Angels Fall

at a leather jacket in rich melted chocolate brown. "It looks so soft. Probably costs a zillion dollars. Let's go try it on. No, we'll be late. We'll try it on with our new hair."
    "I don't have a zillion dollars."
    "Neither do I, but it doesn't cost a thing to play with it. Snug cut like that, it'll look better on you than me, which is a pisser. Still, if I had a zillion, it'd be mine."
    "I think I need to go lie clown."
    "You'll be fine. And if you get shaky, I've got a flask in my purse."
    "You—" Reece stuttered a bit as Linda-gail pulled her along. "A flask of what?"
    "Apple martinis, in case you need something to take the edge off. Or even for the hell of it. Mmmm,  giddyup. Check it out."
    With her head spinning, Reece turned it in the direction Linda-gail indicated and spotted the tall, lanky cowboy in boots, Levis and Stetson.
    "Slurp" was Linda-gail's opinion.
    "I thought you were in love with Lo.''
    "Have been, am, will be. But it's like the jacket, honey. Don't cost a nickel to look. I take it you've been more than looking with Brody. Is the sex amazing?"
    "I may actually need that martini if this keeps up."
    "Just tell me one thing. Does his ass look as good naked as it does in jeans?"
    "Yes, yes, I can tell you that it does."
    "I knew it. Here we are." She got a tinner hold of Reece's arm and pulled her inside. She didn't reach for the flask, though it was tempting, and in the time they waited for their stylists. Reece nearly balked a halt a dozen times.
    But she learned something.
    It wasn't as bad as it had been the last time she tried. The walls didn't seem so close together, or the sounds so harsh they made her heart palpitate. And when her stylist introduced himself as Serge, she didn't burst into tears and sprint for the door.
    He had the slightest Slavic accent, and a winning smile that faded into concern when he took her hand.
    "Baby doll, your hands are like ice. Let's get you a nice cup of herbal tea. Nan! We need a cup of chamomile. And you just come with me."
    She went along like a puppy.
    He had her seated at his station, swathed in a mint green cape—and his hands in her hair before her brain engaged again.
    "I'm not sure I—"
    "Gorgeous texture, and so thick! Very healthy. You take care of it."
    "I guess I do."
    "But where's the style? The flair? Look at this face, and all this hair like a curtain blocking it. What would you like today? '
    "I… Honestly, I don't know. I didn't think I'd get this far."
    "Tell me about yourself. No rings? Single?"

    "Yes. Yes."
    "Fancy free. And from back East somewhere."
    "Boston."
    "Mmm-hmm." He continued to lift her hair, let it fall, study it. "And what is it you do, my angel?"
    "I cook. I'm a cook." Something inside her started to purr as his hands massaged her scalp, played with her hair. "I work with Linda-gail. Is she going to he nearby?"
    "She's fine. We don't see nearly enough of her in here." And with that w inning smile, he met Reece's eyes in the mirror. "Trust me?"
    "I… Oh God. Okay. But do you have any Valium to put in that tea?"

    SHE'D FORGOTTEN THIS, the indulgence of it. Hands in her hair, soothing tea, glossy magazines, the chatter of primarily female voices.
    She was getting highlights, because Serge wanted her to. She probably couldn't afford highlights, but she was getting them. At some point in the process, Linda-gail trotted up, her hair slathered in product and covered with plastic.
    "Vixen Red," she announced. "I'm going for it. I'm squeezing in a manicure. Want one?"
    "No. No, I can't take any more."
    But she actually drowsed over her copy of  Vogue  until it was time for the shampoo. And the cut.
    "So now, tell me about the man in your life." Serge began to clip and snip. "You must have one."
    "I guess I do." My God, she had a man in her life. "He's a writer. We're just really starting to be together."
    "Lust. Excitement. Discovery."
    A smile flickered over her face. "Exactly. He's smart, self-reliant and likes my cooking. He… well, he masks this incredible patience under pithy comments. He doesn't treat me like I'm breakable, and people-were, for too long. And because he doesn't, I don't think of myself that way as much. As breakable. Oh, I forgot this."
    Serge lifted the scissors when she leaned forward for the file. "I wonder if you recognize this woman." He pocketed the scissors long enough to take the sketch and study it. "I can't say for certain, but I don't think she's been in my chair. I'd have talked her into