Stay Tuned (3 page)

“It’s nothing urgent. Go ahead.” I could tell him about the award later.

Chris held up his cell. “Everyone’s there early. They’re waiting for me at the clubhouse. And remember I’ve got that banquet with the board of directors in Atlanta tomorrow night.”

Atlanta?
I must have looked distraught.

Chris rubbed his temple. “I thought I left you a Post-it…”

“Nope.” I shook my head.

“Sorry, babe.” He frowned and walked back over. “My mind’s all over the place. Things will be better once they make a decision about the promotion.”

I pressed my lips together. Chris and I always used to talk about weekends away, traveling abroad, visiting exotic places. But next month turned into next year, and then never.

We saw each other so little, we communicated through a series of Post-its. On the fridge, on the bedside table, the bathroom mirror. I developed a rather comical almost-jealousy of the little yellow squares. Our Post-it notes spent more time together than we did.

He gave me a slow, sweet kiss and stroked my hair. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.” I watched him drive off and went back inside.

My burnt toast was waiting.

While I was de-fogging the downstairs, one of the WSGA reporters called my cell. My phone number was tacked up in ten locations throughout the newsroom for weekend emergencies.

“Hey Melissa.” It was Rob Glass, one of our go-getters. He’d just started at the station, was fresh out of college, and seemed like a hard worker.

“What’s up?” I asked and opened a few more windows.

“We’re shooting a piece today on the Macon Firefighters. You know, the memorial service for the guy who was killed after that plant explosion?”

“Right, yes.” So tragic. This man had saved ten lives, suffered serious burns, and smoke inhalation. After two weeks in the ICU, he died. These were such difficult stories to report. Fallen heroes and their families.

“I need the VO from the explosion to use in my package, and I can’t find the footage,” Rob coughed. “I’m sorry to have to ask. Everyone else is busy.”

“No problem. Find the date of the explosion and look up the story in the run-down. The video is listed by number. Call me back if you can’t find it.”

“Thanks,” Rob sounded relieved.

“Anytime.”

My brain contained a genetic anomaly—a gift from my mother—an encyclopedia of news facts, neatly filed in virtual drawers, just waiting to be accessed. I knew, in detail, why factories started leaking toxic gas in Belarus, how many people died in Hotel Rwanda, and exactly, to the minute, what time Flight 97 hit the Pentagon on September 11
th
.

I could name the members of Congress, by state, and political affiliation. I effortlessly memorized school budgets, city council agendas, and election results.

My cell phone started blinking with a new voicemail. Candace had called during the toast debacle. It was as if she had a sixth sense. She knew she should save me from holing up in the empty house all weekend. I listened as I pulled off my smoky tee-shirt and yoga pants and tossed the clothes into my laundry basket.

Her cheerful voice floated into the room. “Hey, it’s me. Can you swing by the salon around ten? Huge news. Can’t wait to tell you!” She squealed with excitement and hung up.

I closed my eyes tight and smiled at her message. Now I really had a reason to find something to wear and get out of the house. I padded into the walk-in closet and surveyed my choices. Back in August, Kelly had deemed my wardrobe choices less than acceptable.

She had been looking for an Abercrombie hoodie I borrowed eons ago. It ended up getting lost in the piles of shirts, pants, and shoes I had accumulated over the past two decades.

“Mom!” she scolded and held up a pair of worn-out Levis. “These are so eighties.”

“Oh,” I replied, trying not to seem hurt.

A moment later, she shrieked and displayed a striped silk blouse and deep garnet jacket from Talbot’s, circa 1991. “You can’t keep these.”

“I need them,” I insisted.

Kelly rolled her eyes. “Bor-ing.”

She found her hoodie, and by the day’s end, had helped bag up half my closet for Goodwill. It felt good, like shedding fifty pounds of dead weight, but my remaining options were sparse and uninspiring.

I thumbed through the array of navy, black, and gray outfits I’d refused to give away.

Nope. I slid one hanger to the right. No again. I slid another hanger. Definitely no.

Kelly was right.

Not that I’d thought about it before, but Kelly had never criticized her father’s wardrobe. My head swiveled to his side of the closet. Maybe she didn’t have a reason.

Chris’s clothes were immaculate. A dozen Brooks Brothers suits hung on wooden hangers, spaced two fingers apart. Starched Ralph Lauren shirts in every color were flanked by twenty Tommy Hilfiger ties, each one splashy but not over the top. There were khakis in shades of tan and brown, with golf shirts to match. His shoes shined so much I could see my reflection in them.

Conscious of being face-to-face with clients every day, Chris made an effort to always look professional and put together.

What was stopping me? Looming credit card debt? I couldn’t justify that—we didn’t have any. Kelly’s college fund crossed my mind, but she had a partial scholarship. Time was always an excuse, but I had lots of it now.

Okay. I’d try what was hanging in the closet and grab a few accessories. With a sharp tug, I snatched at the first jacket on the rack, slid it on, and surveyed myself in the mirror.

Hmm. Instead of a snug fit, it hung from my shoulders. I tried on the next one. Same story. The third jacket, ecru linen, swallowed me whole. I looked like someone’s grandmother going out for Sunday church. Or my own mother, for that matter.

Which reminded me, I needed to visit Ruth Anne. My trip to the nursing home was way overdue. I should go today.

I tossed the jacket on the bed and gave myself a hard once over. In my bra and panties, I didn’t look half-bad. With Chris gone most of the time and now Kelly at college, I knew our grocery bill had dwindled. Fewer snacks meant less temptation. That, in turn, equaled a smaller me. A few pounds, maybe? I felt a surge of optimism.

The light overhead shone on my more prominent cheekbones, my now-thinner arms. I turned and glanced behind me. Yep, even my backside was taking up less room.
Hallelujah!

Chin up, shoulders back, my reflection in the mirror smiled and nodded.

Okay, I’d admit it. This collection of clothes wasn’t doing me any favors. I walked across the hallway, through Kelly’s door and opened her closet. There were Juicy Couture tracksuits, Hollister jeans, Aeropostale shirts. I pushed at the hangers, searching for something a bit more conservative. Some J. Crew khakis and sweaters hung in the very back.

I slipped on a pair of pants, chose a light sweater, and pulled it over my head. With a glance in the mirror, I had to admit, the clothes made a difference. I looked younger, brighter.

More like the girl I used to be.

Truth be told, when it came to wardrobe emergencies, I did have a secret weapon. My best friend.

In the midst of a very rare fashion dilemma or a random makeup meltdown, my daughter would always say, “Call Candace.” And she was right.

About twice a year, I’d panic before a big WSGA event or Macon Financial’s annual holiday party. I’d freak out, speed-dial Candace, and ten minutes later she’d scream into the driveway on two wheels, fix me up, and dash out.

Candace Daughtry was nothing short of a miracle worker.

She owned a small, elegant downtown salon and made a name for herself by creating fantastic, flattering haircuts for anyone who walked through the doors. In no time, Candace was the most sought-after girl in Macon wielding scissors and a closet full of chemicals.
Stylist Extraordinaire.

Candace hired the best stylists, manicurists, and makeup artists she could find. She didn’t have to advertise for help. The applications flew into her e-mail. Bookings stretched six months in advance. Cancellations were snapped up in minutes. Tips were outrageous. For years, Candace had the world, or at least the city’s wealthiest women, by the pocketbooks.

That is, until her twins arrived.

When Candace went on maternity leave, I think half of the city’s female population mourned. The other half skipped highlights and cuts until she came back—some in Macon’s higher social circles whispered that it was a silent way of going on strike.

Thank goodness she came back. There was talk of a riot.

Now, Candace worked two days a week, handled one wedding a month, and even an occasional special event. Her faithful clients still lined up like she was the reincarnation of a female Jim Morrison.

Read:
 
She loves her business, but loves her family more. Which meant her “big” news must have been really fabulous.

When I walked into the shop, Candace barely contained her excitement. Her huge jewel-blue eyes sparkled. “
American Idol
—not just last season—a whole line-up.
Here.
In Macon.”

“
American Idol
?” I pretended to clutch my heart and we both screamed a little.

“Yes!” Candace bobbed her head and started pacing, reciting names. “Carrie Underwood, Kelly Clarkson, Crystal Bowersox, Siobhan Magnus—”

“Wow!” I reached out and gave my best friend a hug. “But, of course, they picked you!”

“It’s going to be so amazing!” Candace jumped around the salon, making her long, jet-black hair swing back and forth. “I can’t believe I get to meet them!” She stopped momentarily and smiled at me. “You want to come, right?”

“Really?”

“They’re giving me a dozen tickets and backstage passes. Of course you’re going to meet them!” She clapped her hands.

“When?”

“Five weeks. Only five weeks. Oh my gosh, that’s not much time.” Candace started to pace again. “You have to let me practice on you.”

“Now?” Impulsive? I’m definitely not. I hardly let Candace trim an inch past my shoulders. I’ve never allowed the first chunky highlight or trendy cut. And then there’s the fact that Candace goes a little wild when she really gets worked up. Last year, she dyed the tips of the twins’ pigtails pink for Valentine’s Day. Suffice to say her husband, Marcus, was not happy.

My hesitation didn’t deter Candace a bit. “Well, not now. But soon…”

“Um—”

“Come on, let’s get mani-pedis. It will help me think.” I snuck a peek at my ragged cuticles. I didn’t even want to look at my toes. She grabbed my elbow and led me next door.

The shop bell jingled as we walked in. The owner, a tall redhead, greeted Candace with kisses on both cheeks. “Hey y’all,” she said. “Welcome.”

We sat side-by-side, plunged our feet in the soak tubs, and water bubbled around our ankles. Four smiling women surrounded us, buffing, rubbing, and polishing. Heaven, pure heaven.

“You do realize,” I asked Candace, “that everyone thinks you just appear at these events like Tinkerbell and sprinkle pixie dust?”

“Oh, that’s just part of my charm.” She lowered her voice and tucked a loose strand of glossy black hair behind her ear. “Listen, there’s so much pressure to do a good job.” Her bright blue eyes flashed with concern as she whispered.

I thought back to when Kelly was little. My life was a juggling act with at least a half-dozen balls in the air all the time. And I didn’t have twins.

She arched a delicate eyebrow. “It gives me insomnia, lately. If I have to plan a big wedding or a show, I have to squeeze it in after the girls are asleep. Sometimes I’m up until three in the morning.”

“That’s some commitment.” I squeezed her hand. “That’s why everyone loves you!”

She surveyed her toes, coral pink, and gave a thumbs-up to the bold red shade I’d chosen.

“You’re dedicated, too.” Candace nudged me. “Though I’m not sure about the payoff.”

Did I need payoff? And if so, what kind? Life was on autopilot; the skies were smooth. No reason to cause turbulence, right?

“Remember Life Law Number One:
 
Do You Get It?” Candace wiggled in her chair to look at me. “Dr. Phil says, ‘Don’t spend your whole life working for what you
don’t
want.’ Go for what you
do
want. Sometimes it takes risk, gets scary, but this is your life. Make sure it matters to you.”

“I like being behind the scenes.” I defended myself. “It’s easy. It’s comfortable.”

“But everyone else gets the credit,” she tossed back. “Whatever happened to getting out there? Taking chances. You used to talk about how you’d love to work at the
Travel Channel
—”

Before I could defend myself, Candace’s cell phone started to play Bob Marley’s, “Don’t Worry About a Thing.” Her lips curved into a smile. It disappeared promptly after Marcus launched into some terrorized-husband-left-alone-with-the-kids rant. “Jaden and the kittens,” Candace mouthed with one hand over the phone. She stood, stretching her slender limbs, and walked to the door.

Hip cocked to one side, Candace managed to eek out comforting words between her husband’s gruff complaining. “Honey, you found Jaden. That’s all that matters.”

I caught phrases like, “clawed my arm,” “wandered away,” and something about finding Jaden “under the front porch.”

“Sorry, I’ve got to run,” she hung up, apologized, and waved over the shop owner. “Marcus needs help. I have to get there before he gives away the kittens.”

From experience, I knew the girls’ pets were safe no matter how much trouble they caused. Marcus threatened, but it was unlikely he’d actually haul away the fuzzy perpetrators.

“Y’all be good,” the owner said and gave Candace air kisses goodbye.

“Thanks darling,” Candace slid on her sunglasses. “You coming along, Mel?”

As we stepped into the thick, warm air outside, I couldn’t help but think about Marcus. He was the complete opposite of Chris. My husband managed quite nicely doing everything by himself. I’d love to have spouse who called and needed me to come home every once in a while.

“Marcus has a hard time handling Jaden. She’s such a free spirit.” Candace winked at me. “She has this absolute obsession with animals. It’s like the Pied Piper, only reversed.”

“Jaden follows them? Just wanders off?” A shudder went through my spine.

“She
tries
to wander off all the time,” Candace confirmed as we walked to our cars. “We have to keep an eye on her every second. I’m used to it, but it drives Marcus crazy. Meanwhile, Addie clings to my leg like Velcro.”

Candace stopped. “Have you ever heard of using those
On Star
things for kids? I need some kind of tracking device when Marcus is with them.” She frowned. “Nah, too radical.”

I wondered what Dr. Phil would say about ankle bracelets for children ala Martha Stewart. I decided not to mention it and hugged Candace instead. “Thanks for everything.”

 
Candace looped a tanned arm around my neck and planted a kiss on my cheek. “This was fun. We need to pamper ourselves more often.”

Bob Marley began singing again from her cell phone. Candace glanced down. “Marcus.” She slid into her seat and slammed the door shut behind her. “I’ll bet Chris will like your toes,” she added out the open window.

I waved as she drove off. The mention of Chris’s name made my heart flutter. Would he notice? I thought back to the last time we had actually touched, let alone made love. Three weeks? Two months? Way too long ago.

Maybe more pampering wouldn’t hurt. Inside my car, I searched my bag for some makeup. I dabbed a touch of color on my lips and gingerly stroked the mascara wand through my lashes. Natural, light. Nothing drastic. I checked my reflection.

Not bad. A little confidence boost.

It might even help when I had to face my mother.