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  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.

  Chapter 6

  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.

  Chapter 7

  “You have reached the voicemail of Chris Moore, with Macon Financial. Please leave a message. I’ll get back to you at my earliest convenience.”

  When was his “earliest convenience”? I wondered, thinking his clients probably talked to him more than I did.

  “Chris, honey. It’s me.” I paused. What did I want to say? “Just thinking about you. Let’s get lunch or dinner at that new bistro. Say Tuesday or Friday? Love you.”

  I hung up the phone, disappointed, and turned onto the street. Blinker on, I maneuvered through traffic.

  The voice in my mind nudged me. Go see your mother.

  Fine. I shook my head, straightened my shoulders, and focused on being more positive. It was silly, the insecurity that I tried so hard to keep under wraps.

  The anxiety stemmed from a childhood with my super-connected, over-achiever mother who boasted a stable of famous friends. Other mothers in the grocery store would practically climb over their shopping carts to speak to her and catch up on the latest celebrity gossip.

  My traumatic high school days didn’t help. I was the brainy teen with silver braces who loved hanging out at the library on weekends with other straight-A kids. I read stacks of novels, wrote bad poetry, and spent my days imagining that my “real” family—European royalty, of course—would someday swoop in and rescue me.

  When that didn’t happen, I went off to college. I joined the journalism club, pledged a sorority, and dreamed about backpacking in Europe over the summer. My senior year, I met Chris. After much convincing, I agreed to dinner. We saw each other the next night, and the next.

  We became inseparable. Chris and Melissa. Melissa and Chris.

  My friends began taping signs on my apartment door with my photo and ‘MIA’ written underneath.

  A month later, we moved in together.

  Everything was perfect until, one day, Chris overheard me arguing with my mother. She was pressing me for details. I wasn’t talking. She was jet-lagged. We both were irritable and exhausted. Finally, I gave in.

  “Of course, we’re going to get engaged,” I insisted. “We’ll graduate, get married, and he’ll go with me to Europe.”

  That was that, or so I thought. We finished the conversation, I hung up the phone. Three seconds later, my now-irate boyfriend came around the corner to confront me in the kitchen.

  “Doesn’t it matter what I want?” Chris asked, raising his voice.

  Taken aback, I tried to soothe his hurt feelings. “Of course,” I stuttered. “You want to run your own business—a finance and investment firm. And I totally support that.”

  But Chris wasn’t done talking. He didn’t appreciate my assumptions, didn’t know if he should or could pursue finance and investment banking in Europe, and besides, he wasn’t quite ready for marriage and kids.

  This time, I was the one left stunned.

  Chris packed his bags; we spent the semester break apart. I cried most of December while he dated someone from the past, the daughter of his parents’ friends. Her family was wealthy and politically connected. They owned a yacht, a Rolls Royce, and a small island in the Caribbean.

  Meanwhile, everything about me was just vanilla. Normal.

  How could I compete?

  But, when Chris came back the last semester of our senior year, he was furious with his parents. They’d tried to force him into proposing to his old girlfriend. He’d broken off the relationship instead.

  He apologized profusely and sent flowers. It took about a week for me to forgive him.

  Later, when his parents didn’t show up for our engagement party, Chris explained they’d had another falling out. I didn’t press him to explain. Deep down, I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know.

  When I found out I was pregnant, I tried my best to quit worrying that Chris might change his mind or leave me behind again, like a child who forgets about a broken toy. We were together. We were happy. And sure, we had to put our dreams aside, get jobs, and pay the bills, but it was temporary.

  Somehow, though, temporary had turned into nearly two decades.

  I was thirty-nine and Chris had just turned forty. My mother was nearly eighty. It hardly seemed possible.

  My mind wandered as I swept through the double doors into the lobby of Magnolia Woods, determined to have a pleasant visit with my mother.

  If she was feeling well, I could tell her about my award. Mother was rarely impressed, but this might do the trick.

  Several sleepy residents dozed in their wheelchairs as I whisked past. The heavy scent of lavender potpourri and cleaning antiseptic met me as I walked toward my mother’s room. Her voice drifted into the flower-decked hallway.

  “Nurse,” my mother cried out weakly. “Nurse!”

  As I rounded the door into her room, she looked up at me from her wheelchair, a cozy afghan draped around her lap and thin legs. Her back was turned against a set of huge shelves, filled with thick books she had written.

  It never failed to impress me. Biographies, all in perfect alphabetical order. My eyes scanned the names: Bette Davis, Ava Gardner, Audrey Hepburn, Rita Hayworth. Over her lifetime, my mother had garnered the most stunning, exclusive circle of friends. She was never Hollywood-famous, of course, but once upon a time, she had connections, power, and movie-star good looks. An intimidating combination.

  Now, my mother appeared a mere ghost of herself. Hair perfectly styled, but silver-gray instead of blonde. Jewelry on, but somehow not as glittery. Her sunken cheeks bore smudges of pink blush, the only color on her face.

  “Oh thank goodness!” My mother managed to exhale in a small gust of breath. One feeble hand lifted and dr
opped. “I’ve been calling and calling for someone to help. There’s a program I wanted to see.” She squinted in the dim light.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m right here. What do you need?” I asked, and unconsciously reached out to pat her arm. Her skin, dry and thin as parchment paper, crinkled at my touch.

  My mother recoiled as if I had scorched her with hot coals. She glared at my fingers until I shoved them behind my back, out of sight.

  I swallowed my excitement. There was no use telling her about the award. Today, it was clear she didn’t know who I was.

  A rap at the door broke the silence.

  “She sure don’t like to be touched. And that is the Gawd’s honest truth,” came a high-pitched voice from the doorway. One of the nurse’s aides, Sharice, hands on her round hips, strode toward us with determination. “Miz Ruth Anne, don’t be givin’ your daughter no trouble. You gonna act like that when she come to see you every week?”

  My mother stared straight ahead, lips pursed, her bony hands folded primly on the afghan. “That’s not my daughter. My daughter does not wear red toenail polish. Ever. I absolutely forbid it.”

  I closed my eyes and counted backward from ten. I fought the urge to scratch at the hives popping out on my chest.

  Sharice argued with my mother. “Sure do look like your daughter. And that polish ain’t hurtin’ you none, sugar. But she sure is your kin.” She rolled her dark eyes at the ceiling. “I just don’t know what we all gonna to do wit’ you. Some days you know everybody, some days you don’t. And the days you don’t…you is so stubborn.”

  “I think she’s missing the remote,” I offered.

  “The remote, of course,” Mother repeated. Her eyes darted around the room. “Someone took it again and moved it. I’ll bet it’s that Miss Melba down the hall. She’s always nosing around.” She sniffed and jutted her chin at the ceiling.

  Sharice sighed. I knew it was the same complaint, different day. “It ain’t no Melba. She done got her own remote…and it ain’t for no…” Sharice paused and looked at the television. “…fancy flat-screen. She got a Toshiba or something.”