Red (15 page)

He lifted his eyebrows in feigned innocence. “What look?”

“That challenged look. The one you get every time you're presented with something you can't have. You've been getting it since you were a toddler.” She slipped her arm through his and laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if you weren't gifted with a bit too much charm.”

He grinned. “Didn't you know? There's no such thing as too much charm.”

“Except when you turn it on inexperienced and unsuspecting waifs.” She looked at him sternly. “I mean it, Jack.”

“You make me sound like I'm a Bluebeard, or something. I don't mean any harm.”

“I know.” Sallie faced him and touched his cheek lightly, lovingly. “But Becky Lynn's not a toy to be won, and she's not like the rest of the women around here. She's young. She's less experienced. I have a feeling she's been hurt badly.”

“In other words, take my overabundance of charm to the beauty salon down the street.”

Sallie wrinkled her forehead. “I'm serious about this, Jack. She's had a bad time, I think. And from what I've seen, she's very uncomfortable around men.”

“I wonder why?”

Sallie lifted her shoulders. “I don't know, but she had…bruises when she first came in. They were faded, but not enough so she could hide them. And the expression in her eyes, it…”

Her words trailed off, and she drew her eyebrows together in thought. “When I looked into her eyes, I couldn't not give her a job. She looked so beaten, so sad. And yet I sensed such strength in her, such determination.” Sallie shook her head and met Jack's gaze once more. “I had this feeling that I was her last chance.”

“You've got a big heart, Mom. Too big sometimes.”

“Not this time. She works hard, she's easy to have around. She doesn't complain or—”

“Even speak,” he teased.

Sallie made a face. “Jack, do you take anything seriously?”

“My photography.” Her smile faded a bit, and he made a sound of irritation. “I hate it when you look at me that way. I'm going to make it, Mom. Just wait and see.”

“I believe you are, Jack.” She sighed. “But I…worry about at what cost.”

He fought back frustration. He and his mother had never agreed on his choice of profession, although she claimed to have confidence in his abilities. “You worry too much,” he said softly. “You always have.”

“I'm your mother. It's my job.”

He lifted his lips. “I'm twenty. I think you're due for a vacation.”

“That's not the way it works. You could be eighty, I'd still be worrying.”

“I look forward to that.” He gave her a quick hug, kissed her cheek and changed the subject. “I hear you had a date for lunch.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jack picked up his portfolio, and they walked to the door. “Victor again?”

“Uh-huh.”

He made a sound of disgust. “You're not going to tell me a thing, are you?”

“Afraid not,” she said cheerfully. “So, to what did I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I had planned to take my beautiful mother to lunch. Since
Victor
beat me to it, I guess I'll just have to come back tomorrow.”

B
ecky Lynn turned off The Image Shop's sound system. Silence replaced the pulsing rock, and Becky Lynn sighed and let the quiet fill and soothe her. The day had been wild. Several celebrities had been in, one of them a rock star called Madonna, complete with her own entourage, including a member of the media. The clients who valued their privacy—though in Hollywood there seemed to be few of those—had been outraged; others, the ones who lived to bask in the light of notoriety, had been delighted. Whichever the scenario, the clients had been demanding and inordinately particular, the artists on edge and temperamental.

In the middle of it all, Jack had made an appearance. As always when he was around, all hell had broken loose. Brianna had shifted her attention from her wealthy customer to Jack, Joy had smudged a client's freshly applied lacquer in her hurry to say hello and Foster and Marty had begun to argue.

As for herself, his presence had so unnerved her, she'd spilled a glass of red wine across a client's lap—thank God the woman had been wearing a smock—and had completely forgotten several things Sallie had asked her to do.

Today, for the first time, Becky Lynn had seen Sallie not
only flustered, but angry. At closing, she had called a staff meeting and had given everyone a regular chewing out.

Rolling her tight shoulders, Becky Lynn moved through the silent salon, straightening as she went. Sallie had retreated to her office with a stout glass of wine and the books, everyone else had gone home.

Becky Lynn stepped into the waiting room. Everyone, it seemed, but Marty. She lounged on one of the leather couches, head back as she blew smoke rings toward the ceiling.

“I thought you'd left.”

The hairdresser watched a perfect ring float to the ceiling. “I haven't decided where I'm going yet.”

“How about home?” Becky Lynn straightened the magazines on the coffee table, arranging them into two large fans. She moved to a side table and did the same thing.

“Home's boring.” Marty sighed and stubbed out her cigarette. “What are you going to do?”

Becky Lynn grinned. “Go home.”

“But it's Saturday afternoon, soon to be Saturday night.” Marty sighed again, and dragged her hands through her close-cropped hair. “I hate this time of day. There's nothing to do.”

“Nothing sounds good to me.”

Marty made a sound of disgust. “That's so unCalifornia. With an attitude like that, you don't deserve to live anywhere on the West Coast.”

Becky Lynn laughed lightly and crossed to the buffet. It looked as if it had been hit by a bomb. Becky Lynn shook her head in disgust and began cleaning up the mess. She had seen barnyard animals with better manners than those of the rock star's friends. One of them had stuck a finger in each kind of pastry to see what it tasted like.

“Pretty gross,” Marty said, coming up behind her. “I thought they'd never leave.”

“Me, too.” Becky Lynn stacked the mangled pastries onto a tray, shaking her head. “They have so much money, you'd think they would have a little class.”

“But the two don't necessarily go together,” Marty murmured. “Live in this town long enough, and you'll see that.”

Becky Lynn thought of home, of Mrs. Abernathy, the Fischers and Joneses. Neither did money and kindness go together.

“Becky Lynn, can I ask you a question?”

She looked over her shoulder at Marty and nodded. “I guess.”

“Now, don't get mad, but do you have any clothes besides—” she gestured broadly “—those?”

Becky lowered her eyes, taking in her faded plaid shirt, ancient, ill-fitting blue jeans and too-small canvas sneakers. Heat stung her cheeks, but she lifted her gaze unashamedly to Marty's. “Not many. Just what I've worn to work.”

“That's what I thought.” Marty narrowed her eyes, then smiled as if struck by an amazing thought. “I know these great secondhand shops on Melrose. They have all sorts of fabulous retro clothes and—”

“I can't afford clothes right now. Thanks, though.” Becky Lynn returned her attention to the buffet, acknowledging disappointment. It would have been nice to go shopping with the other woman, nice to have new clothes.

Marty moved to the center of the room and lit another cigarette. For several moments, the soft hiss of Marty drawing on the cigarette was the only sound in the room.

“You're really lucky, you know.”

Becky Lynn looked at her in surprise. Now, there was something she had never been called—lucky.

At her disbelieving expression, Marty laughed. “It's true. You're so tall and thin. There are tons of styles you could wear that the majority of women can't. Designers create styles for living hangers.”

“Like me? And that makes me lucky?”

“Damn right.”

Becky Lynn shook her head, hoisted the loaded tray and started for the kitchen.

Marty followed. “I bet you've never even thought about what style would be best for you.”

Style? Her? Wouldn't Fayrene, Dixie and the rest of Bend have a good laugh at that one?
She tossed the pastries into the trash. “I've never had the opportunity.”

“Well, you have it today.” Marty stubbed out her cigarette. “Come on, let's go take a look. You'll adore these shops, I know you will.”

Becky Lynn loaded and started the dishwasher, then rinsed out the sink. She shut off the water and faced the hairdresser, exasperated. “Look, I know my clothes are…awful. But I don't have any money, Marty.”

The other woman arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “Any money? Not a penny?”

“Well, hardly any.”

“That's all you'll need. I promise.”

Becky Lynn caught her bottom lip between her teeth, torn. She wanted to go, had looked at other women's clothes—the elegant fabrics, the brilliant colors and soft tones—and had longed for the same things for herself. Every
morning she looked at the few ragged and ugly outfits she had and wished for something else, anything else.

Marty grinned up at Becky Lynn. “If nothing else, it'll be fun. I bet you haven't been out with a girlfriend since you moved here.”

A girlfriend,
Becky Lynn marveled several hours later. For the first time in her life, she had a friend. It felt weird and wrong, but also wonderful and right. She wasn't sure how to act, what to say or how to respond to Marty's sometimes ribald comments about the men they passed on the street. So she simply stopped thinking about how to respond, and just did, laughing and giggling and saying whatever came to her mind.

She couldn't remember ever having had so much fun.

Marty hadn't exaggerated about what they might find at the secondhand shops. In Hollywood, Becky Lynn learned, things were only desirable when they were new.

Nor had Marty been kidding about the prices. All the shop owners knew Marty, and they were happy to help. She told them she wanted the inexpensive stuff, and they had pulled out things that they'd thought they would never sell, taking even a bit more off their already giveaway prices.

Becky Lynn had no idea what to try on, which pieces to put together, and in some cases, how the garments were supposed to be worn. Overwhelmed, Becky Lynn turned to Marty for help.

The other woman chose ornate patterns and brilliant colors for her, chose soft gauzy fabrics and pencil-slim silhouettes. With each piece she tried on, Marty exclaimed over the difference in Becky Lynn's appearance.

Becky Lynn hung back, uncertain. The colors and
styles felt too bold for her, and yet when she looked at herself in them, she felt…different from herself. Like someone other than Becky Lynn Lee, poor white trash from Bend, Mississippi.

Not that the clothes made her beautiful—or even pretty—she had no illusions about that. But they did take her away from herself and her past, and that was the best a girl like her could hope for.

In the end, she bought several things, as much as she could afford, vowing to come back for another piece with each paycheck.

“Now, aren't you glad you listened to me?” Marty said as they took seats at a sidewalk café. “Wasn't I right about the prices?”

“I am and you were.” Becky Lynn laughed and slid her bags under the table. “These are the first reasonably priced things I've found since coming to Hollywood. Everything's so expensive here.”

“That's California. All this sunshine's not free, you know.”

The waiter arrived. Marty ordered a margarita, Becky Lynn a Coke.

As he walked away, Marty wiggled her eyebrows. “Nice ass. Do you think he'd mind if I grabbed a handful?”

“Marty!”

The hairdresser laughed and lit a cigarette. “I shock you, don't I? I guess good little girls from the South don't talk that way.” She blew out a long stream of smoke. “Tell me about yourself, Becky Lynn. All I know is that you're from Mississippi and haven't spent much time around plain-speaking women.”

Becky Lynn lowered her eyes, at a loss. She should have
expected this question, should have prepared herself for it. But she hadn't.

Now, she only knew she didn't want to tell Marty about her past, didn't want to admit that she was trash, that her daddy was a no-good drunk. She couldn't bear to see Marty's expression change, couldn't bear the thought of seeing pity or revulsion in her gaze.

She drew in a deep, steadying breath. She had started over, started fresh. And she would never go back to being the old Becky Lynn Lee, the one who had been pitied and hated. Never.

The waiter returned with their drinks, and set them on the table in front of them. Becky Lynn took a swallow of the sweet, icy beverage, then returned her gaze to Marty's. The other woman sipped her margarita, her expression openly curious.

“I'm from Jackson,” she began, clearing her throat. “My daddy was a farmer.” She cleared her throat again and looked away. “He was…killed in a…farming accident.”

“Oh, Becky Lynn, I'm sorry.” Marty leaned across the table and touched her hand lightly. “What happened?”

“He was in the field, and he…he got run over by the tractor.” She glanced at Marty, the other woman looked horrified. “My brother, Randy, was driving it. It was really bad.”

“Sounds gruesome.”

Becky Lynn ran her finger along the side of her damp glass, a feeling of freedom moving through her, a feeling of liberation. Marty believed her, so would everyone else.

“My mother took it real hard,” she continued softly, working to hide her elation. “She was devastated. Then we
lost the farm and well, money was really tight so I decided to…come out here.”

Marty shook her head and sipped her drink. “What a story.”

“I send Mama money every week, trying to help out. I worry, especially about the little ones.”

Becky Lynn's eyes filled. That much was true. With her first paycheck, she'd sent a few dollars to her mother, through Miss Opal. She hadn't given a return address and had included only a brief note to assure Glenna she was okay. She trusted Miss Opal to make certain her mother got the money—and that her father didn't.

“Out of what you make?” Marty made a sound of astonishment. “You send money?”

“It's not much. A few dollars. But with Mama's situation every penny helps.”

For long moments, Marty said nothing. Then she leaned back in her chair. “You must really miss her. My mom's just over in Pasadena, and sometimes I miss her like crazy. And when something's got me down, nobody is able to help me like my mom.” Marty met her gaze. “You know what I mean?”

Becky Lynn's eyes filled with tears. She didn't know what Marty meant; she wished for all the world that she did. She blinked furiously against the tears, battling them. She lost the battle.

Marty made a soft sound of regret. “Hey, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“It's okay.” With the back of her hand, Becky Lynn wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I'm being silly.”

“No, you're not. I know it's got to be tough.” She hesitated a moment, then returned her gaze to Becky Lynn's.
“Why out here?” she asked. “Why southern California? It's such a long way from your home.”

Becky Lynn folded her hands in her lap. “I chose here because in every picture I'd ever seen of California, it looked so beautiful. And the people always looked so happy. I thought it would be a good place to start a new life.”

“You and a million other folks.” Marty drained her drink. “Any regrets? Now that you're here?”

“No.” Becky Lynn met the hairdresser's gaze evenly for the first time since they had sat down. “No regrets at all.”

Marty had asked more questions—about Becky Lynn's supposed brothers and sisters, whether she would ever go home and what Mississippi was like. Some questions she had answered honestly, others she had improvised. She had experienced twinges of guilt at lying to someone who had been so nice to her, but she had pushed them aside.

That night, sitting alone in her motel room, she thought about her future, about what she wanted to do. Marty had wondered if she had regrets. How could she? she wondered, hugging a pillow to her chest. She had started her new life, and today she had begun to forge a new past. And now, at long last, she had a friend.

One of her dreams had already come true.