I dialed the Beauty Boutique and was greeted by the chipper voice of Tammy Johnson.

I tried not to gloat as I arranged a Tuesday appointment. “I’ve just got to have my hair done before Friday. David Ramsey is taking me to dinner.”

Tammy’s silence told me I’d hit the mark.

I spent the rest of Saturday staying clear of the cellar door. Since the front bedroom in the second story needed only a fresh coat of paint, I made that my weekend project. By Monday night, the walls, ceiling, and trim were painted, and the room was ready for new flooring.

I woke with a tremor of excitement on Tuesday morning, maybe from the promise of a new me, maybe from smugness. Either way, I arrived at the salon at 10:00 sharp and plopped into the twirly chair at Tammy’s station. The sharp smell of perm solution lingered from a previous client.

I took a moment to admire the distinctive touches that were in keeping with the town of Rawlings’ historic theme. Dark trim traced the lines around the ceiling and floor. On the wall behind me hung a tapestry depicting seventeenth-century women wearing tall hairdos and poofy gowns. A floral swag in burgundy and cream draped the mirror at each work station.

I focused on my reflection as Tammy fingered my frizz. One side of her mouth curled, giving away her apparent distaste.

My stomach twisted. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that Tammy was probably the last person I should let touch my head.

I smiled, hoping to disarm her. “So, what do you recommend?”

She stared at me in the mirror and continued to play with my hair. My fingers started to twitch. I contemplated the best escape route if she should come after me with the clippers.

Finally, she dropped my locks. “I’d say you should go with a classic shoulder-length cut. But, I’m afraid you’d resemble Sandra even more.”

“Sandra?” I echoed, even as I realized she must be referring to my elusive twin.

Tammy sighed. “Not everyone will appreciate your resemblance to her. We don’t want to make the situation worse. Could you stand a chin-length style?”

She showed me a picture of one she had in mind.

I glanced at the glossy magazine. The model looked pure chic. I figured I’d give it a try. I’d look classy next to David’s distinguished form come Friday night.

Tammy led me to the washtub. The soothing massage action of her extra-long fingernails against my scalp lulled me into a state of serenity.

“So what restaurant are you going to Friday?” Tammy’s voice filtered through the sound of spraying water as she rinsed my hair.

“The Rawlings Hotel.” I wondered if she was jealous, and thought a change in subject might be wise, at least until she was done with the cut. “So, tell me about my twin. Why does her face cause such an uproar around town?”

She toweled my hair and draped a black plastic apron around me, then sat me back down at her station.

“Sandra.” Tammy shook her head. “She’s one of those women who can cause a commotion wherever she goes. Beautiful, spunky, driven . . . you know the type.”

Yeah. Sandra sounded like the person I’d dreamed of becoming, if only things had gone differently.

Tammy picked up a brush and ran it through my hair. “Sandra and I went to high school together. We were both on the cheerleading squad, in student government, and tied for Most Likely to Succeed.”

The brush slowed and Tammy’s gaze became distant, as if she were lost in memory. “After college, a bunch of us came back home and started up our own businesses. I was content to operate the salon and have time to do other things. Sandra, on the other hand, was totally devoted to building her marketing company. She was based here in Rawlings, but her clients were spread all over the Detroit metro area.”

Bristles snagged in my hair. I blinked back tears.

“Sorry,” Tammy said, untangling the mess. “Anyway, Sandra definitely wins the Most Successful award. She ended up on the campaign team for some guy running for mayor in one of the big suburbs. He gave her credit for his win, and she pretty much wrote her own ticket after that. You can’t beat a six-figure income at the age of thirty-three.”

Tammy put the brush in a drawer and slid it shut with a bang. “I’m lucky if people remember to leave me a tip.”

I frowned in sympathy. I couldn’t blame Tammy for feeling disappointed at the follies of life. My own forgotten dreams were enough to make me resent everyone I’d gone to school with. I hadn’t kept in touch with any of them, but somehow I was sure their lives were going along without a hitch, while mine had bottomed out long ago.

A comb scraped against my scalp and scissors crunched through my hair. I tried not to cry as four inches of split ends dropped to the floor.

Tammy yanked up another section. “Then a few years ago, Sandra hooked up with a guy even more driven than she was. They fell in love, if you can call it that. Anyway, their careers ended up on a collision course, and before you know it, she broke off the engagement. Not long afterward, Sandra left town, never to return.”

I wondered if it was completely rude to ask more specifics. I decided I had a right to know. Sandra’s messy life had spilled over into my own.

“Who was this guy and what happened?” I asked.

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. It comes dangerously close to being gossip.” She lifted another section of hair. The scissors hovered, then I heard the snip. “But I better mention it so you don’t find yourself on the wrong side of Sandra’s ex-fiancé.”

“Would I know this person?” I asked.

“You would if you’ve tried to get anything through at the village.” She cut off a chunk of fluff. “Martin Dietz.”

My fist hit my forehead. At the sudden move, Tammy jerked her scissors clear.

“Martin Dietz, huh?” That explained why the man was so barbaric at our first run-in. If this Sandra had jilted him, my face could only bring back the most painful of memories.

But was that reason enough to deny me a permit to knock down the cistern? It seemed he was letting personal grumps get in the way of his job.

“I take it you already ran into him,” Tammy said.

“This past week. No wonder my contractor yelled at me for going over to the village offices.”

“I hope you don’t get the wrong impression. Like I said, it’s just because you look so much like Sandra. Martin’s really not that bad. He’s just getting over a broken heart. I think he’s taking positive steps toward improving his attitude. For one thing, he’s been a big financial backer of our church’s youth group over the past year.”

I almost guffawed at the thought of Mr. Dietz being charitable. More likely, he was trying to buy his way to heaven.

Tammy turned my chin back toward the mirror. “Almost done.”

I hardly recognized the woman staring back at me. I had a neck. And eyebrows.

I tucked one sleek strand behind an ear. I had a face again, and it was pleasant. Pretty, actually. I could even see the green of my eyes now that all the perm and highlights from last year’s visit to the salon were cut out and my hair was back to its original chestnut color. The glaring grays I’d obsessed over this morning had disappeared with the fresh look.

“Wow. It’s great.” I smiled at Tammy in the mirror.

I wondered if she could perform the same miracle with my insides. Snip off a little guilt here, a tortured conscience there, and voilà, I’d be as good as new.

Yet somehow I knew it would take more than a trim to cure my problem.

11

Tammy dried my hair, then suggested a manicure as a finishing touch. I looked down at my jagged nails. The last remaining runt had peeled off this morning when it snagged my paint-splattered sweatshirt.

I pictured myself across the table from David at the Rawlings Hotel, lifting my glass in toast to a possible future together.

I slumped at the vision.

The only lipstick I owned had to be at least three years old; I’d never had my nails done professionally; and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought a new outfit. Goodwill clothing had always served my renovator lifestyle just fine.

Before my thoughts degenerated into an all-out pity party, I reminded myself that David had asked me out before I cut my hair or bought new clothes. He appreciated me for qualities beyond my outer appearance. What those qualities were, I couldn’t yet fathom, but I hoped to discover that on Friday.

Still, stick-on nails with a glossy coat of polish could only enhance my inner attributes.

“A manicure sounds good,” I said.

Tammy led me to an oblong mahogany table near the window. A display rack filled with nail colors took up one end. I sat in a floral-patterned chair and lay a hand on the vinyl pad opposite me. Tammy picked up a file and went to work. White dust gathered on the black surface beneath my fingers.

I peeked at Tammy’s own perfectly manicured hands and wondered how she’d managed to dodge a wedding ring through the years.

“It sounds like you were pretty involved in high school. Do you still stay busy?” I asked, interrupting the steady ssht ssht of the file.

“Absolutely. I spend most of my time with the teens from church. You wouldn’t believe how many hurting families there are in this town. And most of them live in the pretty houses.”

I nodded. I hadn’t lived in one of the pretty houses, as Tammy put it, but I’d endured the lingering pain of my mother’s suicide. I’d probably never forgive Mom for leaving me to be raised by my grandmother.

“Your mother would be spinning in her grave if she knew you were hanging out with that girl,” Grandma would scold. “And look how you’re dressed. Nice girls don’t wear clothes like that.”

It seemed Grandma never approved of anything I liked—my friends, my music, or even the books I read. I finally figured out that life was simpler if I did things Gram’s way.

College had been my first taste of freedom. Unfortunately, it hadn’t lasted long. I remember the sound of Christmas music playing on my roommate’s stereo and the smell of homemade gingerbread cookies from a care package as I answered the phone in my dorm that day more than ten years ago. Nat King Cole’s rendition of “The Christmas Song” became a surreal requiem in light of that brief conversation.

“I’ve got some bad news, sweetie.” Grandma’s voice was filled with false bravado as she told me she was given only a few months to live. “Come on home and we’ll talk about it.”

“Which color do you prefer?”

My head snapped up at Tammy’s question, and I realized I’d been staring vacantly as she’d applied my nail tips. I looked at the myriad of opaque, gloss, and pearlescent polishes on the rack beside me.

Choices.

I excelled in a one-color scheme in all my renovation projects: off-white. When dealing with discerning homebuyers, walls the color of cream cheese frosting were the safest, least offensive choice.

But that seemed far too tame a shade for a Friday night at the Rawlings Hotel.

Tammy leaned her elbows on the vinyl pad. “What will you be wearing? That’s the easiest way to decide.”

What will I be wearing? I chewed my lip. Jeans and a tee would never do.

“What should I wear?” I asked. After all, she was the professional.

She cocked her head and poked her lips to one side. “Hmmm. How about something blue? That will show off your hair and eyes.”

The suggestion brought to mind an exterior paint chip card I’d been contemplating for accent colors at the Victorian. The shade was a rich, medium blue, like the sky over Lake Michigan on a summer morning.

I wrestled my mind back to the moment. I could probably track down some bluesy outfit at one of the local clothing stores.

“Blue it is,” I replied. “Which polish choices does that give me?”

“I hate to do this to you.” Tammy reached for a bottle filled with a pale fleshy-mauve tone. “This is Rebecca Ramsey’s favorite shade. The woman might be a witch, but she has impeccable taste.”

I tested my new nails on the mahogany tabletop, enjoying the clickety-clickety sound of the long tips. Somehow from David’s puppy-dog eyes back at the supermarket, I hadn’t figured Rebecca for a witch. And he’d seemed sincerely remorseful about the divorce papers arriving the other day. But then again, what kind of woman disappears for a year and then writes home with a divorce decree?