Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(47)

The truth was, I wasn't comfortable around men. They were alien creatures, with their hard handshakes and love of red sports cars and power tools, and their seeming inability to replace the toilet paper roll when it was empty. I envied girls who understood men and were at ease with them.

I realized I wasn't going to find a man until I was willing to expose myself to possible harm, to assume the risks of rejection and betrayal and heartbreak that came along with caring about someone. Someday. I promised myself, I would be ready for that kind of risk.

CHAPTER 13

Mrs. Vasquez said she wasn't a bit surprised that I'd passed the written and practical exams with near-perfect scores. She beamed and bracketed my face in her firm, narrow hands as if I were a favorite daughter. "Congratulations, Liberty. You've worked very hard. You should be very proud of yourself."

"Thank you." I was breathless with excitement. Passing the exam was a huge boost to my confidence; it made me feel I could do anything. As Lucy's mom had said, if you can make one basket, you can make a hundred baskets.

The academy director motioned me to sit. "Will you be looking for an apprenticeship now. or do you plan to rent an operator's booth?"

Renting an operator's booth was like being self-employed, requiring you to lease a little part of a beauty shop for a monthly fee. I wasn't crazy about the idea of no guaranteed salary.

"I'm leaning toward the apprenticeship." I said. "I'd rather have regular pay...my little sister and I—"

"Of course," she interrupted before I had to explain. "I think a young woman with your skills and beauty should be able to find a paying position at a good salon."

Unused to praise, I smiled and hitched my shoulders in a shrug. "Do looks have anything to do with it?"

"The most upscale salons have an image they prefer. If you happen to fit in. so much the better for you." Her considering stare made me straighten self-consciously in my chair. Thanks to the incessant styling practice the cosmetology students had done on each other, I'd had a lifetime's worth of manicures, pedicures, skin treatments, and hair-coloring. I had never looked so polished. My dark hair was artfully highlighted with shades of caramel and honey, and after what had felt like about a thousand facials, my skin was so clear I had no need of foundation makeup. I looked a little like one of Barbie's ethno-friends, all fresh and shiny behind a clear plastic dome and a hot-pink label.

"There is a very exclusive salon in the Galleria area." Mrs. Vasquez continued. "Salon One...have you heard of it? Yes? I am well acquainted with the manager. If you are interested, I will recommend you to her."

"Would you?" I could hardly believe my luck. "Oh, Mrs. Vasquez. I don't know how to thank you."

"They are very particular/' she warned. "You may not make it past the first interview.

But..." She paused and gave me a curious glance. "Something tells me you will do well there. Liberty."

Houston is a long-legged city laid out akimbo like a wicked woman after a night of sin. Big problems and big pleasures—that's Houston. But in a state of generally friendly people. Houstonians are the nicest, as long as you don't mess with their property. They have a high regard for property, that is to say land, and they have a particular understanding of it.

As the only major American city with no zoning code to speak of. Houston is an ongoing experiment in the influence of free market forces on land use. You're likely to see strip clubs and triple-X stores cozying up to circumspect office buildings and condos, and shade-tree mechanics and shotgun houses sidled against concrete plazas studded with glass skyscrapers. That's because Houstonians have always preferred real ownership of their land over letting the government have control over how things ought to be arranged. They'll gladly pay the price for that freedom, even if it results in undesirable businesses springing up like mesquite trees.

In Houston, new money is just as good as old. No matter who you are or where you came from, you're welcome to the dance as long as you can afford the ticket. There are tales of legendar\' Houston society hostesses who came from relatively humble backgrounds, including one who was once a furniture salesman's daughter and another who had gotten her start in party-planning. If you have money and you value quiet good taste, you'll be appreciated in Dallas. But if you have money and you like to throw it around like fire-ant bait, you belong in Houston.

On the surface it's a lazy city filled with slow-talking, slow-moving people. Most of the time it's too hot to get stirred up about anything. But power in Houston is wielded with an economy of motion, just like good bass fishing. The city is built on energy, you can see it in the skyline, all those buildings reaching up as if they intend to keep on growing.

I found an apartment for Carrington and me inside the 610 loop, not far from my job at Salon One. People who live inside 610 are regarded as somewhat cosmopolitan, the kind who might sometimes see an art house movie or drink lattes. Outside the loop, latte-drinking is seen as suspicious evidence of possible liberal leanings.

The apartment was in an older complex, with a swimming pool and a jogging trail. "Are we rich now?" Carrington had asked in wonder, awed by the size of the main building and the fact that we rode up to our apartment in an elevator.

As an apprentice at Salon One. I would earn about eighteen thousand dollars a year. After taxes and a monthly rent of five hundred dollars, there wasn't much left over, especially since the cost of living was much higher in the city than in Welcome. However, after the first year of training I would be promoted to junior stylist, and my salary would be bumped up to the low twenties.