“Nina, you were on the varsity soccer team when I played as a freshman and I thought you were the coolest girlin school.” Gabriella grinned as she chose a yellow cupcake with pink frosting. “And since you went on to own a restaurant and bake things like this, I obviously knew the right kind of woman to idolize.”
“Ha!” Nina gave her a one-armed hug. “Aren’t you sweet? You need to move back to Heartache. But for now, will you convince Amy to choose a nail polish color for toes that have never been touched by paint?”
“I’ll have you know I bought a bottle of ice-blue polish and put it on my toes once. It made me look like a corpse.” Amy grabbed a chocolate on chocolate cupcake. “But I will choose something because I am a team player and I’m here to be beautiful.”
“That’s the spirit.” Nina moved on to introduce a few newcomers, letting her basket lead the way, its pink gingham ribbons flapping in her wake.
Together, Amy and Gabriella headed toward the wall of nail polish colors where an older woman held court from a black leather chair, a little Pekingese dog at her feet in a leopard-print carrier.
“You look like you’re in need of a primer for this,” Amy observed, nudging Gabriella after they’d taken just a few steps. “Do you remember this group?”
“That’s Mrs. Spencer, right? Nina’s grandmother?” She nodded in the direction of the Pekingese owner. The woman was famous for her jellies and pies. No doubt that was where her granddaughter got her skill with cupcakes, which were the best thing Gabriella had ever tasted.
“Daisy Spencer.” Amy nodded, confirming her guess. “And you know Erin and Heather, my sisters? Well, duh. Of course you know Heather since she’s been engaged to your brother for a week.”
“That’s Erin?” Gabriella would have never guessed, butthen she recalled both Erin and Heather having long red curls like a pre-Raphaelite painting. Heather had kept hers, but Erin had a sleek copper-colored style with a dark streak around her face.
With her cartoon cat tee, a long, full skirt that looked like it came straight out of the fifties and dark leather combat boots, she had an ease and sophistication that Gabriella envied.
Amy nodded. “I know, right? When I left town, she was a total tomboy obsessed with building birdhouses for fun, and now she’s Ms. Elegant with her vintage clothing store.” Amy pointed to the shop next door and Gabriella recalled passing Last Chance Vintage on her way into The Strand. “And she does a huge Dress for Success event seasonally with a traveling bus that goes to rural places in Tennessee to bring women clothing when they’ve fallen on hard times. She’s pretty great.”
“She married the Cajun television producer.” Gabriella knew that, too, since Zach had been at the wedding. But she hadn’t seen any photos.
“Right,” Amy confirmed. “Remy. I haven't met him yet either, but Erin wrote me all about it.”
“There’s a face I remember,” Daisy Spencer called, gesturing them to come closer. “Gabriella Chance, it’s good to see you again, honey. Do you remember coming out to the farm with your mother to buy jelly?” She laughed merrily, twisting the daisy pin on the lapel of her pink running jacket while the Pekingese wagged its tail. “Oh me, you were just a little one then and I had a whole lot less gray.”
They reminisced for a minute while Amy caught up with her sisters. And in the warmth of that shared memory with the older woman, Gabriella forgot to be an introvert.She was glad she came. Glad to remember she’d been a part of all this once. In the same way that being at the Owl’s Roost had reminded her of happier times with her mother, Daisy Spencer brought back more pleasant flashbacks to her youth before things took a nosedive. She remembered sitting in the Spencers’ big farm kitchen with an ancient stove unlike anything she’d ever seen before. With the wrought-iron apple peeler clamped to a wooden counter and the scent of pies baking in that huge oven, the Spencer home was firmly ingrained in her memories.
Over the course of the next twenty minutes, she was introduced to Tiffany McCord, Bailey’s mother and Jeremy Covington’s former girlfriend who’d turned evidence against him, as well as Kate Covington, Jeremy’s wife, who—Kate confided—was soon to be his ex-wife. Gabriella noted that the two women remained on opposite sides of the room. No doubt this was an awkward collection of women assembled here, including several people she hadn’t met yet, but it impressed her that so many of them had shown up, united in a common cause.
“If I can have your attention, please?” Nina Spencer Finley’s voice interrupted as she moved to the center of the room. Her cupcake basket gone, she addressed the more than twenty women. “Welcome to Salon Night and thank you to Trish for hosting us at The Strand.” She paused while everyone clapped for the hair salon owner. “I’m not much of a public speaker, so I’ll make this short. I wanted to do something for you all tonight to thank you for the role each and every one of you is playing in the trial of Jeremy Covington.”
The room quieted even more. It seemed even Daisy’s dog stilled at the mention of the man’s name. Gabriellaswallowed hard, looking around at the women whose lives had been hurt in one way or another by him. Amy, too?
Gabriella wondered if her old friend had given some kind of testimony that she didn’t know about.
“I’m sure there are some of you who don’t consider yourselves public speakers, either, and yet you’re raising your voices to point out a monster in our midst to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else. Thank you for being brave enough to do that.”
Erin Finley cheered and slung an arm around her sister Heather. Amy silently rubbed Heather’s back. Maybe Amy and Erin were just here to support their sister.
“I read a book recently,” Nina continued, her expression grave. “And the author wrote that it only takes one voice—at just the right pitch—to start an avalanche.”
“Amen,” Daisy Spencer said softly.
“I want to thank you ladies for starting the avalanche that’s putting away Jeremy Covington for the rest of his days,” Nina continued. “Now, go get your nails done, have a cupcake and some champagne to celebrate your awesomeness.”
Gabriella ended up doing all those things. Over the next hour she had her fingers and toes painted in rose-petal pink since she wasn’t the artsy type like Erin, who painted a checkerboard on her index finger and all the other nails in alternating white and red.
But as Gabriella finally retrieved her coat to go home, she had to admit that she liked how her fingers looked with the pink nail polish. She’d had fun tonight. She liked hearing about what was going on in Heartache recently. And she even took a bit of pleasure learning how her brother had beat up Jeremy Covington when he and his son, J.D. Covington, were trying to kidnap Heather. Zachhad downplayed his role when he’d shared the story with Gabriella, but Heather’s version was far more exciting.
Maybe she’d find healing here during this trial after all. If she wasn’t called to take the stand, she would benefit from being here when her attacker was convicted. And she’d promised herself she would speak to Clayton privately in the hope that confiding in him about the role he’d unknowingly played in that night would ease some of her old phobias about men and sex. It had taken her a long time to lose her virginity after that night, and her counselor had explained that her brain had associated sensual feelings with pain. She’d been too young to have positive sensual feelings prior to that awful night.
Although she’d successfully had sex—nice, normal, not painful sex even if it wasn’t anything to write home about—she still dealt with a strange and sickening mental cross-wiring of the sensual and the terrifying. If clearing the air with Clayton had any chance of helping her to heal fully, it was worth the embarrassment of wading through those old chats to untwine his real messages from the ones her stalker had sent.
Making quick work of her goodbyes, she edged through the salon door and out into the empty street. She’d parked a few doors down and by now, the only cars out here belonged to the women who’d attended the salon night. So it wasn’t like she worried about walking that short distance alone in the dark.
There were streetlights and she’d gotten over those old phobias about strange men launching themselves at her from dark corners just beyond her peripheral vision. Truly, she had. It’s just that she was back in Tennessee. And she’d been talking about Jeremy Covington. And Clayton.
