Pearl of Great Price by Johnson Myra

Author:Johnson, Myra [Johnson, Myra]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2014-03-04T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21

Turned out Renata did have plans to spend some quality time with me that day. While I pulled myself together, she padded into her dressing room and spoke to me over the sounds of hangers sliding across closet rods and drawers opening and closing.

“I thought we’d drive over to Hot Springs this afternoon,” she said. Laughter bubbled from inside the cavernous closet. “I can’t wait to see Aunt Geneva’s expression when I tell her our news!”

I smoothed the rippling folds of my skirt. “Maybe you should give her a little warning. She might need to adjust to the idea.” I didn’t want sweet Mrs. Nelson collapsing of a heart attack.

Renata’s smiling face popped around the door frame. “I’ve already told her we’re coming.”

I sauntered over and leaned against the wall outside the door. “And who exactly did you say we were?”

“Just said she’s going to be very, very surprised.” She tweaked my chin before giving me her back so I could zip up the same perky yellow sundress she’d been wearing the first time I saw her.

A knock sounded on the outer door and Yvette swept into the room. “’Mornin’, Mrs. C, you ready for me? How are you, Julie, honey?”

“Fine, thanks. You?” In the presence of such glamour I could only hug myself and avoid my plain-Jane reflection in Renata’s closet-door mirror. Did Yvette ever have a bad-hair day—a bad anything day?

“Start with Julie, why don’t you?” Renata plucked at my mass of curls. “Oh, honey, we’ve just got to tame that hair.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried.” I ogled Renata’s chestnut waves, flowing across her shoulders like a satin cloak. “I’d give anything to have gorgeous hair like yours.”

Hard knots formed on either side of her jaw. “I’ve had my share of bad perms, too. Yvette, see what you can do for this poor girl. Don’t take too long, though. I want to leave within the hour.”

Yvette winked. “My clients don’t call me a miracle worker for nothing.” She ushered me into Renata’s bathroom and seated me in front of a lighted mirror. A wide array of gels, mousses, sprays, and electric styling devices cluttered the marble countertop.

Renata finished dressing and excused herself, leaving Yvette to experiment with my hair. She pushed it this way and that, brushing, dampening, blow-drying, and finally attacking it with a wide ceramic flat iron. But five minutes after she unclamped the device, my curls sprang back faster than a Slinky toy.

“Oooh, girl, I’m beginning to believe you.” Yvette tut-tutted and shook her head. Lifting a strand of hair, she twisted it around her finger. “Baby, what you need is dreadlocks. You would look très chic, I’m telling you.”

“Oh, no, no way!” I cringed. “I mean, they look great on you, but I couldn’t—”

“Hey, you think white girls can’t carry off the look? Who’s that famous lady writer—Anne Lamott? She finally quit fighting her kinky hair and went with dreads. It’d be so easy for you to take care of. When you get back

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