Southern Fried Sushi (29 page)

“Aw, sugar. I’m sorry. But don’t worry! Ya ever done rest’rant work before?”

I stoically wiped my nose with a tissue. “No.” Even in my toughest bill-pay days I’d managed to get cushy, air-conditioned office jobs. At my one stint serving coffee and taking jackets at Neiman Marcus, I got a four-hundred-dollar tip from a wealthy (and lecherous) senator.

“Well, that’s all right, Shiloh. Jer’ll hook ya up. He’s a doll. I’ll give him a call.”

I sniffled. “It’s not on … you know … Greenville Avenue, is it?” I saw myself on roller skates carrying fried-apple pies.

“Naw. In the historic downtown. Kinda near the Wharf.”

“Staunton has a river?”

“No, by the clock tower. The part a town near the train station where …” Stella belly laughed. “Never mind. They got some nice places there.” Her comments should have added points, I suppose, but I was too depressed to reply.

“Ya ever drive a bus before?”

“You mean like a school bus?” I wiped my eyes in shock.

“Sure! You should try it! Ya take some classes and go to lots of boring safety meetings, and jest make sure them blasted kids don’t throw lunch boxes, or nowadays laptops. Great day in the mornin’, Shiloh! When one a them whops ya—”

“I think I’ll stick with something a little more … temporary.” I felt dizzy, and my pulse picked up a panicky rhythm.

“Well, The Green Tree’s great! You’ll see. Lemme talk ta Jer.” And then, “Hey, ya waterin’ them roses? Yer mom sure loved ‘em. I been waterin’ ‘em ev’ry now and then, but we’ve had some

sorta heat wave lately, an’ …”

Roses? How on earth could I think about roses when collection agents would probably come pounding at my door any minute?

I hung up and plodded out to the deck, staring down at the rose bushes. They did look a little dry, I guess.

I half-heartedly dumped a few buckets of water over the roses, feeling like them. Withering and dwindling, soft blossoms raining petal tears across the hot mulch.

G
ood thing Crystal opened early because I needed a good haircut. A haircut that would dazzle my soon-to-be redneck restaurant boss and his hillbilly patrons into big tips. Then as soon as I sold Mom’s house and paid my bills, I’d be out of Staunton so fast they wouldn’t be able to read my blue-and-white Virginia license plates.

Becky met me outside the empty mall, the parking lot shrouded in early morning quiet. We pushed open the glass doors, footsteps echoing.

“Joo have breakfast?” She narrowed her eyes at me as my nose picked up a whiff of vanilla waffle cones from Big Dipper Ice Cream.

“Does green tea count?” I shrugged. “I had two cups after my run.”

She smacked me again. For all the demure manners Southern ladies were supposed to have, they sure made a lot of painful physical contact.

“That ain’t breakfast! Don’t ya know it’s the most important meal a the day? Here.” She rummaged in her big (denim) purse and found a granola bar. “Eat. Now.”

Never say no to a Southern woman. You’d get smacked again, or argued with, and sooner or later she’d get her way. So I opened it and munched.

“So whatcha gonna do ta yer hair?” Becky asked. The mall smelled of fountain mist.

“A trim, so it’s still swingy.” I showed her between bites. “Bangs to the side. How about you?”

She shrugged. “The usual.”

“Do you have straight-across bangs?” I stopped short and eyed her fluffy bangs for the first time.

“Sure. Since sixth grade. Why?”

I almost choked on my granola bar. “Oh no, Becky! You can’t!”

“Cain’t? Why ever not?”

“I mean, haven’t you ever wanted to try something different?”

She shrugged again. Then again, she did have on that horrible Bean Festival T-shirt and ragged corduroy pants that bagged around her thighs.

“Nah. I cain’t never find nothing I like. I figure same ol’ me’s good enough.”

Despite being stunned by the number of negatives Becky just used, I steered her to a curvy, black wire bench under a skylit tree. “Sit,” I ordered.

“Why? What’d I do?”

I felt a sudden rush of emotion for the girl who’d taken me in. She practically oozed sweetness. And I wanted to do something back. Besides, it would probably be my last gift for a long, long time. Maybe forever.

“Trust me, Becky. I’ve got an idea.”

She scrunched an eyebrow skeptically. “A perm? I done tried that in middle school. Wasn’t nice.”

“No, Becky! Forget middle school. You’re a grown-up now—twenty-five, right?—and you need to have hair to match.”

The eyebrows. “I ain’t shavin’ it off neither, like them girls do. Shoot, Tim’d kill me if I come home lookin’ like I joined themarines! No sirree! I’m havin’ hair.” She lifted a blond chunk to demonstrate.

“I think if you parted your hair on the side—like this—with some long bangs, and made it nice and swishy, you’ll be a knockout.” I squinted at her. “You know, you could add some highlights, too. What do you think?”

“I dunno, Shah-loh. My pocket’s only so deep.”

“So’s mine, but we can do this! Tim will love it! I’m sure of it.”

At the mention of Tim, her eyes brightened. “Think so? I ain’t so shore. He likes me the way I am, and he says he don’t want no flashy woman.”

“No piece a work. I know. Well, you won’t be. Do you trust me?” My excitement swelled.

She squinted at me a long time. “I reckon. But if I come outta there with a Mohawk, I know where you live.”

“Deal.” I grinned. “Let’s see what they can do.”

Everything in Crystal gleamed black and silver, stiff and angular and cold. Perfect. A woman with sawed-off auburn hair directed me to a hard, glossy black chair.

“Bet you got you a cute fella back in Japan,” said Trixie to my reflection in the mirror as she tilted my head. “With them gorgeous eyes—all green and gold. You must have a mob comin’ after ya!”

“Me?” I laughed ruefully, staring back at those eyes and wondering if Carlos missed them. Apparently not enough. “Nah. I got dumped for a blond.”

Trixie’s head spun around toward Becky. “No kidding!”

“No! Not her. Becky’s great. But Mia’s eyelashes were just too irresistible, so …” I broke off, surprised at the lump forming in my throat.

“Aw, honey, I got some stories that’ll stand this hair upstraight,” said Trixie, snipping expertly with the scissors.

By the time we’d exchanged sob stories involving lousy men, Trixie’s black eyeliner began to run. We looked ridiculous—a bunch of bawling women in front of a mirror.

“Look,” I said in low tones, “if you want to do something nice, give Becky a good haircut.”

We both looked over at her where she sat, oblivious, reading
Good Housekeeping
and swinging one knee over the other.

“She’s scared to try something different. I thought she might look good in something like …”—I paged quickly through a magazine—”… this. See? Feminine and loose, but not sloppy. Natural, but with a bit more edge. What do you think?”

Trixie nodded at Becky. “Some highlights, too. I’ll take a look.”

“Okay, but make it good, and I mean good. If not, she’ll hate me forever. Not too short.”

“Mmm-hmm. I got it. Let me finish you up.”

She swished my hair over her fingers and snip-snip-snipped. Worked in some fruity-sweet shine serum. Fluffed the ends. Handed me a mirror.

I smiled, impressed. “That’s exactly it, Trixie. Exactly. You’re amazing. Do you have a business card?”

Trixie’s face had brightened, and now it began to shine. I received her card with two hands, Japanese-style, and bowed slightly. Let her untie my silver apron lightly strewn with hair.

“I’ve got an appointment, but I’ll be back in an hour. Will Becky take that long?”

“With highlights, prob’ly.”

“Great. And do me a favor—don’t let her run away!”

And with that, I bolted out of Crystal before Becky could fry anything with the curling iron.

I got lost up and down the one-way roads in downtown Staunton, went the wrong way, got honked at, banged my steering wheel,

and finally parallel parked, mad, beside a fire hydrant.

I checked the address again on a street lined with old brickwork then halted in front of a window clouded with white-clothed tables. Saw my reflection in the glass, complete with sassy haircut, and wavered there, immobile. T
HE
G
REEN
T
REE
read the swirly font.

You are in Staunton, Virginia, about to go in a hick restaurant and ask to wait tables
.

I was still riveted there when the glass door swung open.

“You Shiloh Jacobs?” asked a redneck-looking man in jeans, tennis shoes, and a neat haircut and mustache. He looked vaguely like Stella minus a lot of pounds and a housedress.

I tried to answer, but words stuck in my dry mouth.

“Well, are ya?”

“Yes, sir,” I stammered, feeling like an idiot. You were a star, Shiloh P. Jacobs! An award-winning writer! You worked for Associated Press, for crying out loud, in a posh apartment building in Tokyo! And here you stand, calling a redneck restaurant owner “sir”?

He grinned broadly, looking even more like Stella with his jowly cheeks—but somehow higher class. “Well, come on in! We’ve been waitin’ for ya!”

I gulped, squeezed my eyes shut, and followed him through the doorway as if I were taking my last steps. I wished Becky knew where I’d gone in case I turned up missing.

Jerry, who reminded me of a cross between a beardless Bob Seger and Captain Kangaroo, gestured to an empty table, and I sat meekly while he hollered for somebody named Flash back in the kitchen to get me a Coke. (Do I want to know why he’s called that? I don’t think so!) Then Jerry plopped down on the opposite side of the table and folded his hands.

“So, Shiloh. That your real name?” He grinned, but to my relief he didn’t leer. Shook my hand, all friendly like. “I’m Jerry Farmer. Pleased to meet ya.”

As the lanky guy missing some teeth brought me a glass goblet of Coke, Jerry gestured to a shy girl at the register. “Say hi to Dawn.” She waved.

“Well, Stel says you’re a top-notch gal, Shiloh. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He skimmed my résumé, massaging his chin with his hand. “Huh.” Nodded and stuck out his lip. Turned the page. “Wow. AP? Pretty doggone good! Cornell? Mercy. And … uh … why do you want to work here again?”

He lowered my résumé, one eyebrow raised.

I cleared my throat. “Well, you see, normally I would work as a reporter, but”—think fast!—”since my mom died, I …”

My statement generated the hoped-for sympathy. “Oh yeah, that’s right. Stel told me. I’m real sorry to hear it, Shiloh. Losin’ a parent can be mighty tough. I lost my dad a few years back, but ol’ Mom is still hangin’ in there. She’s a trouper.”

“Well. Good for her.” I flexed white fingers.

“You ever done restaurant work before?”

“I served coffee at Neiman Marcus, if that counts.” I pointed nervously to the résumé.

Jerry chuckled. “Uh, yeah. I see it. Not exactly the same thing, but okay.” He flipped to the second page. “So who else do ya know around here besides Stel?”

What a weird line of questioning! “Not many people, actually,” I squirmed. “Faye Clatterbaugh and Becky Donaldson and … well, Adam Carter …”

His eyes lifted. “You know Adam Carter?”

“Um … yes. Sort of. The one who’s a landscaper?”

“Yep. I don’t know Adam much, but his brother Rick got himself all torn up in the military. Cryin’ shame. There’s a good family if God ever made one.”

“I guess so.”

“Ain’t no guessin’ about it! They’s gold. Adam gave up a college scholarship to stay and help his folks take care a Rick.”

I sucked in my breath. “He did? Nobody ever told me that.”

“Don’t get much better’n that. We don’t have much landscapin’ that needs done around here, but if we did, you better believe I’d call Adam.”

Jerry closed my résumé and tapped it on the table pensively. “So what are you doin’ in Staunton, Shiloh? I know you’ve got bigger fish to fry than here.”

“Well, I need to sell the house and put it on the market. Pay off some bills. That sort of thing.” I licked my lip-glossed lips nervously, still mystified at how Adam seemed to follow me. Did everybody in Augusta County know him? Or did everybody just know everybody?