I made a stop at the local library, tweaked my very short resume, printed out a couple dozen copies, and breathed a silent prayer to the employment gods.
At first, I drove around looking for help-wanted signs and open vacancies outside stores and boutiques. Working at Jerry & Sons was convenient because it was so close to home, but it was also a pain, because I knew every single one of my customers, and they all talked.
Now that Rob was home, I had more freedom to get a job a little farther out from Fairhope. He worked locally, his father’s office was down the street from Fairhope High.
If something happened, I could count on him to be there.
I dropped off a few resumes, and was about to drive to another buzzing part of town when something caught my eye: a billboard atop an ancient-looking building.
Do you love makeup?
Do you like dressing up?
How about becoming a STYLIST?
My answers were: yes, yes, and heck yes!
The idea of dressing people up, doing their makeup, telling them what they should do and wear was almost too good to be true. After all, I’d always used my appearance to convey something, even if it was often the wrong message.
I punched the telephone number into my phone and called. The nice lady on the other line said she’d send me a packet full of all the details. It was a six-month course, after which the company promised to help the top ten graduates find placements in the industry.
When I drove back home, my mood had improved significantly. Just for once, I allowed myself to dream about becoming something.
A personal stylist. A lady who talks fashion and garments with others. Who helps women find the best version of themselves to feel confident.
On my way back, I got a call from Rob. I picked it up, and for the first time since he came back to town, there wasn’t annoyance and trepidation in me as I answered.
“What’s up, Rob?”
“Nothing much. I finished work early and thought I’d take Bear out for dinner and maybe a few arcade games. Wanna join?”
“I have to go home and work on a little somethin’。” Namely, a financial plan for how I was going to pay for the stylist course. I knew Rob wanted to be there for me financially, but there was no way I was going to ask him for a loan for something that didn’t have anything to do with Bear. “But I think that’s a great idea.”
“Thank God, because that was me asking you in a roundabout way if I could spend time with our son for the evening.”
“And that’s me telling you in a direct fashion that you certainly can. Just make sure he is not exposed to alcohol, tobacco, or politics. I’ve done such a good job with him in your absence.”
He chuckled softly. “That, you did. Hey, Trinity and Wyatt dropped by my office today. They’re looking for a place.”
“Is that right?” I asked, finding myself almost unfazed by the way my sister hadn’t told me about it. It helped that I knew I’d done everything I could to keep our friendship tight. “How’s the market?”
“Booming.”
“So you think you can help them?”
“Not on their budget.”
“I thought Wyatt had a good job?” I frowned.
As far as I knew, senior engineers in Winston-Salem made bank.
“He does. He also has a crap-ton of debt after his first marriage. His ex bled him dry. And from what I was able to gather when I showed them an old colonial a little outside of Fairhope limits, your darling sister has somehow managed to blow all of her savings on her wedding.”
I winced. “See? There were pros to not getting married, I suppose.”
Rob laughed. “Honey lamb, you were worth the bankruptcy. I was just too stupid to realize it at the time.”
When I pulled up to the bungalow, I felt borderline optimistic. Sure, internally, my heart was still melting down in thermonuclear fashion just thinking about Cruz. But today smelled of possibilities （and too much flowery perfume. Some of the boutiques I applied to really needed to take it down a notch）。
It reminded me that things could and would be different. That I had the power to turn my life around. And even though my family was a pain, there was Rob, who seemed really helpful, and Bear, who was slowly coming out of his shell, finding his roots with his dad.
There was almost a spring to my step as I got out of my Honda Odyssey and made my way to the door.
But then a person stood up from the rickety rocking chair on my front porch.
My archnemesis, to be specific.
The woman I hated more than the Antichrist himself.
No, not Catherine Costello.