Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(51)

I understood. Mike wanted a girl with no problems and no past experiences, someone who came with a guarantee that she would never make mistakes or disappoint or hurt him.

Later I would feel sorry for him. I knew there was a lot of disappointment in store for Mike, in his search for the woman with no baggage. But for the moment I felt only annoyance at him. I thought of how Hardy had always come to the rescue at times like this. the way he would stride into a room and take charge, and the incredible relief I felt at knowing he was there. But Hardy wasn't coming. All I had was a useless male who didn't even think to ask if he could do something to help.

"That's fine." I tried to sound casual. I wanted to throw something, like you would to get rid of a stray dog. "Thank you for the date, Mike. We'll be fine. If you wouldn't mind seeing yourself to the door—"

"Sure." he said hastily. "Sure."

He vanished.

"Am I gonna die?" Carrington inquired, sounding interested and mildly concerned.

"Only if I catch you with another penny in your mouth," I said.

The pediatrician called, and he interrupted my frantic chatter. "Miss Jones, is your sister wheezing or choking?"

"She's not choking." I looked into Carrington's face. "Let me hear you breathe, baby."

She complied enthusiastically, hyperventilating like a phone pervert. "No wheezing," I told the doctor, and turned back to my sister. "That's enough, Carrington."

I heard the doctor chuckle. "Carrington's going to be just fine. What I need you to do is check her stools for the next couple of days to make certain the coin passes. If you can't find it, we may have to take an X-ray to make certain it hasn't lodged somewhere. But I can almost guarantee you'll see that penny in the commode."

"Can I have a hundred-percent guarantee?" I asked. "'Almost' is just not working for me today."

He chuckled again. "I don't usually give out hundred-percent guarantees. Miss Jones. But for you I'll make an exception. One full-out guarantee for a penny in the commode within forty-eight hours."

For the next two days I had to poke around in the toilet with a wire hanger every time Carrington reported progress. The penny was eventually found. In the months afterward. however, Carrington told everyone who would listen she had a lucky penny in her tummy. It was only a matter of time, she assured me, until something big happened to us.

CHAPTER 14

Hair is serious business in Houston. It amazed me how much people were willing to pay for the services at Salon One. Being blond, in particular, was a serious investment of time and money, and Salon One gave women the best color of their lives. The salon was known for a tricolor blond that was so good, women would fly in from out of state for it. There was always a waiting list for any of the stylists, but for the head stylist and part-owner, Zenko, the wait was three months minimum.

Zenko was a small man with a powerful presence and the electric grace of a dancer. Although Zenko had been born and raised in Katy, he'd gone to England for an apprenticeship. When he returned, he had lost his first name and had gained an authentic-sounding British accent. Everyone loved that accent. We loved it even when he was yelling at one of us behind the scenes.

Zenko yelled a lot. He was a perfectionist, not to mention a genius. And when

something wasn't just the way he liked it. there were fireworks. But oh. what a business he had created. It had won Salon of the Year from magazines like Texas Monthly, Elle, and Glamour. Zenko himself had appeared in a documentary film about a famous actress. He'd been busy straightening her long red hair with a flat iron while she answered an interviewer's questions. That documentary had boosted Zenko's career, already thriving,. into a white glare of fame known by few stylists. Now he had his own line of products, all packaged in glittering silver cans and bottles with star-shaped tops.

To me, the interior of Salon One looked like an English manor house, appointed with polished oak floors, antiques, and ceilings with medallions and hand-painted designs. When a client wanted coffee, it was served in bone china cups on a silver tray. If she wanted diet Coke, it was poured into tall glasses over Evian-water ice cubes. There was a large room with styling stations, and a few private rooms for celebrities and megawealthy clients, and a shampoo room filled with candlelight and classical music.

As an apprentice, I didn't actually get to cut anyone's hair for a year. I watched and learned. I did errands for Zenko, I brought refreshments to customers who wanted them, and sometimes I applied deep conditioning treatments with hot towels and swaths of foil. I gave manicures and hand massages to some clients while they waited for Zenko. The most fun was being enlisted to give pedicures to ladies who were having a spa day together. While the women chatted, the other pedicurist and I worked silently on their feet, and we got to hear the best and newest gossip.

They talked first about who'd had what done lately, and what needed to be done on

themselves, and whether having Botox injected in your cheeks was worth giving up your smile. They talked about husbands briefly, and then it turned to the children, their private schools, their friends, their achievements and disorders. Many of the children were sent to psychotherapists to catalog all the little damages it does to a soul to have whatever you want whenever you want it. These things were so far removed from my life, it seemed we were from different planets. But then there were more familiar-sounding stories that reminded me of Carrington. and sometimes it was all I could do to keep from exclaiming, "Yes: that happened to my little sister too," or "I know exactly what you're talking about."