What the Heart Wants (What the Heart Wants, #1)(25)

Now for her face. It had been a couple of years since she’d used anything more than lipstick and sunscreen, but, sorting through her dressing table drawer, she located some mascara and a compact of eye shadow. That should do the trick. Or did it? She studied herself in the mirror. She looked so—so commonplace. Lolly wanted her to look sexy…and maybe Jase did too.

She undid the two top buttons of her blouse. Her mother’s soft voice immediately told her that people expected more modesty and less exposure from a minister’s daughter.

Maybe she should rebutton.

On the other hand, Mama always worried about what people thought, and it killed her in the end.

Laurel moved her hand away from her neckline and released her ponytail. Another minute to fix her hair and she’d be ready. She picked up her comb and looked in the mirror.

Darn! The rubber band had crimped her up! She wet a comb and tried to repair the damage in the bathroom mirror.

Quick footsteps came down the hall and paused just outside her door. “You decent?”

Laurel moved back into the bedroom. “I’m dressed, Lolly. Come on in.”

“I just thought I’d come check”—Lolly blinked in surprise—“You look hot!” She reached out to touch Laurel’s sleeve. “I love the feel of the fabric—and the way it moves.” Stepping back, she looked her hostess up and down, frowning as she focused on her hair.

“We need to do something about your—um—coiffure. You sit down and I’ll be right back. I never go anywhere without my hair stuff.”

A second later, she returned with a bathroom towel over her shoulder and her arms overflowing with salon supplies, all of which she dumped on Laurel’s bed.

Laurel stared at the pile: scissors, shampoo, conditioner, a blow dryer, giant containers of styling gel, mousse and hair spray, and what looked like an industrial-sized curling iron. No wonder there wasn’t any room in Lolly’s backpack for a change of clothes.

“Uh, I have my own curling iron and blow dryer,” she ventured in a weak voice, eying the black-and-chrome mechanism Lolly was plugging into the electrical socket on the wall. That thing looked lethal.

Lolly pinned a bathroom towel around Laurel’s neck. “You just stay still and let me take care of everything.” She waved the curling iron around for emphasis. “I do all my friends’ hair and they love it.” Combing through Laurel’s hair, she lifted tresses here and there to examine them. “You’ve been cutting it yourself, haven’t you?’

“I didn’t want to bother going to the hairdresser’s.” She didn’t want to spend the money, Besides, Saundra Schlossnagel Crosswaithe, who’d taken over Ooh La La Salon and Boutique when her mother developed Parkinson’s, had sent her a registered letter telling her they would no longer welcome her patronage.

“It’s uneven.” Lolly reached for her scissors. “I’ll, like, take care of that. Just a snip here and there.”

Laurel started to protest, but Lolly was already cutting.

“There, I’ve fixed it,” she announced. “All you needed was a little trim. Now for the fun part.”

Laurel watched in the mirror as Lolly worked a glob of foamy mousse into her hair, then picked up the comb and smoothed out the bangs, blending them to the side. A few deft twists of the curling iron and Laurel’s shoulder-length bob became a graceful cascade turned slightly under at the tips, with one purposefully errant strand going against the tide.

Lolly stepped back to pouf the hairdo with spray. “Check it out. Wiggle your head a little.”

Laurel watched her hair ripple and fall back in place again. “This is great, Lolly. You really know what you’re doing. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, I want you to look good when Dad comes to dinner.”

Laurel glanced at the clock on her dressing table. “He’ll be here any minute. We’d better check how the roast is doing.”

There were no pauses on the stairs to study the portraits this time, but once in the kitchen, Lolly insisted Laurel’s role be strictly supervisory. “You need to sit down and stay nice. I’ll lift all the lids and open the oven.”

Laurel couldn’t help but smile. Lolly obviously had a not-so-ulterior motive, but as long as it remained unspoken, she’d go along with it. Luckily, the only casualty was the tin of rolls, which had burned because the timer had been set wrong. Lolly dumped the tiny, pitiful lumps of charcoal into the step-on trash can, and Laurel stuck their backups in the oven. All she would need to do was delay everyone at the door for a minute or two for the replacements to finish baking. Or, if Jase and his aunt were a bit late, it would be even better.

Lolly took the chair next to her. “Those pearls you have on are gorgeous. Are they for real?”

Laurel reached up to the necklace. “Yes. They were my grandmother’s. Grampa gave them to Gramma when they were married, and Mama had them restrung for my sixteenth birthday.”

Lolly tilted her head in inquiry. “What was she like—your mother, I mean?”

“Mama? She was older than most of my friends’ mothers and rather conservative, but very sweet.”

“But what did she look like?” Lolly persisted, her voice quieting. “I can’t tell from the painting because her hair is mostly white. Was she dark, like you?”