Split Ends (19 page)

“Why?” Is she a walking doormat or what?

She laughs. “Because I love him. I don't think he wanted to get engaged to begin with. Maybe I forced the issue.”

I shake my head. I can't stand it. “Women always blame themselves. What is it you love about him?”

I remember my cousin when he was as bright as the sky. Magic to be around. He was always selfish and a tad narcissistic. Ever the charmer, he was the fire that drew you closer. He made you feel special even when it was all about him. Now he's one giant ball of nerves, bundled tightly
and ready to explode.

Alexa smiles, her scarlet lips parting slightly into a mysterious grin. “We both started out with nothing, Scott and me. Back then, he was dressing soap stars on salary at the studio, giving them big hair and greasy lip gloss.” She shakes her head. “Hideous. He worked for this old lady who made him dress the women like a eighties bad nighttime soap opera. I was getting my real estate broker's license studying late. We had nothing but a goal. Even that was shaky at times.” At this, tears fill her eyes, and I watch them melt into a paler shade.

“Memories are strong motivators, but they're not always filled with truth.” Meaning that in all my phone conversations with Scott, I never heard Alexa's name spoken. Not once. Here, she's reliving all these warm memories, and I, his closing living relative, never knew about her. “Did you know Scott's family?”

“He said his father was dead from liver disease and there was no one else except one cousin.”

I look down at the table rather than meet her eyes. May Alexa fare better than the Winowski women, anyway.

“Food's up. I'm starving.” She clicks her heels toward the counter, where weird ingredients like artichokes, cranberries, chicken, and turkey are called out. If sausage was meant to be healthy . . . well, never mind. Californians do what they can to overcome the air.

I settle into the hard plastic chair across from Miss America and dig in. Alexa makes Cindy Simmons look small-time, and that in itself makes me smile. If I can befriend a striking auburn beauty who thought I was sleeping with her fiancé, maybe there's hope for me here after all.

As Alexa bites into her sandwich, all eyes in the restaurant watch her. She has all the power in the world; yet she's kryptonite to the one thing she wants. Well, we have that much in common.

chapter 12

As an unmarried woman,
was thought to be a danger.
~ Grace Kelly

Y
oshi didn't fire me. At least not yet. In fact, he hasn't mentioned the mishap and Alfalfa style from yesterday. Kreata walked out of the salon on lanky colt legs, her hair plastered down on top with an abundance of styling paste. She will wait ages for that to grow out, and I did that to her. I made her something to be mocked.

And I'm still orange.

I feel like death. Well, what I think it feels like to almost be lifeless, anyway. My legs are actually shaking, as if I'd spent the day hiking to the top of the Tetons just from walking on that stupid bamboo floor all day.
Get this Sarah. Wash that, Sarah. Clean up that mess, Sarah. Extra
foam, Sarah. Clean the scissors for the students, Sarah
.

Being a student of Yoshi seems to entitle you to treat Sarah Claire Winowski as your personal slave. That would never happen if I'd been born in Newport Beach! “Curse you, Sable, Wyoming.”

I shake my head as I see someone look at me like I'm talking to myself and press fingers to my ear as if to readjust one of those Borg-like cell phones. Everyone else is talking to themselves, why shouldn't I? It's cultural, for crying out loud.

I should just call a cab and call it a day, but I want to walk Rodeo Drive. I'm orange, and if there's ever a night to walk, it's when I'm wearing my own headlight. If this all ends tomorrow, I'm not going home without a little sight-seeing. Nearly three weeks here and I haven't seen the ocean, and I haven't cut hair. With the exception of Kreata, who I unintentionally maimed.

Ann—long, lanky, blonde Ann—comes up beside me on the sidewalk. “Don't worry, we all looked like you in the beginning, Sarah. Just use extra concealer under your eyes with a little Preparation H for swelling until you're past this. The first month is the hardest. If you're not going to make it, Yoshi wants to know before he's invested too much.”

“I've invested too much already. I can barely walk.”

“Yoshi can teach anyone to cut hair. He can't give people a personality, so make sure he sees that!” A black Mercedes pulls up onto the street, and Ann waves at the driver, who remains cloaked in a mystery of darkly tinted windows. “You need a ride?” she asks.

I do, naturally, but I'm too proud to take one, and right now I want to be around my coworkers (read: slave drivers) about as much as I want to invite Isabella to dinner, and she made me orange. Even a limo doesn't look the least bit inviting if filled with Yoshi employees. “No, thanks. I thought I'd check out the Golden Triangle and get my bearings. Thanks, though.”

“All right. Well, don't forget tomorrow night is mentoring group. I left an open invitation on the employee board; we can always use more people. We're having a securities broker speak on investing. Maybe you can teach us something you learned growing up. Besides, we want you to see our apartment. We could use another roommate; it's to-die-for beautiful.”

“Sure, it sounds great. I'll be there.” I summon up the strength for one more plastered smile.

Ann and Jaime, another stylist apparently joined at the hip, hop into the waiting car and speed away. I exhale deeply. It's over. I am finally alone.

As I walk toward Rodeo Drive, I realize cleanliness gives a sense of false security. This may explain my mother's penchant for bleach, but I notice it works in the middle of a city as well. The brightly lit, clean streets of Beverly Hills give me the sense of being in an adult amusement park. I've read that a police officer will respond to any call here in less than a minute, so I start up the street. Not taking into account that I have no cell phone to actually
call
a police officer, but I'm living dangerously.

“Sarah?”

I sigh. “What!” I'm expecting to see Yoshi barking anthor order at me. Instead, when I turn around I spy Dane Weston approaching me.
The
Dane Weston. I blink several times before looking behind me to see if there's another Sarah standing about.
Nope.
I turn back, knowing I'm probably gawking.

Dane is dressed impeccably. I hate to admit how the sight of him makes me crumble. Like I said,my legs are weak from working, so I'm sure it's just exhaustion. But there's quiet strength to him that makes me somehow believe he holds the key to my future in his squared, assured fingers. Of course, with the way I feel right now, Orville Redenbacher could hold that key. I see him and an old movie on DVD.

But then again . . . “Dane. You're home early!” I run toward him and then realize he's looking scared. So I slow and try to meet him casually. He reaches for me, drops his arms to his sides, puts out his hand to shake. I take it and pull him a little closer. I didn't mean to, it just happened.

“Got home this evening. Wide awake, thanks to a little jet lag. When you didn't come home for dinner, I worried your cousin abandoned you again.”

How sweet is that?
“I've been taking the bus home. Tonight I was tired, though, I was going to call a cab.”

“Sarah Claire, have you seen a pay phone lately?”

I think about this for a moment and shake my head.

“Here.” Dane hands me a cell phone.

“What's this? Well, I mean, I know what it is. Why are you handing it to me?”

“I had an extra line that an assistant used at the store, and I haven't turned it off. I charged it up today, so it's yours for as long as you need it. No woman should be alone in LA without a cell phone. This isn't Sable.”

I look down at my feet, remembering my current Oompa Loompa look. Maybe the French women look worse; he hasn't noticed. “Why would you do this?”

“‘Whatever you do for the least of these . . .' Which in LA I take to mean the person without a cell phone.” He laughs at his own joke.

“Or a car? Or a thousand-dollar handbag.”

“Can't help you with the bag, unless someone drops one off at the shop. I'll let you know.” I feel like the world's been lifted from my shoulders as he takes my duffle.

“You don't look dressed to rescue a damsel in distress.”

“I'm always dressed like this, and I never have anything better to do than rescue damsels in distress. I hopped on the plane straight from a meeting this morning.”

My breath catches. “A girl could get lost in those eyes—I mean, words like that.” I cover my mouth with the tips of my fingers.

“I thought we might get some dinner. No sense in both of us getting take-out and bringing it back to the house.”

“Dinner,” I say breathlessly, like a desert-crosser says water.

“You weren't planning on cooking, were you? I wouldn't want to miss that.”

“I haven't been to the grocery store. Sorry.”

“No worries. I wanted to check on my house. I was thinking we might pick something up and take it back to my place—if you feel comfortable with that, I mean. I just want to see how construction is moving along, and I'm interested in a woman's opinion.”

“Your place?” Now I'm a girl of solid character—staunch morals and a strict edict to live the opposite of my mother—but when he says
his place
, I don't think about any of those promises. And that's what scares me. I'm really tired. I think I should just turn in. I haven't had the best day. Did you notice that I'm orange?”

“But you did get that awful haircut fixed. Not that it made any difference to your beauty. Having a bad one,I mean, not fixing it.”

“I'm orange.”

“You look stunning as usual. Sarah, I'm not going making a pass at you back at my place; it's just dinner.”

“Trust me, I understand that. But why not?”

“Is that an invitation? I was trying to be polite, you being Scott's cousin, but if I had an arsenal, trust me, I'd make a pass. As it is, I grew up around old ladies and old furniture, so I'm not sure how I'd go about making a pass.”

“Would you like directions?” I ask him with a boost of self-esteem. “I missed you, Dane. The house wasn't the same without you.”

“I missed you too. If I were to get myself an education on making said pass, you would be open to the idea? In the Christian sense, I mean.”

Dane, I am open till death do us part.
I nod shyly, feeling heat in my moonshine face. I don't dare look at him, out of fear he'll know what I'm thinking and run for the hills, as the laws of commitment are known to make a man sprint.

“I think I might want to get an espresso if I'm going to be out like this.”

He looks at his watch. It's a classic Seiko and it looks generations old. I think Cary Grant had one like it in his photos. “It's only eight o'clock.”

“When there's nothing to do in town, eight is two hours past when they roll the streets up. Sable's so cold during the winter, we don't much venture out even for dinner. It's like two a.m. to me, and here you all are having a life.”

“I know better than to mess with a woman who grew up in cowboy country. I've seen my share of spaghetti westerns.”

“Did you go to college?”

“I did.”

“Where?”

“Is this a quiz?”

“No, but I just wanted you to know I haven't been to college. In the interest of full disclosure before you make said pass.”

“It's because of my car, isn't it?”

“Your car?”

“Yes, it's equipped with an emergency ejection button for all passengers who did not attend college. Like the air bag with kids in the car, I'll turn it off before you get in. Thanks for telling me.”

“Very funny.”

“I can't make a pass if you're going to act naïve about why I'm here. Why wouldn't I want the company of a beautiful woman to drive with me along the PCH and see my house and check on progress. And please note, it's after carpool hours on the 405, so this is from my heart, not out of the need for a passenger.” He puts his hand to his chest.

“PCH?”

“Pacific Coast Highway.”

“Ah. You mean the ocean?” I ask brightly.

He grins. “So that's what it takes. Yes, I mean the ocean. Is that enough to tempt you then?”

More than enough. He could lose the “ocean” and add “cesspool” and I'd be tempted. “Will my cousin wonder where we are?”

“Will he care?”

I shrug. “Good point.”

Dane starts to walk and I come alongside him. “How did you find me?”

“I was parking behind the salon when I saw you walking, and I called Yoshi's to check when you'd be off, actually.”

“I saw the edge of it from the plane.”

His face expresses his puzzlement.

“The ocean. You asked if I saw it. I saw it from the plane.”

“Seeing it from the sky is not the same as dipping your feet in the waves.” He offers the crook of his elbow. “What do you say to a late dinner and the beach?”

“Just you and me?”

He looks around his feet. “I think so, unless you have someone else you want to invite.”

It's only a ride to the beach, but all I can think about is
Would our baby have that great cleft in his little pudgy chin? Would he grow up smart like his daddy or overly cautious like me? Maybe both? Would we make the perfect child, and would science want to study it?

On second thought, I think it would be a girl. Dane seems like the kind of man who has girls and who would teach them to get into MIT and take the world by storm. She would be a very bright girl, and I'd dress her well. She'd have it all. Parents who loved her, a brain for greatness, and really, really cute clothes. We'd take trips back to Wyoming for Christmas.