“What?” Scarlett sat upright and swung her feet to the porch. “Ashley loved her hair!”
“Apparently her mother had different ideas.”
“Well, her mother is wrong! That traditional updo isn’t right for a teenager. She needed something softer, with a little volume…er, on the sides.” To cover up her big ears, not show them off.
“I know that you believe you gave her a style that was suitable for her face, but you’ve got to understand that in small towns, being traditional is often more important.”
“That’s nonsense. There’s no reason these girls should look like little cookie cutter dolls. They should get hairstyles that are appropriate for them.”
“Their mothers are paying for the styles, so they have some say in the final product.”
“If Ashley’s mother thinks an updo would look better on her daughter than that cute twisted-curl style I did, she just doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You should ignore her.”
“I’m not encouraging her to sue—”
“Sue! She should be thanking me!”
“She has a different opinion, and whether you or I agree with her, she’s Ashley’s mother and lives in this town. She feels her daughter was harmed.”
“I can’t believe this! I’m telling you that Ashley loved her hair. You can ask Clarissa.”
“I haven’t talked to Clarissa, and neither did Mrs. Desmond, apparently. She came to my office earlier and asked me to talk to you.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous!”
“I’m just saying that sometime between Ashley leaving the salon and Monday morning, Mrs. Desmond decided to see an attorney. Now, as I said, I didn’t encourage her.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful for that?”
“Look, if she comes around, just tell her you’re sorry you didn’t fix her daughter’s hair as she was expecting it to be fixed.”
“I will not apologize for styling that girl’s hair in a flattering, appropriate manner.”
“Okay, then, but you might expect complaints about these unfamiliar styles. People might thing they’re too…mature.”
“That’s absurd.” Scarlett picked up one of the magazines and turned to a section on teen styles. “Look at these! I didn’t do anything near this edgy or dramatic.” She shoved the magazine at him.
He thumbed through several pages and raised his eyebrows. He was so well groomed that she couldn’t even criticize his brows, skin care or even his hair—although the style was kind of boring with a side part, and just long enough to start to curl at the nape of his neck.
“These are as you say, more dramatic than what you did, but that won’t necessarily satisfy Mrs. Desmond.”
Scarlett grabbed the magazine and put it back on the little table next to the chair. “I won’t be around long enough to care. As soon as my car is repaired, I’m out of here.”
James Brody, attorney at law, shrugged. “That might be best.”
“Hey, who elected you hairstyle sheriff? This is the twenty-first century. You can’t run me out of town!”
He frowned. “I’m just pointing out your best option.”
She stepped closer and pointed her own finger at him, nearly jabbing him in the chest—which she didn’t actually touch because he might have her arrested for assault. “Listen, I don’t need to be told I don’t belong here. If you want to be useful, get Claude McCaskie to find the parts he needs to repair my car. I’ll be out of here faster than you can say ‘lawsuit.’”
“I didn’t come down here in any official capacity, and I’m not getting in the middle of the fight.”
“Oh, you put yourself in the middle, bub.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me bub.”
“What are you going to do—sue me?”
He leaned closer, until they were nearly eye to eye. “I might just take Mrs. Desmond’s case, at which point I’d have you held over for a trial.”
Scarlett’s eyes narrowed. If she could, she would have blown smoke and fire from her nose. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t provoke me.”
“You’re the one who came down here and threatened me!”
She watched anger and frustration war on his face. Granted, it was a handsome face, but as her Southern belle grandmother used to say, “Pretty is as pretty does.” Right now he didn’t seem so much like a pretty boy as he did a small-town ogre. What nerve, to come in here and tell her she didn’t know how to fix hair, then threaten to keep her here with bogus charges!
“I came here to deflect a possible issue for you. I can see you’re not going to cooperate, so I’ll be going. Don’t be surprised if you get more complaints.”
“I never let the criticism of small minds bother me.”
“We’ll see. I guess that depends on how long you’re here and whether Clarissa decides to support you.” He turned and stormed down the two steps to the gravel parking space behind the salon, and disappeared around the side of the city hall office building.
Scarlett slumped against the wall. Where would she stay if Clarissa decided she was too much trouble? Damn that car! She should have traded it in on something more reliable years ago, even if her actions did make her seem ungrateful to her parents, who’d given her the clunky monster because it was big, safe and paid for.
That’s what happened when you depended on others. That’s why she needed to be successful and independent. So she wouldn’t have to apologize to the Mrs. Desmonds of the world or defend her actions to her family.
When she was successful, she could express herself and people would actually listen and care. They wouldn’t tell her to stop trying to be different. They’d ask her what was next! They’d expect a new, original, bold style.
But right now, she was stuck in a town where mothers expected updos and lawyers threatened to sue over a hairstyle! Unless she hitchhiked to L.A., she’d be here until her car was running again.
Maybe she would have to bite her tongue and play nice, but she wasn’t going to like it.
JAMES WAS TOO UPSET by his confrontation with Scarlett to talk to her or about her the rest of the day. He hadn’t encountered such a defensive, argumentative person in a long time. Definitely not since moving back home. Although some of the folks around Brody’s Crossing could be cranky and opinionated, they didn’t actively argue like Scarlett No-last-name. At least, not unless they’d been drinking too much at Dewey’s Saloon and Steakhouse. He had a couple of clients who fit that description, but he usually only saw them late on occasional Saturday nights or holiday weekends.
That redheaded stranger was infuriating. He’d tried to be nice and helpful, and she’d gone ballistic on him. Well, maybe not ballistic, but she’d been one step away from poking him in the chest. If she had, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. Grabbed her finger and pulled her too close to punch him, that was for sure. The extremely odd and vexing thing was that he’d also had the strangest urge to kiss her while he was at it. Just to shut her up, he told himself. Definitely not for any other reason.
On Tuesday morning, as he worked on a new legal agreement between Troy Crawford and Angelo Ramirez to lease part of the Rocking C, James heard a commotion in the reception area. “It’s that new girl at Clarissa’s,” one of the women said in a whining, shaky tone.
“We