Standing in front of her jam-packed closet, she chose a long tan moleskin skirt, a Western-cut shirt with black and tan checks mixed with strips of solid black and brown paisley, and black beaded moccasins. She adored clothes, jewelry, shoes—anything related to fashion. Chances were slim that she could carve out her dream career in fashion merchandising without a degree, but she still took time to look stylish. Even if the only people who saw her and appreciated her quirky style were the sixty-, seventy-, and eightysomething patrons of Get Nailed.
The wind practically blew her inside the building. Get Nailed was located in the back of Bernice’s Beauty Barn. In a small community there wasn’t a need for a full-time, full-service hair salon, to say nothing of a full-time nail salon, so Bernice scheduled nail appointments at the end of the day on the days she was open.
She hung up her coat on the coat tree, an oddly endearing monstrosity that Bernice’s husband, Bob, had fashioned out of elk antlers. When she turned around, all five women in the shop were gawking at her. “What?”
“Oh, nothin’, dear. We’re just surprised to see you.”
Harper’s eyes zipped to Bernice. “Why? You planning on firing me too?”
Bernice clucked her tongue and resumed snipping a section of Tilda O’Toole’s snow-white hair. “No. I figured with you bein’ Bran Turner’s new hired hand and all, you might be giving me the boot.”
“Heaven knows I wouldn’t kick Bran Turner out of bed,” Tilda piped up.
“Unless he wanted to do it on the floor,” Garnet Evans added with a snicker.
“Garnet!”
She shrugged. “Just sayin’. I’m old. I ain’t dead.”
“How did you guys hear about me going to work for Bran?” Harper demanded. “It’s only my second day.”
Tilda’s eyes flicked to Harper’s in the mirror. “Honey, do you really need us to remind you how small this town is?”
“Plus,” Bernice added, “Bran’s hired hand’s truck has been parked at your place since yesterday. Given the state of Les Daaugard’s hip, we know you weren’t makin’ time with him.”
A chorus of female titters erupted.
“Now, don’t get sore at us, Harper. We were just funnin’ with you,” Garnet said.
“I know.” She rubbed her hands together. “So who’s my first victim—I mean client—today?”
Maybelle Linberg pushed to her feet. “That would be me.”
“Come on back. It’ll take me a second to get ready.”
“No rush. It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to be or anyone waiting on me.”
Harper’s heart ached for Miz Maybelle, who’d lost her husband of fifty years six months back. None of her children or grandchildren lived close by, and Harper thought it’d only be a matter of time before Maybelle moved on if she didn’t find something to occupy herself.
She slipped an apron on and set up the nail station, draping towels across the hand board. She filled a pan with disinfecting solution and added hot water. “Have a seat.” After Maybelle was situated, she removed the old nail polish on Maybelle’s short fingernails. The majority of Harper’s clients were older women who didn’t want the fuss of acrylic nails and preferred an old-fashioned manicure with their gossip.
“You know, I heard a rumor that Bootsie Mitchell is looking for a new society reporter for the Muddy Gap Gazette,” Harper said.
“Now, you know I’m not one for rumors and such, but where on earth did you hear that?”
Harper fought a smile. Maybelle always pooh-poohed the evil rumor mill, but immediately perked up with interest at the word gossip. “Evidently Bootsie mentioned it to Bernice last week during her perm. Seems Lila Aldean is hanging up her reporter’s pen for the society column.”
“As well she should.” Maybelle tsk-tsked. “Lord, Lila is almost ninety-five years old.”
“I think you’d be the perfect person to fill the position, Miz Maybelle. You’ve lived here your whole life and you’re about the only person I know who doesn’t consistently use the word ain’t, so your language skills are better than most.”
A thoughtful pause followed. Then Maybelle said, “Why didn’t you apply, dear? I know you’re looking for work.”
“Because it’s a volunteer position. And I won’t be around much longer.”
Maybelle dunked her slightly gnarled hands into the solution and sighed. “Why is it that with all the years I spent up to my elbows in soapy water washing dishes, it never once felt like this? I feel so guilty.”
“Don’t feel guilty about pampering yourself. After all the years you cooked and cleaned for your husband and your family? You deserve it.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Maybelle squinted at the rows of polish. “I’m thinking I’d like a bright color this time. Something daring.”
“How about scarlet?” Harper plucked the color from the rainbow-hued lineup. “This one even has tiny specks of glitter.”
“That’d give ’em something to talk about after bridge club, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am. They’ll be so busy gawking at your nails they won’t pay attention to the cards and you’ll whip ’em good.”
“Scarlet it is.”
Harper dried Maybelle’s hands and rubbed oil on her cuticles, giving her a hand massage.