Free Safe With Me by Amy Hatvany Page A

her books, that she simply won’t be able to survive? Having put her daughter’s belongings into storageis keeping Hannah alive; having them around her might end her.
    “Are you sure?” her mother continues. “I was watching Dr. Phil the other day—”
    “Oh my god. Dr. Phil . . . really?” Hannah says. Besides baking and working in the garden, her mother’s favorite pastime is armchair psychiatry, trained only by afternoon talk-show hosts.
    “But, honey—”
    “Enough, Mom, okay? Can we please just enjoy the day? It’s important to me.”
    “Marcy,” her father says again. He reaches over the seat, squeezes his wife’s shoulder, and she finally falls silent.
    Fifteen minutes later, as Hannah parks in front of the salon, her mother leans forward to peer out the windshield. “Is that it?”
    “Yep,” Hannah replies as they extricate themselves from the car and approach the garden gate. She finished the landscaping just yesterday, shoveling wheelbarrows full of smooth river stones into the empty spots of the flower beds, thinking about how Emily, at seven or eight, used to sit in their driveway and put together small, ragged towers out of rocks: Yard Henge, Hannah jokingly called them. “Structural engineer in the making,” Isaac said proudly, when Hannah emailed him pictures of his niece’s handiwork.
    It’s a mallet to her stomach, every time, realizing that Emily is no longer anything in the making. All of her daughter’s dreams have vanished. She won’t be a large animal vet or a Broadway star. She won’t be an artist or a lawyer or a hip-hop dancer. She’ll never have her first kiss. Hannah won’t help Emily getready for the prom, she won’t take her shopping for a wedding dress, or one day cuddle a grandbaby. What was a future filled with infinite possibility seems hopeless to Hannah now. There are moments when taking her next breath feels like a pointless endeavor.
    As Hannah and her parents make their way to the front steps, she notices that while she was gone, the caterers set up two round tables on the flagstone patio and the florist arranged the centerpieces. Small gatherings of chairs were placed in what will be shaded spots in the yard, so people can chat while they help themselves to the appetizers. “It’s beautiful, honey,” her mother says. “I can’t believe how much work you’ve done since the last set of pictures you emailed us.” She is trying, at least, to make up for her comments in the car.
    “Thanks,” Hannah says. “The contractor Isaac recommended did a really amazing job. Let me show you inside.” She opens the front door only to find Sophie in the middle of berating one of the employees Hannah hired to work at this location.
    “You will not wear that disgusting nose ring during this party,” Sophie says to Veronica, a younger stylist with Crayola-red-hued short hair and pale, porcelain skin. Hannah interviewed her a few weeks ago, and Veronica’s portfolio of the color work she’d done was stunning enough for Hannah to hire her on the spot. Today, Veronica wears black leggings and a fitted white blouse. She also has a small gold hoop hanging from the center of her nose, above her upper lip. Sophie, as usual, is dressed in her signature snug black T-shirt and jeans.
    Veronica opens her mouth, but Sophie holds up her hand to stop her. “Uh-uh-uh, chérie . I don’t want to hear it. I don’tcare what you did at your other salon—here you will look clean and professional. You will not wear jewelry that makes you look like a bull . This is Bellevue, not the University District or the circus . We do not cater to the steam-punk, liberty-spiked crowd here. Am I making myself understood?”
    Veronica nods, as does Peter, the other stylist Hannah hired, looking a little afraid of Sophie, and then they head toward the back room to finish filling the small gift bags with salted caramels, various hair products and accessories, and coupons for services at both