Acts of Violet(33)

“And you know I’ve been doing your hair for the last ten years, and hair in general for over twenty years. God, that makes me feel so old.”

“Don’t you dare.” Clearing her throat, she holds up her right wrist, which bears a silver cuff engraved with: F@AA/F@AW. It stands for Fabulous at Any Age/Fabulous at Any Weight, one of the mottos adorning various goods in her shop.

“I mean, god, that makes me feel so fabulous,” I correct myself, containing most of my sarcasm. “Anyway, if you don’t want to get into it, fine, but let’s not pretend I’m not an expert at sniffing out breakup hair.”

“There’s nothing to get into. Kerry and Jerry decided they wanted to end their open marriage.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. We got along great, but I knew it wouldn’t last. They liked to cook naked, which bugged me, not from a modesty standpoint, more because of how impractical it was. And this is so petty, but … their rhyming names creeped me out. Kerry and Jerry Perry. It reminds me of a private detective I hired years ago named Yannis Mannis. I should tell you about that sometime.” A weak laugh and her voice cracks. “I thought we made a really good throuple.”

“I’m sure you did.” I offer her a tissue and crouch beside her. “You got anywhere you need to be for a while?”

Sniffling, she says, “No, I figured the oil slick hair would take ages, so Astrid’s watching the store the rest of the day.”

“Good.” I lock the front door and flip the sign to CLOSED. “Let’s head to the back. I’ve got tea and coffee, unless you want me to run out and get something stronger?”

“Coffee is fine.” With a sigh, Sally stands and follows me.

In the kitchenette, I fill a pot with hot water and rummage through the cabinet for a box of cookies or snack cakes. It was something Mom ingrained in me: when you have a guest, you always serve coffee or tea with a sweet treat, even if it goes uneaten.

“Beautiful samovar,” Sally says from the doorway, pointing to the end of the counter. “Was that your mother’s?”

“Yeah.” I cast a contrite look at the thing, which resembles an ornate bronze UFO with handles and a spigot. “She used it to brew tea for her clients. It’s mostly decorative now, though I usually hide it in the cabinet.” My electric kettle isn’t as pretty but it’s faster; I don’t know how Mom managed to do hair and work such a fussy contraption.

“And what are those?” She points to a pair of filigreed metal glass holders beside the samovar.

“It’s called a podstakannik. It literally means ‘thing under the glass,’” I explain, holding one up. “In Russia, tea is traditionally served in a glass—”

“Because what else would you want to drink a boiling hot beverage out of?”

“Exactly. But some smart Russian must’ve been tired of getting scalded all the time and came up with this.” Tracing a finger over the delicate lacework, I shake my head. “I may not agree with their faulty tea logic, but my people do get points for craftsmanship.”

“Sometimes logic is overrated.”

That sounds like something my sister would say, but I won’t hold it against Sally.

We take our coffee into the reception area of the salon and perch on a banquette.

Unsure of how much she wants to rehash her breakup, I go in delicately. “Do you want to talk about…?”

“The naked chefs with rhyming names who broke my heart? Not particularly. Do you want to talk about all the Violet craziness?”

“No.” I glance outside, where three young women in skinny jeans and military jackets pause in front of the salon to take photos. “Speaking of Violet craziness.” Their lapels glint with the silver double V of my sister’s logo (the letters’ legs jagged like bolts of lightning), and as they turn around, each reveals a large swan patch sewn onto the back of her jacket. Are swans a new part of my sister’s fandom?

“How much are you dreading the vigil next week?” Sally asks.

“So much. More now that Quinn has volunteered as tribute. I’m a wreck just thinking about her onstage in front of all those people.”

“I’ll be there with extra Xanax if either of you need it.”

The women outside take a few more selfies and catch me watching them. Offering nervous smiles and waves, they walk on.

“Is there any part of you … um … Do you think…” Sally begins.

My head whips in her direction. This must be serious. It’s not like her to hesitate—she’s of the speak now, apologize later variety.

“Do I think what?”

She studies her coffee and lowers her voice. “Do you think it’s even … a teeny-tiny bit possible … you know, with all the hubbub going on … that maybe Violet…”

“Is behind any of it? Is gonna use the anniversary to stage a comeback?” My tone is surly, and I roll my eyes, but it’s more to keep them from tearing up. “No way. All the resources she would’ve wasted having people look for her, all the emotional turmoil she caused … It would be a bad PR move and come off as too manipulative, even for Violet. She’d never do such a thing.” She wouldn’t, right? Coffee sloshes dangerously in my mug and I hold it with both hands to keep it steady. “I don’t think she’s ever coming back.”