rejected me on appearance alone. Had that taught me nothing? It was also strange that Megan’s loaded parents weren’t paying her tuition, but I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask about that.
She ran a finger lightly over her work and turned my arm slightly to inspect it. “This looks pretty good.”
“It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would,” I said. “But I’m still not a fan.”
I withdrew the assaulted arm and replaced it with the other. Megan gently returned the original arm to the table.
“Not done yet.” She produced a pair of tweezers.
“You’re kidding.”
“Afraid not.”
Chapter Nine
Megan left to prepare my bill. Even though the waxing room was windowless, I knew from a persistent, overhead hiss that it was raining harder. I dressed, grabbed my purse, and stepped into the waiting area. Megan, at a discreetly positioned cash register, wasn’t alone.
Poised on the loveseat, wearing a fetching sundress, was her mother. Diana cradled a cell phone and pressed buttons with the tip of a long fingernail. Her picturesque hands made dialing look ethereal. She glanced at me, smiled politely, and raised the phone to her ear.
“Your total’s eighty,” Megan said.
So wax pain came in two forms: physical and fiscal.
I set my bag on the counter and dug for my billfold.
“That’s my mom,” she said.
I feigned surprise.
“We’re having lunch.”
In my purse, my cell phone’s display was blinking. I’d silenced it for the appointment and had missed two calls. While Meghan ran my credit card, I checked the phone’s log. Betsy Fletcher had called first. That was disappointing because it meant I’d missed a chance to talk to Annette. The next call had been from Richard, but since I still felt edgy about the Mick Young situation, missing that one was a relief.
Diana spoke up behind me. “Aren’t you the new gal here? The one thinking of doing some work?”
I turned, stunned that my cover story had spread through the club so fast. Diana dropped her own phone into an enormous paisley tote and Megan handed back my card.
“I’m sure it was you,” Diana said. “At the funeral.”
“You were at the funeral?” Megan asked, clearly surprised.
I nodded and tried to piece things together.
“Natalie said you were a new patient of Wendell’s. Said you might give Chris a call.” I didn’t like her casual mention of a dead man or her pushy way of getting in my business. She stood, smoothed her skirt, and joined us at the counter. “That’s my husband.”
Megan introduced us and I suffered through a one-sided handshake, high on my list of pet peeves. Diana’s limp, disinterested grip suggested I should be flattered to touch her.
I turned to Megan. “Natalie, the personal trainer?”
“Yep.”
Not only would Jeannie endure a blistering ass-kicking, she’d get it with Smoothie Nag’s bitchy smile.
I signed my slip. Megan put it in her register and locked it. Then she slid a placard onto the counter that said “Back at 1:30.”
Her mother reached elbow-deep into her vast bag and came up with a business card, which she pressed into my hand. “I’ll tell Chris you might call.”
They sashayed away, Diana’s posture impeccable.
“Stay dry,” I said to their backs, but neither seemed to hear.
***
“Waxing is a mind over matter thing,” Jeannie said. “If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.” She twisted the lid off of a can of Ragu and dumped it into a sauce pan on my tiny gas range. “After a while, it doesn’t hurt as much.”
“It was totally inappropriate for you to sign me up for a bikini wax.” Beside her, I sliced cucumbers and carrots for our salads. Outside, the rain persisted, and now there was thunder too. “Are you completely impervious to social boundaries?”
“It was an exercise in foresight.” She angled an open pasta box over a pot of boiling water and slid the spaghetti noodles into the bubbles, where she arranged them somewhat
She ran a finger lightly over her work and turned my arm slightly to inspect it. “This looks pretty good.”
“It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would,” I said. “But I’m still not a fan.”
I withdrew the assaulted arm and replaced it with the other. Megan gently returned the original arm to the table.
“Not done yet.” She produced a pair of tweezers.
“You’re kidding.”
“Afraid not.”
Chapter Nine
Megan left to prepare my bill. Even though the waxing room was windowless, I knew from a persistent, overhead hiss that it was raining harder. I dressed, grabbed my purse, and stepped into the waiting area. Megan, at a discreetly positioned cash register, wasn’t alone.
Poised on the loveseat, wearing a fetching sundress, was her mother. Diana cradled a cell phone and pressed buttons with the tip of a long fingernail. Her picturesque hands made dialing look ethereal. She glanced at me, smiled politely, and raised the phone to her ear.
“Your total’s eighty,” Megan said.
So wax pain came in two forms: physical and fiscal.
I set my bag on the counter and dug for my billfold.
“That’s my mom,” she said.
I feigned surprise.
“We’re having lunch.”
In my purse, my cell phone’s display was blinking. I’d silenced it for the appointment and had missed two calls. While Meghan ran my credit card, I checked the phone’s log. Betsy Fletcher had called first. That was disappointing because it meant I’d missed a chance to talk to Annette. The next call had been from Richard, but since I still felt edgy about the Mick Young situation, missing that one was a relief.
Diana spoke up behind me. “Aren’t you the new gal here? The one thinking of doing some work?”
I turned, stunned that my cover story had spread through the club so fast. Diana dropped her own phone into an enormous paisley tote and Megan handed back my card.
“I’m sure it was you,” Diana said. “At the funeral.”
“You were at the funeral?” Megan asked, clearly surprised.
I nodded and tried to piece things together.
“Natalie said you were a new patient of Wendell’s. Said you might give Chris a call.” I didn’t like her casual mention of a dead man or her pushy way of getting in my business. She stood, smoothed her skirt, and joined us at the counter. “That’s my husband.”
Megan introduced us and I suffered through a one-sided handshake, high on my list of pet peeves. Diana’s limp, disinterested grip suggested I should be flattered to touch her.
I turned to Megan. “Natalie, the personal trainer?”
“Yep.”
Not only would Jeannie endure a blistering ass-kicking, she’d get it with Smoothie Nag’s bitchy smile.
I signed my slip. Megan put it in her register and locked it. Then she slid a placard onto the counter that said “Back at 1:30.”
Her mother reached elbow-deep into her vast bag and came up with a business card, which she pressed into my hand. “I’ll tell Chris you might call.”
They sashayed away, Diana’s posture impeccable.
“Stay dry,” I said to their backs, but neither seemed to hear.
***
“Waxing is a mind over matter thing,” Jeannie said. “If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.” She twisted the lid off of a can of Ragu and dumped it into a sauce pan on my tiny gas range. “After a while, it doesn’t hurt as much.”
“It was totally inappropriate for you to sign me up for a bikini wax.” Beside her, I sliced cucumbers and carrots for our salads. Outside, the rain persisted, and now there was thunder too. “Are you completely impervious to social boundaries?”
“It was an exercise in foresight.” She angled an open pasta box over a pot of boiling water and slid the spaghetti noodles into the bubbles, where she arranged them somewhat
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