“You’re such a stick-in-the-mud, Sheila. Look at you.”
Sheila Landon stared at her reflection in the three-way mirror while her so-called best friend hurled insults one after the other. Not for the first time, Sheila wondered why she’d invited Tracy along on this shopping trip.
“That skirt makes you look like an 1890s scrubwoman,” Tracy proclaimed.
Sheila turned one way and then the other, assessing the ankle-length wraparound skirt. “You’re the one who said brown was in,” she said.
Tracy sighed. “Two years ago, Sheila. Brown was in for about four months two years ago. It’s a new millennium, a new day.”
“Well, I’m right on time for the retro look,” Sheila said with a wry smile.
“Besides, I just got a VCR and CD player, remember.”
The grunt Tracy emitted was so typical that Sheila grinned. Her lack of stylishness—style by Tracy’s definition—had been a point of dispute between them since the days they shared an apartment while in college.
“And you should be able to sell both of them at a yard sale for about forty bucks, seeing that the rest of the world is moving to DVD.”
“Cut me some slack, Trace. I’m on vacation,” Sheila said as she reached for a dove gray double-breasted suit. “Besides, I’m in banking, remember. I don’t have to look like a showpiece 24-7 like you real estate brokers. I just have to look honest and dependable.”
Tracy snatched the dull gray suit from Sheila’s hands, shoved it behind her back, and held high a chartreuse miniskirt with a matching bolero jacket.
Sheila’s eyebrows rose. “You have got to be kidding.”
“You have the legs and the figure. There are women who would kill to have your body, and you walk around looking for sackcloth to wear.”
“That’s because sackcloth is comfortable,” Sheila said with a pointed look at Tracy’s three-inch heels. On Tracy’s fashion meter her own sensible flats, suitable for extended shopping and walking, wouldn’t claim even a two on a scale of ten. Sheila unwrapped the brown skirt from her waist and handed it out to a hovering attendant.
Tracy’s pager went off. She glanced at it, then reached into her bag for her phone. “I need to answer this.”
Used to the real estate agent’s frequent calls and pages, Sheila turned her attention back to the selection of clothes. She’d mentally discarded more than half of them—all Tracy’s picks—without trying them on. With Tracy distracted on her call, Sheila retrieved the dove gray suit and held it against her body in front of the mirror. She had a meeting with the bank’s board of directors in a few weeks. The suit would be ideal.
Tracy caught her eye in the mirror and frowned as she shook her head.
Sheila stuck her tongue out at her friend.
A few minutes later, Tracy clicked off the line. “I have to go meet a client,” she said. “And I swear, Sheila. If you buy that dull suit, I’ll stop being your friend.”
“Promises, promises.”
Sheila shimmied into the skirt, its length a little short for banking, but not short enough to raise eyebrows in her conservative workplace. As a matter of fact, she decided after a moment, it was exactly what a vice-president-to-be might wear.
“Perfect,” she declared.
“Horrendous,” Tracy pronounced.
“Aren’t you going to be late for an appointment?”
With a quick glance at her watch, Tracy groaned. “Call me.”
Sheila waved her away. The attendant cleared her throat. “Is there anything else you’d like to see, Ms. Landon?”
Sheila peeked around the clerk’s shoulders, making sure Tracy was, indeed, gone and out of earshot. A moment later, satisfied that her friend had departed, Sheila turned back to the sales clerk.
“I saw a gold sheath dress as I came in. It had purple, or maybe red shimmering highlights in it. I’d like to see that.”
If the flamboyant choice from her staid customer surprised the saleswoman, she hid it well. With a demure “Yes, ma’am, I know the one,” the clerk disappeared.
Sheila grinned in the mirror.
Tracy thought she was a dull person with a dull job that matched her dull lifestyle. Unfortunately, Tracy was right on at least two of those points. But Sheila knew herself better than anyone else.
“And the freaks come out at night,” she said with a grin into the mirror.
Closing her eyes, she swayed to a tune playing in her head. For the next three weeks she was a free agent. She’d more than earned the comp time working eighteen-hour days the last six months on a multinational deal that would eventually earn her firm close to six billion dollars.
Some of her own six-figure bonus for her work on the project was already invested and earning fat dividends. The rest she’d earmarked for her pet project, the thing she most wanted to do these days. Sheila had come a long way in the world and took pride in her accomplishments. But the pace had been wearing on her lately.
She longed for extended time—not just a vacation or comp time—to enjoy the fruit of her labor. She’d met and exceeded all of the financial goals she’d set for herself. And she’d more than earned the vice presidency that was headed her way. But there was something she wanted even more than that coveted position with all its perks and benefits.
Not even Tracy knew about the calling Sheila yearned to answer. The time had never seemed right, the people not available or in place. But now … maybe she’d take part of her vacation and map out a business plan.
Before she could dwell on that, though, the sales clerk returned with the naughty dress. Sheila slipped it on and stared at her reflection in the mirror. It fit like a second skin, every curve a smooth line. She had just the right shoes for it, too.
“I’ll take it.”
She didn’t even glance at the small, discreet price tag.
* * *
“Are you sure about this?” LaTonya asked. “What you’re describing is a pretty drastic change.”
Sheila nodded. “I’ve been wearing a very long, curly wig every weekend for almost the past month getting myself ready for this. I’m sure.”
She didn’t add that she’d been sporting the look at Della’s Place for the last two weekends. The fewer people who recognized her, the better, Sheila figured.
Her plan to live wild and free for the next three weeks had been spawned by a comment she’d accidentally overheard at work. Two colleagues were describing her to a new employee.
“Landon. You know, she’s the one who banned the words fun and lighten up from her personal vocabulary. She wouldn’t know how to let her hair down if somebody gave her a million bucks to do it.”
Sheila had stopped in her tracks when she heard her name. Then, standing quietly just out of sight, she listened to her coworkers’ description of her. The rest had been highly complimentary of her business skills and her hunches about the market. Then one of them even pointed out that the reason she was on her way to a vice presidency was because she was so focused on the job.
But in the way of such things, Sheila honed in not on the positive, but on her so-called deficiencies.
“I know how to let my hair down,” she said.
“You sure do,” her stylist said in response. “This full weave is going to be a lot of hair you can let down or put up. And I mean a lot of hair,” she added.
“Good,” Sheila said. “That’s the way I want it.”
She settled into the chair while her stylist braided her natural hair, the first step toward the total transformation. Sheila’s plan was to spend her entire vacation letting her hair down, literally and figuratively. She’d go to clubs, parties, and hang out like the rest of the population. She wanted to catch up on the life she’d been missing while zipping along in the accelerated lane of the fast track.
In the office at Della’s House of Style, DJ Daryl Desmond was having a time of it trying to convince Della, the salon owner, to let him play some of his own music in the attached lounge, Della’s Place.
“I’m not talking about the whole night. Please come on, now. Help a brother out.”
Della Frazier leaned back in her chair to think about it. The lounge was the newest addition to the salon. So far, things had been going well, very well, thanks to word of mouth about the mellow jazz, easy food, and moderate prices. It had been her baby from the get-go and she wanted to make sure that it, like the salon, was a hit.
“Daryl, you’ve been doing a good job with the music, sticking to the playlist and making sure customers’ requests follow the mission. I just don’t know about introducing someone foreign so early in the game.”
“Foreign? I’ve been making my own music for three years now and playing it all over the city. Shoot, I’ve even been into D.C. and Philly. And my stuff fits the format for the lounge. It’s mellow, laid-back, like George Benson.”
“You don’t play the guitar,” Della pointed out.
Daryl sighed. “That was just an illustration, Della.”
“So, what, exactly do you have in mind?”
Daryl unbuttoned the jacket on his blue uniform as he loosened up to make his argument. “It’ll be sweet. I can play some smooth jazz, some old stuff, you know, Miles, Bird, and then segue into a Desmond tune or two.”
She smiled. Standing, Della went to the window that overlooked the salon floor. The lounge drew a clientele that capitalized on the success of the shop. Della wasn’t afraid to take risks, but she was afraid of Daryl messing with a good thing before its time.
“Let me think about it,” she told him.
He sighed. “Okay. That’s the least you can do.” He pulled a plastic case from the briefcase he carried. “While you’re thinking, listen to this. It’s my demo CD. I think you’ll like it. The work speaks for itself. It’s perfect for Della’s Place.”
He put the CD on her desk. “Promise you’ll listen to it?”
“I’ll listen,” she assured him.
Daryl glanced at his watch. “I better get a move on. My lunch break is almost over. I’m driving a double today, too.”
“And did you eat any lunch?”
He smiled. “No time to waste on food, Miss Della. I got places to go and people to meet in every free moment.” Closing his briefcase, Daryl looked at her. “I have a question for you about Della’s Place.”
“Um-hmm?”
“Do you know all of the customers who come in?”
“Not really. We’re drawing more than the salon’s regular customers,” she said. “And that’s the way I like it. Why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “There’s a woman who’s been in the last couple of weekends. I was just, you know, interested.” He shrugged again. “I thought you might have known her.”
Della smiled. “Another romance blooming here?”
Daryl grinned. “It’s not like that. I don’t even know her name. I was just curious, you know. Maybe she’ll come back Friday night. If she does, I’ll ask her.”
From the window, Della watched him make his way through the salon. He high-fived several of the customers. Daryl had been driving a city bus for almost eight years now. When he’d interviewed for the DJ job at Della’s he’d said he got a lot of inspiration for his music from the commuters and others who took public transportation.
“Just about everybody I’ve ever seen on a bus looks stressed out,” he’d said. “The music I make is meant to relax them. Help them unwind.”
Unwinding is exactly what Della wanted people to do at Della’s Place. The mix of smooth jazz, mellow tones, and professional clientele made the lounge the perfect after-work stop. And on the weekends, after the shop was closed, they got a different crowd.
She’d already made up her mind about his music. She wouldn’t have hired him if she hadn’t been familiar with it. Daryl was good. Really good.
“But the hunger has to be there,” Della said, one arm folded and a finger at her chin. Daryl Desmond wanted to go places. And Della hoped to assist him if she could. She’d do the same for any of her employees.
Back at her desk, she picked at the day’s mail. Bills, styling magazines, and … the letter she’d been waiting for! The return address was Los Angeles, but Della knew it had been sent from New York. She’d been approached about having a music video shot at the salon. A producer had seen a couple of the salon’s stylists at work at a hair show and tracked Della down. They’d talked and she’d said she would give it some thought. He’d promised to send the project outline.
“The fact that we get paid doesn’t hurt one bit, either,” she said with a smile.
Della tucked the letter in her purse to review at home. One of the shop’s assistant managers could stumble across it if she left it in the office. She didn’t want word about the video out yet, particularly since she hadn’t decided if it was a good thing to do.
“Although the publicity couldn’t hurt one bit,” she surmised. Particularly not with music videos played twenty-four hours on television. Daryl’s situation was another reason to go for it. She might be in a position to, as he put it, help a brother out.
She sorted through the rest of the mail, then spied something tucked in the middle.
“A postcard from Sweet!”
She pulled it from the stack and scanned the image of a tropical beach before reading the message:
Hawaii is beautiful. Having a fabulous time. Flew over a volcano in a helicopter yesterday. Elaine kept her eyes closed the entire time. (I did not!) Hope you’re having fun being boss.
Della chuckled at Elaine’s scribbled-in message. The postcard was signed “Sweet and Elaine.”
Louis Sweet wasted no time acting like a retiree. After marrying Elaine Webster, a salon customer he’d met and fallen in love with, the two started a honeymoon that was still going strong. Shortly after their wedding Sweet sold his hair and beauty salon, Rosie’s Curl and Weave, to Della, its manager and his longtime friend.
“Della, change the name,” he’d suggested. “Make it yours. Hell, you’ve run the place for years. It’s already yours.” Then he whisked his bride away for a year-long vacation that would take them all over the globe.
After thinking about it for a long time, Della did change the name of the salon. It wasn’t easy. The shop had been Rosie’s Curl and Weave for forever and she didn’t want to lose the cachet the name carried. It had, after all, taken Sweet years to build that reputation. She and her daughter, Chauncie, talked about it. Sweet and Elaine had even offered up a couple of suggestions. But the final decision was in Della’s hands.
Off and on throughout the years, she’d contemplated striking out on her own. But loyalty to Louis Sweet and a genuine love of Rosie’s had kept her in place. That dedication ended up paying off in a way she never would or could have imagined: She owned her own business.
Della Frazier was known for her sense of style and flair, so when she hit on the right name, it seemed as though it had always been there, just waiting for her to wake up and discover it: Della’s House of Style.
The Rosie’s moniker would always be associated with the shop, named for Sweet’s deceased first wife. But the new lounge was Della’s baby, and she christened it with the name Della’s Place. A picture of Sweet and Rosie hung in there, right next to one of Sweet and Elaine.
Della smiled as she looked at the palm trees on the postcard. “Sweet, you’re an angel.”
She propped the postcard on a pencil holder on the desk, then picked up the phone. Della planned to capitalize on the talents of the DJ who made the atmosphere in the lounge. First she wanted to order up some more fliers about the Lounge, then they’d have a party.
“A party is always good,” she said as she waited for the line to connect.
She’d decide later what it was they’d be celebrating.