet and the whole amber orange brown vintage blue wedding just like in a movie. She felt a huge rush of excitement.

Oh God, her parents. Thump. She came down like a cartoon anvil landing on the cartoon cat.

Hey, wait They couldn’t give her the old why-didn’t-you-do-it-like-your-sister? routine
because she was going to beat her older sister Carol to the altar! She was going to marry a Nordquist and be rich enough to ignore their put-downs for the rest of her life.

For once in her life she didn’t care what they were going to say. She dug in her navy blue Kelly bag and pulled out her cell phone. They weren’t on auto-dial but she remembered the number.

“Mom? Hi, Mom. Yes, I’m fine. I have big news. Guess what?…

“No, I’m not quitting work, I’ve actually been promoted to the fine jewelry department, but that’s not it….

“No, no, I’m getting married. Yes, really!…

“No, not to Paul. I’m getting married to Brett Nordquist….

“Yes, those Nordquist’s. Yes. Mom, we’ve planned a Thanksgiving wedding….

“No, I’m not pregnant.” Patricia felt her teeth gritting. “Yes, he just actually wants to marry me this Thanksgiving.”

The rest of the conversation was her mother making huge lists in the sky to which Patricia only needed to reply, “I know,” and an occasional, “
No
, Mother,” to doves or monogrammed
napkins or her cousin Sally singing “I Love You Truly.”

She looked up to see a young trendy man, who must be Marc, casually listening to her end of the conversation. When she made eye contact with him he just nodded and came over to get a good look at her hair.

“Okay, Mother, I’ve got to get my nails done and I have a million things to do, so we’ll talk later. Yes, brown and amber and vintage blue. Okay, ’bye, now.” Patricia clicked off her cell and looked up at Marc.

“Could it get more exciting?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. It makes me want to hyperventilate.” Patricia leaned back.

Marc leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, “You were in the Feltzengraad study, weren’t you?”

Patricia practically fell off her spinny little chair. “How do you know?”

Marc crossed his arms and looked extremely pleased with himself. “You aren’t the first, and there is a particularly
totally
blonde thing that you just don’t see in real life. May I?” He took her arm and ran his hands over the fine hairs of her forearm. “See? That’s like…beyond
Scandinavian, you know? And I can tell you aren’t a Norski by blood. Are you?”

“There’s some Norwegian in there somewhere, but I’m generally a Celtic mutt. Marc, please, please don’t tell anyone. Everyone is gossiping about me anyhow and I just don’t want that one thing to get around, okay?”

“Think of me as a priest,” he said. “After all, I put the color on many heads here at Nordquist’s and I can’t very well go around talking about it, can I? Notice I didn’t say who told me about the Feltzengraad study?” Marc’s brown eyes rolled around as if he had a great secret.

“Thank you. I want to keep this color. I
need
to keep this color, you know?”

“I have a French dye called Extreme Beige Blonde that I used on my other friend. Well, actually, we went through a few experiments first, but that was the best match.”

“Just do me. Do me Extreme Blonde and make it go away. I don’t want to go back to being a brunette.” Patricia jumped a little in her chair.

“I just have to warn you that eventually it will get very, very funky all around your body, if you know what I mean, and I’m talking the whole creeping-back-into-brownsville deal here,
like eyebrows and little arm hairs and
every-
where hairs, you know?”

“Oh God.” Patricia closed her eyes.

“Don’t worry, honey, we can do a sort of gradual foil and frost and in a year it will be all anyone can do to remember what your hair color was, and by then you’ll be Mrs. Nordquist, so who cares?”

“I’m going to kiss you, Marc.”

“Oh, let’s not, but I’ll give you air cheeks—mwah, mwah, and we’re good to go.” Marc turned each cheek her way and she blew him kisses.

“While we’re at it, I have to show you the Amber Glaze collection because you just won’t believe what you’ll look like in these lip colors and your nails will love it. Sort of a golden bronzy thing that gives you that blonde goddess look. Isn’t being a blonde fun?

“You?”

“Brunette as a chocolate Labrador retriever. I do my eyebrows too.”

“I have blue contacts. It took two weeks to get them to stop watering, but now I’m good, and I was a hard-core glasses girl.”

“I’d hardly have known. Oh my, I just thought
of something. Have you ever had your hair dyed in your entire life?”

“Never,” Patricia answered.

“We’ll have to do a patch test. We wouldn’t want you to break out in a horrible rash or anything three weeks before your wedding!”

“Three weeks?” Patricia thought she’d break out in a rash just hearing that. Somehow when you hear the deadline out loud it always sounds worse—or better. She was confused, and extremely stressed.

Marc took her to a dressing area and gave her a pink smock to change into. She had the feeling he was a very shrewd dude and she wasn’t sure she could trust him completely, but she didn’t care. She just loved being able to talk to someone about the entire fiasco of the Feltzengraad study.