Three

She awoke that morning knowing something special was going to happen to her.

—Hailey Fairchild, What the Heart Seeks

Gwendolyn arrives at the house looking like I'd love to look—stylin' and smilin', wearing that red wool coat I'd imagined

myself in, along with black leather gloves and a black scarf around her neck. Her hair is long and perfectly cut and highlighted

with silver and lavender, flowing onto her shoulders. Her makeup is also perfect—eyeliner that makes her eyes look feline

and sexy, a flashy neon-green eye shadow, and fun little faux star tats scattered along her cheekbones like freckles.

Wouldn't you know I have to be the one to open the door and let her in. Sam's upstairs showering, Mom and Gram are in the

kitchen, and Dad is making a last-minute run to the store for more eggnog with Grandpa as his wingman. So, it's just me and

Gwendolyn, face-to-face. At least I don't have any zits she can point out anymore.

"Hailey," she says and gives me a smile that doesn't make it to her eyes.

"Gwendolyn," I say. Okay, now we each know who we are.

I step back from the door, and she slithers in and sheds her coat, handing it to me to hang up. Designer jeans, baby-blue

sweater to match her eyes, great boots. I refuse to let myself feel jealous.

"Everyone's excited you're back," she says. Her tone of voice adds, Heaven only knows why .

"It's nice to come home for a visit," I say.

"Only a visit? Don't you miss home?"

"I miss my family." But I sure don't miss people like you.

She gives her hair a shake so it will fall just so. It shimmers. Gorgeous.

"I like your hair," I say. I hate to compliment her and feed her ego, but I can't help myself. Her hair is gorgeous. And anyway, I have to be nice since she's with Sam. Oh, please, Lord, don't let this turn out to be permanent.

She smiles. "We specialize in color at Hair Today. Did Sam tell you I'm a stylist there?"

"Uh, no." Not that I'd asked what she was doing. Not that I cared. One thing I know she's been doing—deceiving Sam into thinking

she's nice.

Okay, she could be now. I could be imagining these adversarial vibes. I need to give her a chance.

"I love what I do," she adds, almost as if she needs to justify her chosen profession.

"Making beautiful women more beautiful," I say. Okay, that sounds envious and immature. "It's got to be fun."

"It is. Everyone's beautiful in her own way," Gwendolyn adds. "You should come in and let me do your hair, get you all glam

for the holidays."

"Yeah?" What's her hidden agenda?

"Yeah. It can be my good deed for Christmas."

Was that supposed to come off as cute? It doesn't. It sounds condescending. I still can't believe my brother has fallen for

this woman.

"Uh-huh," I manage. Not a yes, simply an acknowledgment that I heard.

Sam comes down the stairs, and the way he's looking at her says, Ring by Valentine's Day . It won't be the first diamond she's collected.

I can already see how their story will play out. She'll treat him like a cash machine, leave him watching the kids while she

goes out on Friday nights with her girlfriends and flirts with other men. Eventually she'll divorce him and take him for all

she can.

Maybe my imagination is running away with me. Maybe I'm wrong.

I doubt it.

The lasagna is beckoning us to the kitchen, but suddenly I don't have any appetite.

Mom has come out now. "Gwendolyn! You look lovely as usual."

I'm suddenly just a tiny bit jealous.

How pathetic is that? I don't need my mom to tell me I'm pretty. I'm fine. And I'm successful and...

Single. No ring in my future. No man. Nothing to brag about but a string of mistletoe fails.

Stop it! I scold myself. You are doing fine. And you don't need a man to be happy.

True. But I don't need to be wandering around Romancelandia alone all the time either. I mean, where's the fun in that? And

what does that say about me? Those who can't have it settle for writing about it?

Dad and Grandpa arrive with the eggnog. Grandpa is thick like Dad. They have the same blunt nose and superhero chin, and it's

easy to see they're related. Even their smiles look alike. They're both smiling now at the sight of Gwendolyn. Dad gives her

a hearty hello. Grandpa compliments her on her outfit. It's like she's already a member of the family.

"She's a winner, isn't she?" Grandpa says to me as we all go down the hall toward the dining room. Grandpa-speak for she's

awesome.

"She's something," I say, staying diplomatic.

At dinner talk turns to the many social obligations Mom has committed me to.

"You're like a celebrity," says Gwendolyn, giving me that almost-smile again. "You really do need to let me do your hair for

the book party. My Christmas present to you."

"What a sweet offer," Mom says. "Gwendolyn is amazing."

I suddenly wonder if Gwendolyn did Mom's Christmas-stocking-red hair. If she did, what has she got against my mother?

Mom confirms it. "She did mine earlier this week. It'll fade, so we went extra strong so it will last through Christmas,"

Mom explains. "It will eventually turn pastel."

"Pastel," I repeat. So Mom's head can look like cotton candy.

"Although I already love it just as it is," Mom adds. Either my mom is lying diplomatically, or she needs to borrow my glasses.

"How about you come in tomorrow?" Gwendolyn suggests. "I can fit you in."

"I have to help Mom bake for the cookie exchange," I say.

"That won't take all day," Mom says.

Thank you, Mom.

"I can take you at one," Gwendolyn says.

"That would be great. Then you'll be all festive for Christmas," Mom says.

I picture myself at the bookstore event, my hair clown red like Mom's. "Oh, I don't think...," I begin.

"Go for it," says Sam. "She'll make you look great." He really believes it.

"Oh yes," puts in Gram.

Crap , I think. "I like my hair the color it is," I lie. Actually, I'd love to do something glam with my brown hair, but I don't

trust Gwendolyn to make it happen.

"You can trust me," she says.

"I'll think about it," I lie.

"She'll be there," says Mom.

***

Later, after we've all watched a Christmas movie and played Wii bowling (I lost), Gram and Grandpa have gone home and Sam

and Gwendolyn have disappeared to enjoy some time together. Now it's just me and Mom.

She brings up the subject of my hair. "I don't understand why you'd balk at doing something fun with your hair."

I love my mother, I really do. She's great. But like I said, she can get a little bossy. And sometimes she's clueless.

She's sure clueless about Gwendolyn, but that's my fault. I never shared about the high school bullying. Looking back, I wish

I had, but I'd been too embarrassed. My parents were so proud of my smarts. I hated for them to see the loser side of my life.

Mom, who'd always been popular in school, wouldn't have understood. When you like everyone and everyone likes you, you assume

it must be that way for your kids too. It was for Sam.

"I don't think right before I'm going to do so much public stuff is the time to experiment," I say.

"Darling, I think you'll look adorable with some flirty colors in your hair. It might be exactly the pick-me-up you need after..."

She pauses, looking for the right words. "After the disappointing year you've had."

Mom knows all about my breakup. I called her in tears, and she wrapped me in sympathy, told me what a fool David was not to

appreciate me. Told me how wonderful I am. Then offered to hire a hit man. Good ol' Mom. She also said, "Mistakes are the stepping-stones to happy endings. This puts you one more step closer to yours."

It was a great line. I'm going to use it in a book someday.

"Take a chance, darling," Mom continues.

"I don't know," I say.

"You never win if you don't enter the contest. You did that with pursuing the career you want. Why not take the same attitude

about the rest of your life?"

"That was different. I knew I could make it as a writer."

"You can make it as a lovely young woman too," Mom says gently. She lays a hand over mine. "I don't think you've ever looked

in the mirror and really seen yourself."

Right.

I give her a look. Really? I know I look better than I did when I was young, but I'm no Gwendolyn. Hmm. I should probably be thankful for that.

"You're like all of us women," Mom continues. "You see your flaws and stop there."

"Mom," I protest. I can feel a mother lecture coming on.

Mom may not have known about the bullying, but she knew about my insecurity. She knew about my Cheetos addiction, too, but

never guilted me over it. She did give me plenty of pep talks, though.

"One of these days you're going to see what we all see—a lovely woman with a smile like sunshine. You've worked hard to get

fit these last few years, so why not gild the lily a little?" she says now.

Gild the lily. Such a strange expression. What does that mean, really?

"Have some fun. It's the holidays."

"Mom, I don't want bright-red hair," I protest. "Sorry," I add. The last thing I want to do is diss my mom.

She laughs. "A few washings, and it will be just the color I want. And you don't have to go so wild. I do think Gwendolyn

wants to be friends. Why not give her a chance?"

"Who said I'm not giving her a chance?" I protest.

"Your body language at dinner," says Mom. "I take it you two have a past."

I shrug. I'm sure not spilling the tea now, not after all these years.

"You're both grown-ups now," Mom says.

I think she's going to say more, but she leaves it at that.

Which is worse than her saying more because I feel small, like maybe I'm not being fair to Gwendolyn. Maybe I'm letting my

imagination take control and reading too much into her words and actions.

Maybe it would be fun to do a little something to my hair for the holidays. Get wild, get glamorous. Start living the life

I always imagined successful writers live. Do I want to write about life, or do I want to experience it?

Oh, what the heck. Why not?

"Okay, I'll go," I say.

***

Once I'm in bed, I nibble on my candy bar, then pull out the journal Ramona gave me and write my first entry. Every heroine faces challenges, both big and small. That's great in fiction, but who wants it in real life?

Oh well. What doesn't kill me...

I close the journal, shut my eyes, and dream of myself walking next door into the Davieses' house, sleek and elegant with

lavender highlights in my hair, which is twisted in a chignon. I'm wearing that famous black cocktail dress you always see

Audrey Hepburn wearing in those old movie posters. No cigarette, though!

Anyway, there I am, strolling into the Davieses' house. There's mistletoe hanging in the archway to the living room. I pause

for a moment to take in the chatting crowd. Christmas music is playing softly in the background.

And here comes Carwyn, wearing a tux. Oh, good grief, he is so droolworthy.

And he's staring at me as if he's seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time. "Hailey," he says breathlessly. "You look amazing. And what have you done to your hair? It's awesome."

"Just a little something for the holidays," I reply.

"We've missed you," he says.

"Have you?" I raise an eyebrow. I am so sophisticated.

" I've missed you," he says. His eyes are burning me. He lowers his voice. "Remember all those years ago when I kissed you under

the mistletoe?"

I shrug. "I've been under a lot of mistletoe since then."

"And broken a lot of hearts, I bet." He takes a step closer. "I've never forgotten."

"We were just kids," I say.

"We're not now," he says and slips an arm around my waist.

I wake up before he can kiss me. Nooooo .

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to get back into a dream state. Come on, subconscious, be a sport. Let me at least have Carwyn in my dreams.

My subconscious is a tease. She refuses.

I wake up the next morning feeling like I've been hit in the head by the Grinch. It takes two cups of coffee and an extra

helping of pancakes to make me feel better.

And that's only momentary. The feel-better ends when Mom says, "I left a message at the salon for Gwendolyn, so you're good

to go." She smiles. "You'll look fabulous."

My mother is a force of nature, a sweet, well-meaning force. I remind myself that I'd already made up my mind. I'm going to

do this.

Not just to make Mom happy, I realize, but because maybe it's time I took more chances. I'll be taking a big one on Gwendolyn, but like Mom said, we're all grown-ups now. And besides, Gwendolyn wants to win points with Sam. Of course she's not going to sabotage me.

But to be sure, I'm going to make it very clear that I want something super subtle. No clown-wig red.

I help Mom with kitchen cleanup, then catch up on my social media. I text Ramona.

Hailey: Bro's girlfriend is coloring my hair. Pray for me!

I get back a shocked face emoji.

Hailey: I know. Then there's the cookie exchange. Temptation!

Ramona: You can resist.

Hailey: And all the other stuff.

Ramona: You'll be fine. Stay strong and have fun!!!

Hailey: I will, I vow.

I'm going to have fun this whole visit, I decide. I will juice up my hair, I will be a rock star at the school, and I will

proudly read from my book at the big book party and not feel even remotely self-conscious. Because I am smart, I am strong,

and I can conquer any situation.

***

Okay, how am I supposed to conquer this situation?

I stare at my reflection. My hair is a startling shade of green. I am supposed to do a book signing looking like Daughter of Grinch? Even worse, go speak to high school kids looking like this?

Gwendolyn is standing behind me, smiling a Stinkerbell smile. Someone needs to sic Krampus on her.

"What do you think?" she asks, as if she can't tell from my horrified gawking.

My reflection has narrowed eyes and looks ready to hurt someone. "I think you did this on purpose."

Gwendolyn's fake smile vanishes, and she frowns at me. "I did not. I can't help it if your hair is extra porous."

"Aren't you supposed to know about things like that? Aren't you supposed to do a test first?" I demand. "And my scalp is itching

like crazy."

She gives a snort. "You're allergic to looking good."

"I'm allergic to looking like a traffic light!" Okay, I'm getting a little loud, and everyone in Hair Today is staring at

me. Or maybe they're staring at my hair. I lower my voice. "It was supposed to be pastel. You've got to fix this. Bleach it

out or something."

"I can't. It will damage your hair. Anyway, a couple of washings, and it will be perfect," she insists. "Sheesh, you're so

ungrateful."

I yank off the plastic cape, grab my purse, and head for the door. It's a good thing I'm not paying for this. Oh, wait. I

am. I'm paying with a ton of humiliation.

"See if I ever do your hair again," she calls after me.

See if I ever let you . I don't say it. Trying to be mature here.

"It will look good eventually," says the receptionist as I march past her.

Sometime before death would be nice. I don't say a word as I push open the door.

I am so wishing I'd worn a hat as I leave the salon. What if I run into someone I know?

What if? There is no what-if. Of course I'll run into someone I know. This is a small town and I grew up here. Hopefully, whoever sees me will be someone I barely know.

It's snowing, and our little downtown looks like it should be inside a snow globe. All the shops have fir swags across the

top of their windows and wreaths on the doors. The last of the late afternoon light is dimming, and the streetlamps, all wrapped

in red plastic ribbon, have come on. So have the twinkle lights in all the trees along Main Street. A big banner that says

Happy Holidays is strung across the street. For a moment I'm caught up in the charm as I walk toward my car.

Until I see... oh no. Please. Anyone but him.