A cellphone rings in the distance, breaking my stupor. I shake my head at the torrent of crazy before me. Hopping on one foot, I attempt to don my shoe when I remember how late it is. “I have to go. I’m going to be late.”
As I turn toward the door, I hear, “You mark my words, Kendal. You try to cozy up to Geoff, and you can stay gone.”
Reachingup to rub the back of my head, I grimace at the overwhelming pain. The pounding is relentless. My eyes flutter open to discover the world as I know it has turned on its axis. Blinking rapidly, I try to make heads or tails of what I’m seeing when I realize I’m lying on the floor. Yet there are no marble countertops or heated travertine beneath my cheek. Just a filthy, urine-soaked bathroom floor I can’t identify.
Grasping the sink, I gingerly pull up to standing. A sharp, stabbing sensation sears through my limbs once I reach my full height. I nearly choke on a gasp when my face comes into view within the cracked, dirty mirror. The rapid intake of air sends a jolt of discomfort through my left ribcage.
My face is barely recognizable. My right eye is black and blue and nearly swollen shut. My lower lip is bleeding. Instinctively, I reach up to touch it until I recall where my hands have been, then abruptly drop them to my sides.
My mind races, trying to gather any snippet of memory. What brought me to this place? How did this happen?
Reaching for the door, I pull it open and immediately wince, lifting my arm to shield my eyes against the bright sunlight. When I slide my hand into my back pocket to retrieve my phone, I quickly discover it’s not there. Instead, I open my bloody palm to find a crumpled piece of paper.My guidance counselor’s number.To think my biggest concern when I stopped by her office the other day was coming up with a way to avoid after school tutoring.
Suddenly, it feels as if my feet are glued to the ground. So heavy I can’t pick one up in front of the other. Is this what a concussion feels like? Or is my brain merely lost in a swirling fog of trauma, betrayal, and fear?
Where do I go? Will the police call my mother? Did she finally snap and do this once my back was turned? Yet, those questions allcome to a screeching halt when everything starts to spin, and my vision turns black.
CHAPTER ONE
CHAR
“Man, that’s good stuff,”I moan as I sip my latte from The Gingerbread Man. It may already be eighty degrees at 8:00 a.m. in Candy Cane Key, but there’s no way I’m getting through a full day on my feet without this stuff. It’s mana from heaven.
Sure, the tourists and upper crust in our little seaside town flock to the high-priced beanery with the familiar white and green logo. But they’re missing out. No one makes coffee and pastries like our local Christmas-themed bakery. Not to mention, I’m such a creature of habit, they literally have my order waiting for me each day at 7:00 a.m. on the dot.
Sliding my key into the front door of my beauty salon, To Dye For, I step inside before quickly flipping the lock. I bring my drink to my lips and take another sip before depositing it and the bag containing my chocolate croissant on the counter. This is my daily routine. As the sound system comes to life, I connect my phone’s playlist. It’s the same rotation of upbeat, motivational tunes each morning. Ones I can belt out behind closed blinds before the doors open to the public. Songs that direct my mindset for the day ahead.
Swaying my hips as I flounce about the space, I tidy up anything we missed from the evening before. My salon is admittedly a bit quirky.Kinda like the owner. It’s a mish mash of eclectic décor with a laid-back vibe. If someone wants a pretentious, over-the-top spa experience, they can head to the other side of town for that.
There’s a clear division in Candy Cane Key. The rich tourist crowd as well as those with high-priced oceanfront vacation homes on oneside, and those of us who work hard to keep a roof over our head, despite the constant tropical storm damage, on the other.
When I had the opportunity to open this place, it was with the knowledge it’d be a relaxed atmosphere where the townies could unwind and pamper themselves. A place you came to visit a spell, and get your hair and nails done while catching up on local gossip. Think Truvy’s place inSteel Magnolias.
As the familiar beat of the last track begins to play, I take another gulp of my latte before grabbing a hairbrush and lip-syncing with Britney Spears. Jumping in place, I let the beat feed my soul, singing along as Britney chants that you need to work, bitch. If you want to live in a fancy mansion or drive a sports car: work.
And she’s right. I may not have much going for me, but this place is all mine. If I want to be successful, it’s all on me. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Knock, knock, knock.
The unexpected sound has me jolting in surprise, my wide-barrel bristle brush microphone skittering across the floor. I dart across the room and retrieve it before flipping off the music and heading to the door. My forehead creases as I look down at my watch.Who’d be here at this hour?
I crack the door to find Norma Jean standing before me. She’s wearing a knowing smirk, two cups of coffee in hand.
“Hey. You’re here early.”
“Did you forget you told Margaret you’d fit her in first thing this morning so she could get in and out before too much of the riffraff came in?” Norma Jean laughs.
“Holy crow. You’re right.” I can’t believe I completely forgot.
“Poor thing has that big meeting with the town council today and wanted to get a few moments of peace before they started in on her. I honestly think you should charge her for To Dye For therapy, Charlene.” She snickers. “Hell, it’s not like she can’t afford it.”
My smile widens at the thought.Wonder what the going rate is for salon psychotherapy?
I need to get more organized. Where has my mind been that I’dforgotten all about Margaret dropping by this morning? “Thank you for remembering and coming in early.” I practically facepalm myself. To think the wealthiest woman in Candy Cane Key could’ve arrived to find me screeching out “Work Bitch” into a hairbrush microphone.
Norma walks over to her station and deposits her coffee before bringing the second cup to mine. Her strawberry blonde tresses, styled in beachy waves, sway with each step. Wearing tapered black capri pants and a fitted white button up crop top, she’s giving more sixties Ann-Margaret vibes than her namesake, Marilyn Monroe. “Thought I’d get her a better cup of Joe than the stuff we have here. She usually has a cup of tea when she drops by. But she made the comment once when I was doing her nails that she prefers coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon.”
“Good thinking. Thank you for doing that.” I make a mental note to talk to Gina at The Gingerbread Man about getting a good deal on some of their best brew for occasions such as this in exchange for some promotional signage for her bakery. Heck, most of our clientele would rather have a Bloody Mary or a mimosa when they’re here. The few who actually drink coffee pour so much flavored cream in there, they wouldn’t notice a rich Columbian blend from Salty Jo’s gas station swill. But Margaret sure would.
