Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Tallula

A fter Betsy wraps a towel around my head, she says, "I gave you a little something extra from my personal supply of hair potions."

My smile turns upside down.

"I'm well familiar with platinum blonde treatments. Yours direly needed a moisturizing mask to protect it from further damage."

I relax, settling back in the adjustable swivel chair. She's not wrong. The stress practically has its own zip code.

She gives me a glass of cold water and says, "Here's your facial."

Not sure if this is a new product or unique packaging, I stare at it.

"Drink up. Glowing skin comes from the inside out." She winks.

While Betsy blow dries my hair, I close my eyes, trying to let the hum of the device drown out my thoughts about Peter Price, and how he deceived me with a sham marriage.

A pleasantly cool hand presses against my cheek. Betsy's touch is tender, almost maternal, which is much more than I can say I ever received from Sandrine Swan, aka Sandy, aka Mother. "Whatever it is, leave it behind," Betsy whispers.

At least, I think she says that, because before I know what's happening, the chair spins and I'm facing the mirror.

"Ta-da!" Betsy says with a flourish.

They say everything is bigger in Texas. But Betsy from Hogwash Hairwash & Style has ‘em beat when it comes to hair.

"Wow," is all I can say when looking at the volume Betsy gave my curls.

She aligns her head with mine. Beaming a smile, she says, "As soon as you go outside, it'll lose some of its height, but I always wanted to do a starlet's hair. My dreams have come true."

"Glad I could help."

Thelma cashes out her customer whose perm would make a 1980s pop star proud. She casts an arched eyebrow at Betsy, then mutters, "And I'm never going to hear the end of it."

"I can't believe I had the privilege of doing Jennifer Buellton-Klinger's hair." Betsy bounces, tapping the tips of her fingers together.

I'm about to remind her I'm Llula Lilly, and that I'm not a fictional billionaire tech mogul' s socialite and conniving wife, but I'm not sure who I am anymore. My dream was to break into film and let my inner star shine.

I was born Tallulla Judith Swan but when I got a talent agent, I started going by Llula Lilly. Then, after Peter and I eloped, I changed it to Llula Price. Now who am I?

Who am I if not a rising star in Hollywood? That's not something I want to think about now. Being back in Hogwash is temporary, so I can regroup and help my sister.

Then I'll be back and better than ever!

"You're just jealous you didn't get to do her hair," Betsy says, drawing me from my thoughts.

"You're already bragging?" Thelma fires back.

The woman with the poodle perm drops a few bills on the counter and scurries out, wary of the storm brewing between the two hair stylists.

"You never know when to let things go. We've been open for almost thirty years and at least once a month, you remind me that you wanted to name this place Hair N' Dipity," Thelma says.

Betsy pouts. "It's a clever name."

"Except no one would understand what that means."

"Like serendipity . Like how our newest and most esteemed client came in today. Like our friendship, Thelma."

She crosses her arms in front of her chest. "We're not friends. I've called it off."

"Which you do at least once a season, yet you're still here." Betsy huffs as if she takes it in stride.

This makes me think of everyone I left behind in LA—people I thought were friends. After the, um, incident, it became apparent there were two kinds of people. The ones who avoided me as if afraid to catch a nasty case of "scandal" and the ones who were gossip gorillas. They came in strong, pretending to care about my breakup, then tried to strong-arm me into spilling secrets—Peter did enough damage on his own.

Moink's head turns toward each woman when they speak as if she's soaking up this little spat.

"We are best friends forever. Practically sisters," Betsy says.

Thelma grunts.

Betsy goes still, then her warm laugh fills the salon. Moments later, Thelma's stony expression cracks, and the corners of her lips curve toward a smile.

"And that's why we've been best friends and business partners for so long. You can't let the little things in life bog you down." Betsy's eyes sparkle at the quick resolution of their spat.

Betsy and Thelma have been a pleasant enough hour-long distraction, but the fact of the matter is I'm back in this backwash town and I need to be on my way as soon as possible.

My granny would say, Are a bog and a swamp much different? She also told me never to come back—not because she wanted me gone, but because she knew I'd get stuck. I'm afraid to visit her because no doubt she'll scold me six ways to Sunday for returning to Hogwash, but I remind myself this is only temporary. I'll be on my way as soon as possible.

"How much do I owe you?" I ask, holding out my credit card—the one still tied to Peter's bank account.

"It's on the house," Betsy says.

"That's so sweet, but I insist on paying."

"Don't be silly." Betsy sweeps her hand dismissively.

I wave the Amex Black. "Please? It's the least I can do."

"Yes, let the woman be silly," Thelma says.

Betsy chuckles and then taps the credit card reader. I rarely check the total amount owed, but the fact that it's only a dollar catches my attention. When I get the prompt to leave a tip, I make a little dent in Peter's credit card balance.

The revenge hasn't stopped, and it is oh-so-sweet.

After a long goodbye to the ladies, I'm back on the street when my phone beeps with a text from my sister, ordering me to get my "Fancy pants butt to the Coffee Loft."

My sister Mara was a lawyer until last year. She's sharp, angsty, and snide. She's also so smart no one dares argue with her. I'm not about to start now, but where is her coffee shop?

When I drove into town, I passed the post office, library, and the car wash—where I'll have to stop later. Across the street from the salon, on the corner of Main Street and Metairie Road, is the Penny Gamble, and next to it is Cory's Automotive Service Station. Everything is exactly where I left it and worse for wear .

Peering down the sidewalk, I look for my sister's new coffee shop—she said I won't be able to miss it. I certainly don't miss it here. So why did I come back?

After I officially ended things with Peter, I hardly left the house, bereft because of his betrayal.

My so-called friends took me on what they called a "Split Splash." They said a night on the town would make me feel better. I agreed, uninformed choices were made. Then they coaxed me into going scorched earth on my ex. It felt good for a second, but when social media came at me with burning torches and pitchforks, my friends turned on me too.

So yeah. I'm here because I have nowhere else to go.

In truth, my life resembles the streets of Hogwash Holler. But I digress.

The sun peeks out from behind the clouds, but that doesn't help make this situation any brighter. However, it casts a shadow behind my car. It's in the shape of—I tilt my head, approaching slowly.

In the movies, a shovel or another heavy object would conveniently be nearby that I could use as a weapon.

All I have is a sample-size hair pomade and Moink. Betsy insisted I take it with the parting words, The bigger, the better. Too bad I didn't get the jumbo bottle Thelma tried to sell me. The thing probably weighed as much as a brick.

A man crouches behind my car and unscrews—no, he's screwing in my license plate. Confusion keeps me rooted to the spot. He wears dingy clothes and a gray hoodie. Springing to his feet, he clutches my bling-covered license plate frame and races down the street.

With Moink in one arm and my other hand in a fist, I stomp my foot, but can't very well chase the guy in these designer heels. "Hey, get back here. That's mine! You can't just?—"

With a squeal of tires, a police car takes the nearest corner fast. I wave my arms, trying to flag him down. All I catch is a glimpse of the handsome deputy sheriff whose focus fixes on the suspect as he veers down another street. The officer glances at me with dark eyes and swerves but doesn't stop.

Considering recent events, it would be smart for me to avoid the authorities, but maybe Betsy was right about Hogwash having handsome fellows. I wouldn't mind seeing him again.