off the slinky royal blue number and scrambled into her own clothes, rushing out of the store.
The memory almost made her jettison the plan, but she was beginning to think she had to do something instead of just feeling miserable.
She wasn’t sixteen anymore. So, okay, her idea of shopping was usually marching into the store and buying a new pair of the same pants she always bought. But she could browse.
Ann made one last face at herself in the mirror.
It wasn’t like she had a whole lot else to do on her days off.
“DO YOU USUALLY use bold colors, or soft ones?”
Ann sat on a tall stool at the cosmetics counter feeling as if she were at the dentist. The makeup consultant, or whatever she called herself, even reminded Ann of the dental technician who cleaned her teeth. Blond, perky, relentless.
“Uh… Surprise me,” she improvised. “I’m here because I want a change.”
“Oh, what fun!” chirped Britny.
Yeah, that was how her name was spelled, according to the tasteful tag she wore on her bright blue lapel. Ann had almost asked if someone had made a mistake, but decided poor Britny’s parents had just decided to be creative. Make her stand out from the crowd.
Preparing her tools, Britny assured Ann, “You were smart to come with your face bare. Most people don’t, and then we have to start by washing off the old makeup.”
Ann made a noncommittal sound and warily watched the hand approaching her face with pale goop on a cotton ball.
“You have fabulous skin!” Britny spread the cool liquid across Ann’s cheeks, chin, upper lip. Ann almost asked why she had to cover her skin, if it was so fabulous, but was afraid if she opened her mouth her tongue would get coated, too. “Alabaster is our palest shade of foundation. It’s blending in beautifully.”
She continued to chatter as she outlined Ann’s lips with a colored pencil—to “define them” she explained—then filled in with lipstick. “Your brows could use some shaping,” she suggested. “They have a lovely arch, but a more delicate line would bring out your eyes.” She tilted her head and studied Ann as if she were a half-done canvas. Nodding, she agreed with herself. “Definitely. Jeannie down at Salon Francine does a wonderful job. I know she takes drop-ins.”
Keeping her eyes open while that hand approached with a sharp implement was all Ann could do. Grimly she gripped the edge of the seat, stared straight ahead, and let Britny draw lines on her lids, then “accentuate” her lashes with mascara. Eye shadow was “blended” and blush applied to cheeks. At last, Britny caroled, “Let’s see how you like this look!”
She tilted a round mirror on the glass top of the counter until Ann could gape at herself.
“Ohmygod.”
Britny beamed.
Another doll stared back at her. One with huge, mysterious blue eyes, mysteriously enhanced cheekbones, a mouth that…well, almost was pouty.
It also felt stiff. In fact, she was afraid if she smiled or raised an eyebrow or drew her lips back from her teeth the facade would crack.
Britny was suggesting that if she liked the “look” she could buy all this stuff. Ann wasn’t sure she’d be able to apply it—heck, if she’d ever have the nerve to try—but she nodded.
“Sure,” she said, moving her lips a minimal amount. “Fine. Put together what you think I’ll need.”
Ann admitted to being low on eye makeup remover—who knew you needed it? she’d have just used soap—and half a dozen other things.
In a state of shock, she wrote a check for more than she’d spent on her entire wardrobe in the last year, then obediently presented herself at the salon, where Jeannie happened to have an opening.
Ann had seen that Mel Gibson movie where he waxed his legs, so she knew the procedure hurt. She didn’t know it would be excruciating until she strangled a scream, her body levitating from the chair.
“Goodness, you’ve let these grow out!” Jeannie chided.
By the time she was done, Ann’s eyelids and entire forehead were in flames. She moaned when Jeannie laid a cool compress over her forehead and told her to relax for a few minutes.
Once the raging pain had subsided to sharp throbs, Jeannie was kind enough to take the bag of makeup from Ann’s nerveless hand and deftly apply foundation to cover the inflamed skin.
“Perfect!” she declared, turning the salon chair so Ann could stare dully at the new her.
Wow. Half her eyebrows were gone. The puffy red skin where the other half had been couldn’t be totally disguised. The effect was…she didn’t know. Maybe good when she healed.
Having a vision of how she’d look when the stubborn hair roots recovered and sprouted stubble, Ann asked suspiciously, “How often do I have to do this?”
She barely refrained from a moan at the answer. She had to put herself through this every few weeks so she could feel feminine?
“The price of beauty…” she muttered.
Jeannie laughed merrily. “If you don’t let them go, it doesn’t hurt nearly as much.”
“Okay,” Ann vowed. “I won’t. I promise.”
When she stood, she swayed, and Jeannie had to grab her arm. “Are you all right?”
“Sure.” Ann gave her head a little shake. “I’m fine.” She gave blood on a regular basis with less trauma.
She paid, ditched the idea of clothes shopping, and walked almost steadily out to her car. There, she stared with amazement in the rearview mirror at the new her, started the engine, and drove home.
Maybe she’d take this campaign to redo her image a little slower. She could put off shopping until next week. Or even the week after. She had to get used to the new eyebrows first. Figure out how to use all that stuff she’d just wasted a week’s salary on. How to wash it off if you couldn’t use soap.
Baby steps, she decided. Nothing radical.
In her slot at the complex, she bowed her head and pretended to be hunting for something in her purse when the young couple who lived in 203 walked by, bickering. Ann wasn’t ready to be seen.
Her stomach knotted, and she stole another look at herself in the mirror. Oh, God. Everyone would notice, wouldn’t they?
What would she say if someone—Diaz, for example—commented? Would she tell him fliply that they’d needed pruning?
With a whimper, she locked her car and raced for the safety of her apartment, the expensive bag of tricks she wouldn’t have the courage to use clutched in her hand.
CHAPTER THREE
SOMETHING WAS DIFFERENT about her. Diaz just couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
Driving again today, he kept stealing glances. It seemed every time he did, Caldwell averted her face.
He felt like he had when his ex had started striking poses the minute he’d walked in the door from work, and he’d known she must have a new hairdo, clothes, something. And he was supposed to notice.
Only, Caldwell didn’t want him to notice.
“You’re staring,” she snapped.
“You’ve done something to your face.”
She looked directly at him for the first time, defiance in her tight mouth and the jut of her chin. “Yeah? So?”
“Your eyebrows.” At a stop sign, he studied them—her—more closely. “Where the hell did they go?”
The minute the words were out,