Unlike me, Miranda has the ability to nod, and she does so vigorously. "We're, like, best friends."
"That's sweet," I say. "Being best friends with your mom."
Miranda holds a section of my hair out to the side, trimming at an angle. "Are you close with your mom?"
No matter how easily the lie slips out, it pinches my chest. Hurts something fierce. "Yes."
Though I live in the same city as my mom, I haven't seen her in months. My mom's best excuse is that her broken heart never healed. That's the one that sits on the surface anyway. Deep down, in an ugly dark place where nobody wants to look too closely, is where she holds her blame, and it's all pointed at me. She hates that sheblames me, resents that there's anybody to blame at all. Instead, she ignores me.
I steal a glance at the woman across the room from me one more time. My guess is that she's at least ten years younger than the other women in the salon. "So, I guess whether or not you like Liane is dependent upon your personality type?"
Miranda huff's a laugh. "I suppose, but most people seem to like her. Or pretend to like her." Miranda's neck is bent, focused on her task. I'm grateful for that. Just because I have an easy hairstyle doesn't mean I want to walk out of here looking like Edward Scissorhands.
Miranda continues. "I think she's one of those people it's better to have with you than against you, you know? Not that she would do anything bad to somebody, but life is probably easier if she likes you."
Miranda's astute observation takes me by surprise. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one," she answers, but the way she says it makes it seem like she thinks she's a grown-up. "I know, I know, I look sixteen with this round face and dimpled cheeks."
"One day you'll be very happy for that baby face," I comment, surreptitiously watching Liane Rooney from the corner of my eye. Her hairstylist removes her smock, revealing Liane's pale blue dress pants and white silk blouse. Liane leans forward in her chair, peering into the mirror. She fluffs her smart blonde bob, adding a smidge of volume on top. Her eyes shift in themirror, finding my gaze. I keep my eyes focused on hers, but like most people my first instinct is to look away. Instead, I offer her a small smile, one that is just friendly enough without being too enthusiastic.
Something tells me Liane knows everything about this town. It's entirely possible that spending one afternoon bending her ear would prove almost as informational as thumbing through old police reports.
Our eye contact is broken as Liane spins in her chair. She loops a gold chain purse over her shoulder and marches my way. I would prefer to meet her with hair that's not wet and hanging in my face, but those aren't the cards I was dealt today.
Liane stops a foot from my chair, blonde bob bouncing, smile warm and expectant. The expression of somebody who is always well-received. To her face, at least. "I may not have a photographic memory, but I'm almost positive I've never met you before." She extends a hand. "Liane Rooney."
"Mallory Hawkins." I shake her hand, smiling at her through the mirror. "You are correct. I'm from Phoenix. Came for the spa, and decided to stay for the Olive Festival."
Liane's meticulously drawn-in eyebrows raise. "A young lady all by herself?"
Miranda drops the hair dryer on the tile floor, frowning sheepishly at the loud noise it makes.
"I have to go it alone sometime," I respond, keeping my smile in place.
"I suppose I'm being silly," Liane says, waving a hand. "No safer place than Olive Township. Especially coming from the big city."
"It certainly feels safe here."
Liane presses a palm to her chest. "I'm the mayor's wife, and every year I run the lemonade stand at the festival. It's tradition. Promise me you'll stop by for a cup?"
"Wouldn't miss it," I answer.
Liane sails from the salon with a final wave at everyone. There is a collective sigh around the place, as if Liane raises the frequency wherever she goes.
"Famous in a small town," Miranda mutters, and it makes me laugh.
Jolene: What exactly is an Olive Festival?
Mallory: I...don't know.
Jolene: Hold please.
Jolene: Ok I'm back with answers. The Olive Township Olive Festival is a one-day event that started as a way for the Summerhill Olive Mill to showcase its goods to the townspeople, but has grown over the years to include all local vendors.
Jolene: It goes on from there, but you get the gist.
Jolene: Per our old pal, the Internet.
