“Ah, I said to myself, Mr. Marco is a genius. If anyone can give her what she needs, it’s Mr. Marco.”
“But without an appointment.”
“Oh, Mr. Marco. You know great art must be the whim of the moment. When I come back, I want to see the hair that launched a thousand ships. Let the artist in you take flight.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to have the hair that launched a thousand ships, maybe the hair that launched a small lobster boat.
A heavy girl in a white jumpsuit washed my hair. When she finished, she wrapped my hair in a towel and took me to a chair next to the one where Mr. Marco was working. I waited while he chopped and frowned and danced around his subject, an elderly woman with severely thinning hair.
Winnie was right. Mr. Marco could work miracles.
After he took a blow dryer to the old lady’s head, she came out looking just like Carol Channing.
He wiped off the chair and blew the stray blond hair to the floor with the blow dryer. Then he motioned for me to sit. He stood behind me and we both looked into the mirror. He put his hands in my hair, fluffed, and puffed.
“You have good hair. Long and thick. I can make you look like Michelle Pfeiffer,” he said.
“I doubt that very much,” I said.
“Watch me.” And he began to snip.
If I didn’t look exactly like Michelle Pfeiffer when he was finished, I did look like a much better version of Jane Fortune. My hair, which had been down to my waist since I was a child, was now shoulder length. Mr. Marco had added some blond highlights “to rid the hair of any hint of its inherent mousiness.”
When Winnie came to get me, her surprise was almost worth the three hours spent in a series of vinyl chairs.
“Jane, you are a knockout,” Winnie said. She paid so much money to retrieve me, I felt as if I’d been ransomed. She was loaded down with bags and I took some of them off her hands.
“Charlie’s going to kill me. I’ll keep some of these bags in the trunk.”
“Why do you buy so much if you know he won’t like it?” I asked.
“It’s one way to get Charlie’s attention.”
“I don’t know if that’s the best way,” I said. I was stepping gingerly because I knew I was entering dangerous territory.
“You’ve never been married.” That was obvious and she didn’t need to point it out.
“What if he gets too annoyed?” I asked.
“He won’t.”
“But what if he does?”
“I don’t know, Jane. I’ve never given it much thought.”
We packed the trunk of the car.
“He just seems a little discouraged, that’s all,” I said.
“Then he should say something. Am I supposed to read his mind?”
“Look, it’s none of my business, really.”
A cardinal rule of being a good single woman—and one I was on the verge of breaking—was never to give advice about someone else’s relationship. The trick behind this rule was to remain as inoffensive as possible so that no one could ever have a reason to object to you. That is the foundation of being a good single woman.
“You’re my sister. Of course it’s your business,” Winnie said.
“Then maybe you should pay a little more attention to Charlie. With all of the responsibilities he has as a young father, you wouldn’t want him looking around for something that seemed like more fun.” I wouldn’t normally have said anything like that, or even thought it (this isn’t the kind of thought a good single woman can allow herself to have), but it was Charlie’s hand placed just a little too long on mine that had started me thinking in that direction.
“He wouldn’t do that. Not Charlie. The boys and I are everything to him. And to tell you the truth, I resent the implication.” We got into the car. “It’s not fair. You haven’t been staying with us for even a week and you’re suggesting that I’m not a good wife.”
“I didn’t say that, Winnie. I would never say that.”
“That’s what it sounded like.”
“I only want what’s best for you, Winnie,” I said.
“I know you do,” she said. She put her hand over mine. “That’s just how I feel about you.”
Chapter 16
We burst into the house with only as many packages as Winnie wanted Charlie to know about, but since he wasn’t home yet, we smuggled everything else inside and hid it with the rest of Winnie’s secret stash in the basement next to the laundry room. If you moved the lint-filled wastebasket and the dirty mops, if you had the fortitude to get past the dust bunnies and fallen sheets of fabric softener, there was a secret closet.
“I keep the mess here on purpose,” Winnie said as she moved the trash basket to the side. “Voilà!” She pushed open a hidden door and we stepped in. The walk-in closet looked like it was meant to house out-of- season sports equipment and clothes. Instead of old parkas and ski boots, the closet was filled, floor to ceiling, with new things, many of them not even out of their boxes and bags. Winnie added her purchases to the sweaters, ceramic vases, purses, shoes, children’s clothes, and toys.
“If you see anything you want, just take it,” Winnie said. “Sometimes when I’m depressed I come down here and just pick something. I bring it upstairs and mingle it with the rest of our things. Charlie never notices.”
“But what do you need all this stuff for?” I asked.
“Security, I guess. Whenever I need something new, it’s always here.” She paused and looked at me. “You won’t tell?” she asked.
“Of course not.” I knew she was trying to get closer to me by sharing her secret, and I would never betray that trust.
“Do you see anything you like?” she asked.
“I get confused when I see too many things at once. That’s why I hate shopping,” I said.
“Hate shopping?” She said it as if hating shopping was not only implausible but also ridiculous. She walked over to one corner of the closet and pulled out a bag from Neiman Marcus. There was a dress inside and she removed it with a flourish.
It was a wool dress, long with three-quarter-length sleeves, a dress you could wear on a winter evening with tights and ballet slippers.
“This would look good on you,” she said. “And God knows you could use a few new things. It looks like you haven’t bought anything in years.”
I liked the dress, though I had never pictured myself in puce. The garage door opened and Winnie jumped. “He’s home.” We sneaked out of the closet, closed the door, replaced the trash and cleaning supplies, and rushed upstairs.
Charlie kissed Winnie on the cheek.
“How was your day, dear?” he said. I stood off to the side—single women guests must give couples their private moments.
“Wonderful,” she said. “I can’t wait to do a little disco.” She twirled in a bad imitation of John Travolta in
“Where are the boys?” Charlie asked.
“Ariel took them out to play,” Winnie said.
Winnie was assuming that Ariel had taken them out to play. All she knew for sure was that they weren’t here when we came home and their jackets were gone from the front hall closet.
“It’s getting late.” Charlie looked out the window where dusk was falling.
“Don’t worry, you can trust Ariel as much as you trust me.”
