Page 46 of Potion Sickness

“You’ve been spending too much time with Englebert.”

Gabe laughs. The bartender starts stacking chairs.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Gabe says.

“My car is right across the street.”

“Then I’ll walk you across the street,” he says, and he does.

CHAPTER 14

“You’re early,” Tiffany says, as soon as I walk through the door. “You’ve always been so early to everything. It stresses people out, Mari. It wrinkles the forehead.”

Tiffany’s family has been operating Shear Magic, the only hair salon in town, for decades. The walls are adorned with photos of generations of Duskboro women, and I recognize half of the faces, including, in the back row of a 1987 Maple Festival Committee group shot, my own mother, with a rather unflattering perm. I can’t help but giggle — I’ve never seen my mother look so… unkempt.

“What?” Tiffany asks.

“Oh, nothing,” I say. “The eighties perms are just funny.”

“Truly,” Tiffany says, snapping a cape around my neck. “What a shame that your hair just naturally does that.”

She lifts a section of my hair, holds it up to the light, and lets it drop.

“When was your last professional cut?”

“Recently.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Within the last decade.”

“Sit,” she says, and points at the chair with a comb.

She works fast. She doesn’t ask me what I want done, and I don’t offer, because we both understand that’s not what this appointment is about. She talks the whole time, and I let her, because Hannah was right. This is where Tiffany holds court, and this court moves swiftly through its docket.

The Mayor asked whether Duncan’s robes could be dry-cleaned as a municipal expense, she tells me. Ms. Pelham’s wig now attaches to her head with enough wire to receive radio. A woman from ‘way out in New Hampshire’ called the salon asking whether Tiffany could get her tickets to the show, as if Shear Magic was the box office.

“And Vivian and Dana came in separate cars yesterday,” she says, folding a foil with a little flick. “Can you believe it? Twelve years of marriage and they’re driving to the same place in two different vehicles. That article did its damage, and whoever fed it to that website should be ashamed.” She catches my eye in the mirror. “I mean it. You should print that.”

“I’m not sure it’ll fit.”

“Oh,” she says. “Did you hear about your cousin?”

“What about her?”

“Someone — I won’t say who, I protect my sources, I’m sure you respect that — someone saw her yesterday night at that farm-restaurant place over in Wilmington. In a corner booth. They couldn’t see who she was with. But she was laughing.”

“And?”

“Well, inquiring minds want to know. Who’s the man?”

“I have no idea,” I say. “I don’t keep track of her schedule. And who says there’s a man?”

“There’s always a man.” She points the brush at my reflection. “Nobody drives to Wilmington for the food. You drive to Wilmington so nobody watches you eat it.”

I decide that I won’t mention this to Pru, for the sake of her sanity, and when I fail to provide any good intel, Tiffany moves on to rumors about the Harvest Festival. It takes her until the last foil to get to where we both know this is going.

“So,” she says. “Any news about Damien?”