Jeff reached out and drew her to him. He wrapped his arms around her slim frame and buried his face against the side of her hair. His tender embrace lasted only a moment. “What’s that smell?”
“The coffee?”
“No, your hair.”
“Oh. It’s the perm solution. It’ll wash out.”
“Didn’t you say you have to wait before you wash your hair?”
“Two days. But maybe I can wash it tomorrow. It might help it,” Lauren said, turning to get a vase from the kitchen counter. She clipped the daisies’ ends and dropped them into her favorite royal blue glass vase. They brightened up the whole kitchen.
“How do you like the furniture covers?” she asked as Jeff poured the coffee.
He looked over at the new ensemble and said one word. “Pink?”
“It’s not pink. It’s rose. Mauve, actually. It’s the Victorian look.”
“I think it looks pink.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Do you?” Jeff countered.
“Of course I do.”
“It’s just that sometimes you order things you don’t really like but you keep them anyway.”
“When did that ever happen? Name one time,” Lauren challenged, her hand on her hip.
“You know what?” Jeff said, adding cream to the two mugs of coffee. “It doesn’t matter. As long as you’re happy with it, that’s all that counts.” He walked away from her with his mug in his hand, leaving hers on the counter. Then, as if he were being defiant about having anything to do with her choice of a “pink” furniture cover, he went over and sat on the floor, leaning his back against the easy chair.
“You can sit on it,” Lauren said, grabbing her mug and joining him.
“I’m fine right here,” he said.
Lauren settled herself comfortably on her Victorian sofa, propped a pillow under her arm and said, “So tell me what’s going on with the Harrison Furniture account.”
Jeff sipped his coffee and took his time before saying, “I’m unemployed.”
Lauren thought he was joking. “What are you saying? Did Granddaddy Harrison reject the jingle again?”
“Lauren, I was let go yesterday.”
She slowly lowered her mug and met his eyes. “Jeff, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me? What happened?”
“Anchor was bought out. Nobody in my division knew about it. They’re consolidating with a firm from South Carolina, and both companies will be part of Burrows, James, and Tompkins in New York. Everyone from my department was let go except Garry.”
“Garry? Why Garry? He’s only been working there a few months.”
Jeff ran his finger along his mug’s rim. “Seems Garry was more or less a corporate spy from the New York agency. He used his three months with us to decide who should stay and who should go. He apparently has a whole new team hand-picked for Nashville. I’m not one of them.”
“But it sounds as if nobody from your department was one of his choices,” Lauren said, not sure if the logic would cheer him up any.
“No,” Jeff answered slowly.
“You can find another job in Nashville. The wedding isn’t until February. That gives us, what? Eight months? That’s plenty of time for you to find a new job.”
“It looks as if I already have a new job,” Jeff said slowly.
“What?”
“Garry recommended me for a position in New York. I’d be a fool not to take it.”
“New York?” Lauren said, sinking deep into her bed of roses. “New York?”
“It’s a huge career opportunity for me, Lauren.” He leaned forward, looking alive for the first time all night. “You could learn to like New York.”
“Jeff, I’ve been to New York. I don’t like it. What about all our plans to move to the country? All along we’ve been talking about moving out of Nashville after we’re married. Remember? Some land with a garden and maybe a guest house out back. We could never live like that in New York.”
“Sure we could. They have ‘country’ homes with vegetable gardens in New York, too.”
“No, they don’t Jeff. Not for miles and miles. You would have to commute hours every day. And we could never afford to buy a house there. This is …,” Lauren put her mug on the floor and dropped her head in her hands. “This is not what we planned.”
“You mean not what you planned.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Dead air enveloped the gulf between them as Jeff paused, and the CD player mysteriously stopped for thirty seconds before starting the next song. It was one of Jeff’s favorites. The song began:
I’m not the kind who takes chances,
But baby, I took a chance on you.
And I’m not saying
You’re not worth romancin’
But have we got what it takes
To see us through?
Call me when you wake up
When you smell the coffee
When the scent of roses
Is enough to clear your head
You call me …
“What are you saying, Jeff?” Lauren asked. Inside her a huge wave of emotion was about to crash over her.
“I don’t know, Lauren. You tell me. Can you live in New York?”
Chapter Two
Monday at lunch Lauren poured out her heart to her friend, Mindy, as they sat in the basement lunch room.
“And that was it?” Mindy asked. “Love me, love New York? End of discussion?”
Swirling her spoon around in her yogurt carton, Lauren lowered her eyes. She and Mindy ate lunch together nearly every day, and on this gloomy Monday Lauren was glad she had someone to talk to. Mindy was a good listener but not always a good empathizer. Probably because her life was normal. Calm. Not bizarre. Crazy things like a perm disaster never seemed to happen to Mindy.
“There was a lot more to the discussion than that,” Lauren said. “We talked until almost two in the morning. The thing is, this is Jeff’s dream, to work at a New York advertising agency. He thought it would take ten or twelve years before he would be groomed for such a position. I guess he thought by that time we would be married, have a kid or two, and wherever Daddy would go, the family would follow. He said, ‘I thought you would have your fling with country living for the first few years of our marriage, and then we could move on.’ ”
“Oh, the man does not get it, does he? He’s thinking you’re going to raise your babies in the city? And what? They’ll learn what a tree is when the nanny takes them to Central Park once a week? Where is his mind?” Mindy asked, ripping open the wrapper on a package of honey roasted peanuts. “The man is only thinking of himself, which is, of course, a prerequisite for being a man.”
Mindy had been married to Leon for almost a year now. He was a gentle giant who taught science at Nelson High and catered to Mindy’s every whim. She adored him, and they made a darling couple. Leon was a foot or more taller than Mindy and appeared most content when he stood beside her, his arm resting on her shoulder, showing off his cute little wife to the world. He had reason to feel proud. Mindy was a beautiful woman with glittering dark eyes full of spunk.
“I hope you told Jeffrey to go lay an egg!” Mindy spouted.
“I didn’t tell him anything. We’re still talking things through. It’s very complicated.”
“Why should it be complicated? You meet someone, you get to know him, you fall in love, and you get married. What’s to work out?”
“Plenty.”
“You have my prayers, girlfriend,” Mindy said, rising to clear her spot at the employee lunch table and return to work. “You may not have my excellent taste in men, but you have my prayers.”
“Thanks. I have a feeling I’ll need every bit of them.”
Lauren took the elevator up to the first floor with Mindy. The two of them returned to their teller windows and opened up for their afternoon of nonstop business. The last few days of the month were always the busiest,
and this week promised to be a hummer.
Jeff called Lauren on Monday afternoon and asked if she wanted to get together to talk that evening. She told him she needed some more time to think. He said that Garry had asked him to give a final decision by the end of the week. Jeff’s final words were, “So if you could try to hurry your part of this decision along, I’d appreciate it.”
His words stung. Lauren was not one to decide anything in a snap. She needed time to weigh out all the options, to think through every possible scenario, to make sure the conclusion she ended up with was one she could live with. That’s why her hair was such a complex problem for her. She had thought through the idea of a perm for several days before she made the appointment. Then she had postponed the appointment for a week to allow herself time to change her mind. Everything inside her had said to go for it. She had, and the result was a disaster.
If she couldn’t trust her judgment on her hair and salon choice, how could she trust her choice of a husband? Or where she would live for the rest of her life? Hadn’t her order at Giovanni’s taught her the folly of choosing “the special” without considering all the other options? She needed to ask questions. To collect all the facts.
Lauren changed into her most comfortable cotton pajamas and curled up on her flowery sofa. With a pad of paper and pen in hand, she began to list all her options. One of the columns bore the title, “New York.” She had been there three times: Once during her childhood to visit her great-aunt Clarita, who lived in a ritzy apartment; and twice during her teen years—one trip to visit her ailing great-aunt and another trip three months later for Aunt Clarita’s funeral. None of her New York excursions had been enjoyable.
Except maybe the second trip, when she and her only sibling, her younger brother Bradley, had been taken to the theater to see The Phantom of the Opera. That was a wonderful, memorable night. She was sixteen, almost seventeen, and as innocent as the musical’s character Christine. Brad bought the cassette tape, and together they listened to it over and over during the following year.
Then Lauren had gone off to college in California. It was a small, private Christian college, and not a single person she met there had seen The Phantom. She enjoyed her pinch of sophistication, as if she and Brad (or as she had nicknamed him, “Rad”) shared something the rest of her world was not privy to.
In the “New York” column on her pad of paper, Lauren wrote, “Culture—theater, museums.”
For two hours she worked on her list, skipping dinner and letting her answering machine pick up the two calls that came in. Finally, when she couldn’t think of anything else to add in the “pro” or “con” columns, she sat back and took a look. The “cons” outnumbered the “pros” about four to one.
“The fact of the matter is,” she said aloud, practicing how she would present her conclusions to Jeff tomorrow night, “I don’t think I’m a New York type of person. Not just in regard to living in the city but even life as a commuting family. That’s not what I want. I don’t like New York or the idea of New York and I …” Her steam sputtered out.
Lauren padded in her slippers to the kitchen and searched for something to eat in the fridge. She was hungry for Chinese food but settled for a half-full carton of non-fat cottage cheese. “That’s another thing, Jeff,” she continued her imaginary conversation. “Why do we always have to go to Giovanni’s? I like Chinese food, and you don’t; so we never get Chinese. We always end up where you want to go. What if I don’t like Italian anymore? Would we still eat there because you like it?
“What do I like?” Lauren asked herself, finishing off the cottage cheese and tossing the container in the trash. “I don’t know what I like anymore.” She thought for a long, silent minute and said aloud, “I think I need a cat.”
She had never owned a cat while she was growing up because her step-father said he was allergic to them. The real reason, she was sure, was that he hated cats. The allergy excuse served as a cover-up. Having been deprived of a kitten in childhood, this seemed a good time to obtain one. Lauren didn’t know if Jeff liked cats. She would ask him tomorrow night. Maybe if they had to live in an apartment in New York, it would be okay if she had a kitten. One of those fluffy ones.
What am I saying? “If” I lived in New York? Two minutes ago it wasn’t even an option!
All the mental debating exhausted Lauren. She headed for bed and in the dark silence of her room whispered her evening prayers. A cheerful chorus of crickets serenaded outside her open window, and a summer breeze, fragrant from the blooming honeysuckle along the back fence of the apartment complex, soothed her to sleep.
In the morning she still didn’t have an answer for Jeff. She had prayed her heart out while she dressed, and on the way to work. All her words bounced off the heavens. What Lauren longed for was an echo of reassurance from God that everything was going to turn out okay, that Jeff was really, truly the right man for her, and that all she had to do was move forward in faith. But by Tuesday evening, she still had no confirmation.
Lauren left work flustered. Instead of driving straight home, she took Mindy’s advice about her hair problem and stopped at the mall. She marched back to the salon and found the supervisor at the cash register. He seemed to recognize Lauren the minute she walked in because he said, “Did you want to pick up some more conditioner? I have a bottle of 911 right here. No charge.”
“No, I don’t want a bottle of your conditioner. I’d like my money back. No, actually, I’d like my hair back. Look at this.” She pulled her fingers through her hair and showed him the handful of dry strands that resulted.
“Is there a problem here?” An elegant looking woman stepped to the register, taking instant command of the situation.
“I’d like to speak to the manager.”
“I’m the manager,” the striking woman said. Her soft brown hair was twisted up in a French roll. Her skin and makeup were flawless. “May I help you?”
Lauren had enough frustration stored up to let her feelings rush out. When she finished her discourse, the manager snapped open the drawer of the register, refunded Lauren’s money, and said, “If you have time, I’d personally like to give you a deep conditioning treatment. No charge, of course.”
Lauren felt relieved that her complaint was being taken seriously. For the next hour, the manager doted on Lauren. When it came time for the comb-out, the moment of truth, Lauren’s hair came out by the handsful.
“Well,” the manager said, looking at Lauren’s reflection in the mirror, “I didn’t want to see that. I’m afraid your hair has been so badly damaged the best thing would be to cut it.”
“I don’t want my hair cut.”
“I understand.”
“Can’t you fix it?”
“I’ve tried. The conditioner I used is the best on the market. Your hair is damaged beyond repair. If it’s any consolation, the stylist who did your hair no longer works here.”
Lauren sat still, gazing at her reflection. Her hair was like a fuzzy halo with thousands of broken strands sticking out all around her head. She felt like saying, “No, that’s no consolation at all.”
“How much do you have to cut?” Lauren asked.
“Well …,” the manager reached for a book and said, “would you like me to make a few suggestions?”
Lauren felt like giving a snappy answer, but the woman was trying to be nice. Letting her eyes fall to the open page where the woman pointed, Lauren didn’t reply.
“This cut would look absolutely fantastic on you.” She ducked her head, trying to make eye contact with Lauren. “What do you think?”
The picture showed a model with long bangs and hair just below her earlobes. Lauren had never worn bangs. She had always worn her hair long. In every school picture since first grade she had posed with her hair hanging over her shoulders, marking how far her silky blond hair had grown since the previous year. Long hair was her trademark, her identity. It was the thing people always commented on when they first met
her. Jeff had said it was what made him want to ask her out. He had admitted one evening, about three months into their relationship, that the first day he saw her he had dreamed about touching her hair. Getting a perm was a major decision. But whacking it all off? How could she ever do that? Who would she be without her golden mane? What would Jeff think? What would he say?
“Hack it,” Lauren said in a low rumble.
“You would like me to style your hair like this?” the woman asked.
Lauren nodded, gazing at her reflection. “Quick. Before I change my mind.”
Chapter Three
Lauren stood before her bedroom mirror, looking at herself this way and that. Her hair was short, all right. Long, thin bangs softly shadowed her forehead. The sides were slicked back with a natural wave exposing her ears while the ends of her hair just touched the top of her collar. The style was flattering to her face. As sullen as she had been at the salon, she now had to admit she liked the haircut.
It was the sight of all her long hair on the floor that had prompted the knot in her stomach. She had found it impossible to thank the manager for the free haircut and style. But at this moment, the change seemed okay. She felt prettier than she had ever felt in her life. Jeff was sure to like it.
The phone rang. Lauren glanced at the clock as she grabbed the phone from its cradle on the kitchen counter. Eight o’clock. It would be Jeff, calling after his racquetball game.
“Are you planning to stop by?” Lauren asked.
“Actually, Garry is with me. We’re going to go grab something to eat,” Jeff said. “Why don’t we get together for dinner tomorrow right after work. Say, six at Giovanni’s?”
“Okay, but Jeff?”
“Yes?”
“Would it be all right with you if we went someplace other than Giovanni’s for a change?”
“Where do you want to go?” He didn’t sound irritated, just surprised.
“I don’t know. Maybe for Chinese or Mexican or even to a steak house.”