The next morning Georgia called Le Nail Spa for an appointment.
“Le Nail Spa. Hello?” The voice on the phone stretched the word into three syllables.
“Good morning. I came in yesterday to look around. Are you the woman who I talked to?”
“Yah. I remember. You want appointment?”
“I would. I’d like the lady who had on the long skirt.”
“She only work ’til two.”
“I can come in at one. What is her name?”
“Zoya.”
Of course.
At twelve thirty Georgia drove to the salon and parked in back. She considered how to play it. She had to be subtle, work around the edges. She didn’t want to raise any alarms. But she wanted to see if the woman would bite.
Inside were the same women in the same smocks in the same spots, as if they were part of a frozen tableau. Georgia grabbed some coffee and headed to the alcove. Zoya, wearing the same red lipstick, painted eyebrows, and implacable expression, sat behind a manicure table. Today, though, instead of a long skirt, she wore a multicolored caftan with a turban on her head.
Georgia smiled.
Zoya returned a cool nod.
“Thank you for taking me.”
“How you know to ask for me?” she asked, a trace of suspicion on her face. Her voice was as low-pitched as a man’s.
“It’s clear you are an important person—you have your own room. I figured why not start at the top?”
Zoya straightened, as if Georgia was paying homage and she was acknowledging it.
“Sit.” Her voice was gruff, like sandpaper.
Georgia sat. For an awkward moment, nothing happened. Then she realized Zoya was waiting for her. She placed her hands on the manicure table. Zoya took one, then the other in her hands, turned them over, and inspected them. Then she sniffed. “Not good. You bite.”
Georgia gave her an embarrassed shrug. “I get nervous.”
“You grown woman. Not be nervous. You stop.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
Zoya flashed her an indifferent look. “You choose color.” She motioned to a shelf behind her full of nail polish.
“Um…maybe a pale pink.” She wondered if Jimmy would notice. It occurred to her he hadn’t called. Today was Wednesday. Wasn’t he supposed to come down today?
Zoya got up, turned around, rummaged on the shelf. She selected three bottles, all different shades of pink, and set them down. “’Which one?”
Georgia picked up Pink Taffeta. Zoya got up, went to a sink, filled a bowl with water, and squirted dishwashing liquid in it. Then she brought it back to the table, sat down, and nodded for Georgia to dip her fingers in.
While her nails were soaking, Zoya examined Georgia’s left hand. “You not married?”
Crap. She’d forgotten to wear the band she kept at home for exactly this purpose. “Oh no…I mean, yes, I am married. I took the ring off because I was coming here. You know, I didn’t want…”
“I see no ring.”
For a moment Georgia was puzzled. Then she realized Zoya meant the impression of the ring on her bare finger. “It’s always been a little big,” she said sheepishly. “I keep meaning to have it sized, but…” She let her voice trail off.
A cell phone buzzed. Zoya’s expression didn’t change, but she stood. “You stay. I back.” She grabbed a bag off the floor, pulled out a cell, and retreated into a small closet. She left the door open, and from her deferential tone and one-word responses, it sounded like she was receiving orders. Georgia wondered who was on the other end.
Five minutes later she came back. “Okay.” She gestured for Georgia to lift her fingers and took the bowl away. She dried Georgia’s hands with a small towel, inspected them again, and went to work with an emery board. There was practically no nail to file, but the sensation was pleasant, despite the sound of scratching. It was soothing to have someone care for her, even if it was just a manicure.
“You have kids?” Zoya asked, not looking up.
Georgia noticed a whisker on her chin. “No kids.”
Zoya looked up.
A good sign, Georgia thought.
“We’ve been trying, but so far no luck. Jimmy…my husband…would love it if we did, but…”
“You go doctor?”
“Over a year now. Fertility treatments. Pills. The works.”
Zoya nodded but kept her mouth shut. She put down the emery board and picked up an orange stick. She started pushing back the tiny cuticle on Georgia’s nails. “You really stop bite. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Georgia waited. Let her bring it up, she thought. Then I’ll know.
But the woman was quiet. She finished Georgia’s cuticles, picked up Pink Taffeta, and gave it a shake. Georgia deflated. She wasn’t going to get anything out of the woman. She’d resigned herself to failure when Zoya said,
“So you adopt, yes?”
Georgia jerked her head up. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t have baby, you adopt?”
Bingo.
Aloud she said, “We haven’t really thought about it. Yet. Do you think we should?”
Zoya shrugged. “Many people yes. Is gut. You have family.” She opened the nail polish and started in on Georgia’s left hand, all the while shaking her head, presumably at Georgia’s minuscule nails.
Georgia shook her head too. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Zoya looked up. “Sorry what about?”
“My nails.”
“Ahh.”
Georgia let some time go by. “My husband, well, I don’t know if he wants to adopt. He still thinks we can do it on our own.”
Zoya nodded. “And you?”
“Oh yes. In a heartbeat.” At Zoya’s bewildered expression, she explained. “I’d do it tomorrow if I could. If Jimmy”—she paused—“agreed.”
Zoya finished the first coat. “I do another coat one minute.”
Five minutes later, the second coat was done. Zoya snapped on a heat lamp and said, “You wait ’til dry.”
Georgia smiled. “Thank you.”
Zoya nodded. Then her expression changed. She actually looked engaged, as if she wanted to tell Georgia something.
“What?” Georgia prodded, making sure she was still smiling.
“You come back, tell Zoya when you ready for baby adopt.”
“Really? Do you know someplace?”
Zoya waved a dismissive hand, then smoothed her fingers down the side of her face. Georgia had the impression she was reticent to say more. “You come. We talk.”
“Thanks. What’s your last name?”
“Tunick.”
“Well, thanks, Mrs. Tunick. I’ll be back.”