Page 29 of Love at Teamsgiving
The Jill: She seems friendly at first, but then tumbles down a steep hill with her life story as you’re trying to keep on track, so the bleach doesn’t fry her hair.
The Sharon: Who is never happy—not in her life or with her hair, even though you did exactly what she requested.
The Martha: She thinks she’s a professional, even though she came to you for a haircut, color, or style and proceeds to tell you how to do your job.
The Patricia: The perfect client, even if a little flaky.
This person is one of the first three. I open the door and say, “Hello. I’m Juniper. The new tenant of what’ll soon be Cobbiton’s premier hair salon.”
My gaze floats to her frizz as she blinks at me once, twice, three times, before saying, “Nancy Linderberg, head of the Cobbiton CAC—Community Activities Commission.”
“And welcoming committee, I take it?”
“No. We raise funds to organize and orchestrate activities.”
I will my smile not to falter. “That’s fantastic. I’ve been told no one does the Fourth of July, the fall, or Christmas like Cobbiton.”
“That’s true and we don’t want newcomers to think they can just come in here and change things up.”
Erica would’ve gasped. Margo should’ve warned me.
Having been born and raised in New York by my mother, who you’ve met, and my Russian, hockey-playing, contractor father, I’ll admit that I have a certain edge to me. People have pointed it out—Miguel’s comment about being prickly comes to mind.
Moving here, I told myself I’d turn over a new leaf. A gust of wind from outside blows some leaves from an oak tree past Nancy and into the shop, adding to the heap already in here.
Maybe my opening about the new, premier salon was too strong. Perhaps Nancy’s BFF does her hair and I’m the competition. Either way, the frosty greeting makes me rethink small-town hospitality.
What Nancy doesn’t realize is that she just met Momzilla’s daughter.
My jaw tightens. “It’s such a delight to meet you. Moving to Cobbiton, I expected a warm welcome. A casserole, some cookies. Guess I’ll have to give this place a chance to prove itself to me.”
She lets out a little squeak as if not accustomed to people firing back. “Well, good luck with your little hair shack.”
I almost laugh. “Nancy, this hair salon is going to be a success. When you’re ready, I’ll fix your poodle perm, and my name will be on the top donors’ list for the seasonal events in less than a year. Guaranteed.”
Her expression wavers. “We’ll see about that.”
“And we’ll see whether you’re still the head of the Cobbiton Activities Commission if this is how you treat newcomers.”
She turns on her heel and storms down the sidewalk.
“I’d better get working to make good on my threat,” I mutter as I find an overturned trash can and start tossing things in the bin, wishing I had a pair of work gloves and maybe a hazmat suit for when I get to the bathroom.
“How does someone let a place get this bad?”
“Max Linderberg,” a male voice says from behind me.
I spin around, concerned Nancy sent her husband or son after me, but a familiar face smiles—not that I’ve ever met the Knights’ star right wing in person.
“I’m James Reddford. The others are—” He gestures through the grimy window as a troop of burly men approaches, hauling a ladder and other work supplies.
My mouth hangs open. “Margo wasn’t kidding.”
“Once a week, various members of the team volunteer to do something in the community. Margo put us on the schedule when you signed the rental agreement. Said you were going to need it.” He looks around.
“What a disaster,” another male voice says from the doorway.
“It’s Hayden Savage,” I breathe. He plays left wing.
