Chapter 1
Angie
You’re supposed to be
the leading lady of your own life.
~ Iris Simpkins, The Holiday (2006)
“It is a truth universally acknowledged,” Jayme’s eyes light with mischief as she reads to us from her spot in my chair. “That a single woman in possession of no fortune has no need of a husband.” She pauses and looks around the salon at the rest of us, and then she reads, “What she needs is a raise!”
We all break into laughter. Even Mabel, one of our seniors in town who is sitting under the dryers against the colorful back wall next to her two best friends, Memaw and Esther. They’re all here for their weekly wash and curl. The three of them look like a photo straight out of the 1950s, wearing styling capes, holding gossip magazines, curlers in their hair and their lips painted in bright shades of red and hot pink.
The salon smells faintly of hair dye and setting spray. Thesounds of conversations bounce off the walls, mingling together into a delightfully indecipherable chatter.
“That’s not how the line goes,” Lexi complains from her spot in Laura’s station chair. “You can’t just go twisting one of the best lines in literature.”
“Can’t I now?” Jayme asks. “I’m playing with it for my novel. My heroine is dead set against dating. She’s been burned and she loves her single life.”
“Your heroine is part wolf, right?” Laura asks.
“Yes. She’s a wolf shifter and she’s done with alpha wolves for good.”
“Can’t blame a girl for not wanting to date a wolf,” Shannon says from her spot near the window where she’s doing a manicure.
“And you’re not basing this character on yourself?” Laura asks, raising her brows and looking at Jayme in the mirror.
“Because I’m burnt out on men who devour women like sheep?”
Laura laughs. “Yeah. That.”
“Being burnt would make anyone gun-shy,” I say. “I’m not interested in wolves or men. I could use a raise, though.”
Everyone laughs. And then the seniors under the dryer start talking. That usually makes the rest of us go silent so we can hear what they’re talking about. Ninety percent of the time it’s gossip—even if it’s not accurate, it’s entertaining.
“Mabel?” Esther says.
“What?”
“You smell like that candle I bought at that candle party Jeanie threw last month. Kind of smoky and …” Esther’s voice drifts off and then in a higher-pitched tone of voice, she says, “Smoky. Very smoky!”
I turn to see what’s going on, dropping the section of Jayme’s hair I was about to trim.
Esther’s expression is alarmed. She attempts to stand,forgetting the lid of the dryer is down. She conks her head and plops back into the chair.
“You’re smoking, Mabel!” Esther shouts.
“I haven’t smoked a day in my life!” Mabel says.
Customers spontaneously stand from their chairs and grab their purses, running out of the salon with foil in their hair and capes around their shoulders.
“Mabel’s on fire!” one of them shouts and the rest rush the door, trying to squeeze out past one another.
My pulse thrums beneath my skin.
Memaw glances in Mabel’s direction. “You’re sizzling, Mabel! Like a steak on the barbecue!”
Esther pauses, sniffs, and says, “It’s more like that barbecue Walt makes on Founder’s Day.”
