“I might need some things, depending on how long I’m going to be here.”
“I imagine it’s going to be a few days, and I don’t mind saying, I’m glad. I’m really happy for your help, Scarlett.”
A feeling of warmth flowed through her, but then reality hit. Scarlett didn’t want to feel wanted here in Texas. That was the whole point of leaving Georgia—she needed to get to L.A. She’d come to the realization that even if Claude towed her car later today, it wouldn’t be fixed immediately.
“Let me get my shoes on and fluff my hair, and I’ll be ready to go.”
Clarissa drove them to Graham, where they shopped at a chain drugstore. Graham was quite a bit larger than Brody’s Crossing.
“Why don’t you come to the community center with me?” Clarissa asked as they drove back to town. “We’re putting together some gift bags for the children’s Christmas party next Saturday.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“We’d love the help.”
Scarlett didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the trade-off of the free room and even the trip to the store, but she didn’t want to get pulled into the activities of the town, even if the idea of spending time with other people was far more appealing than sitting alone. Today it would be gift baskets, then tomorrow something else, until she was committed to serving as Santa’s elf on Christmas Eve!
“I really appreciate it, Clarissa, but I’ll pass. I…I won’t be here long enough to get involved.”
Clarissa seemed surprised, glancing away from the road just a moment. Then she said, “Well, if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I just thought you might rather be over there than all by yourself.”
“I’ll catch up on my reading. And if you need anything done at the shop—inventory, cleaning, stocking—just let me know.”
“Oh, we’re fine. If you change your mind, the community center is just two blocks away. Ask anyone for directions.”
“Sure.” But Scarlett knew she wasn’t going to the center on Sunday afternoon. Doing hair was one thing, but packing gift baskets was way too friendly for someone just passing through.
“I WANT TO SUE THAT NEW hairdresser at Clarissa’s House of Style,” the voice coming from the reception area insisted. “That red-haired, young, weird-looking one that just got into town.” The rather unpleasant, strident tones were directed at James’s mother, who worked part-time as his receptionist.
“What happened, Delores? I didn’t know Clarissa had hired a new hairdresser,” James heard his mother ask.
“She’s a menace! This was the first time Ashley was a holiday princess, and her parade was ruined!”
“Ruined? That’s just terrible.”
Don’t encourage her, Mom, James thought as he pushed away from his desk and walked toward the reception area. His mother was too sympathetic to be a good screener, but she had a big heart and people did trust her. The problem was that a few of the citizens of Brody’s Crossing had become a bit lawsuit crazy since he’d moved his practice back home last year.
Especially whenever one of the television network “in-depth” reports featured some evil-doing, money-hungry, corporate giant who was out to get the little guy. Last week Myra Hammer had wanted to sue the grocery for selling her bruised bananas. The week before, Sam Gibson had insisted that he should sue the used car dealer in Graham because the pickup he’d just bought had a blowout, so obviously the tire was defective.
The citizens of Brody’s Crossing did not need encouragement in the lawsuit department.
“Hello, Mrs. Desmond.” Demanding Desmond. That’s what everyone called her behind her back. Not him, but he’d heard waitresses, clerks and other workers complain. So far, though, no one had tried to sue her for unreasonable demands or poor tips. “What’s the problem?”
“As I was telling your mother, that new red-haired hairdresser at Clarissa’s ruined my daughter’s hair for the holiday princess float and lunch at the community center.”
“When you say ruined, do you mean permanently?”
“No! But you know how important the parade is. All the girls wear upsweeps with those little rhinestone clips, and they do their makeup to match. Why, they all look so pretty up there on the float.”
James sighed. He remembered how his high school girlfriend, Jennifer Hopkins, had been a holiday princess. She was married now with two children and he…wasn’t. “Do you have photos or any other proof?”
“I certainly do! They’re all right here, in that disposable digital camera I bought at the CVS in Graham.”
“Why don’t we wait until you get those photos developed, then we can talk?”
“Just look at them in the little window. You can see clear as day that Ashley’s hair is not only inappropriate for a princess float, but is just too trendy for us. Why, it looks like something out of one of those Hollywood Grammys or Oscars or some such nonsense. You know how strange those actresses look.”
James repressed a sigh and accepted the camera Mrs. Desmond thrust into his hand. “Turn it on right here,” she advised him, and he looked at photo after photo of dear Ashley wearing a fake-fur-trimmed gown. Her hair had been fluffed up and back, in some kind of curls, a style that did stand out among the other girls. Ashley’s hair appeared a bit softer around her small face.
“It’s different.” And maybe better, James thought, but didn’t add his editorial comment. He was no expert on current teenage hairstyles. Or teenage girl anything.
“So different that I’m sure everyone was laughing behind her back.”
“Did anyone make a comment to you or to her?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t thinking it!”
“Did you speak to Clarissa or the new stylist?”
“No, I did not! I didn’t see Ashley’s hair until I went to the parade, and by then, the damage was already done. I thought I should talk to you first, to see what my legal options are.” Demanding Desmond leaned closer and narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t want to do or say anything that might influence my legal rights.”
James repressed another sigh. “You can’t sue because you didn’t like the hairstyle. You need actual damages.”
“How about the damage to my daughter’s image? She won’t even talk about it. That’s how upset she is.”
“James, why don’t you talk to that new hairdresser? Maybe she just doesn’t understand what’s expected of her.”
“Mother, don’t you think that’s Clarissa’s job?”
“Well, maybe…”
“Excellent idea!” Mrs. Desmond said. “You go talk to Clarissa and you’ll see what I mean.”
“I don’t think—”
“Yes, that sounds reasonable,” his mother interrupted.
He glared at his mom, then said, “Mrs. Desmond, with all due respect, I don’t have a dog in this fight.”
“Dogs? Who’s talking about dogs? This is about hairstyles!”
His point exactly, which apparently he wasn’t going to be allowed to make between his mother’s inherent sympathy and her hopes for a potential client.
“I was just going to lunch.”
“Fine. Then you can stop by Clarissa’s on your way over to the Burger Barn.”