Free Not Your Everyday Housewife by Mary Campisi Page A

colors together. “Yes, I’m well aware of the sad state of my hair.” She glared at Derry. “I need to have it fixed.”
    “Marcus at Franco’s Salon can fix it. He’s the best. I’ll give him a call, tell him you’re coming.”
    “Uh”—Shea scanned Tula Rae’s frizzy gray braid—“thank you.”
    “De nada.” Tula Rae laughed. “That slipped out. My second husband was from Tijuana. Fredo Lay couldn’t speak a word of English when I met him. Nada.” She laughed again. “Rooms are upstairs. I’ll call Marcus for you.” She pointed to Shea. “And then I’ve got to run. My kickboxing class starts in fifteen minutes.”
    “You take kickboxing?” Shea stared hard at the woman. She must be sixty-eight, maybe seventy.
    “No, I teach kickboxing.”
    An hour later, Shea was still thinking about Tula Rae as she wandered down Main Street, notepaper in hand with Franco’s Salon written in Tula Rae’s chicken scratch.
    If Marcus cut and styled that woman’s hair—which looked like it belonged to a frizzy Granny Clampet without the bun—what would he do to hers? Maybe giving Derry a second chance wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Or not.
    Richard, why did you do this to me? How could you? If it weren’t for him she wouldn’t be wandering around this odd-named town looking for a hair stylist named Marcus, who was going to do God knew what with her hair. Hopefully, he’d be gay, then he’d know what he was doing. Gay men had a sense of style. Please, be gay.
    “May I help you?” A startling young woman dressed in a silver blouse and black tuxedo pants painted to her thin thighs, approached Shea.
    “I’m here to see Marcus.”
    The young woman raised a perfectly arched black brow. “I’m sorry but he only takes clients by appointment. If you’d like to book something,”—she flipped through several pages of appointment book—“his first opening is six weeks from Tuesday.”
    “No.” Shea started to shake her head but stopped when she remembered the red and black lattice work from Derry’s efforts. “I thought Tula Rae was supposed to call.”
    “Oh! Why didn’t you say Tula Rae sent you?” The young woman’s smile sparkled apologies. “Can I get you any coffee? Tea? Bottled water?”
    “No, thank you, I’ll just wait.”
    Shea sat on a sea foam leather chair facing the salon. There were three men and three woman cutting, coloring, and blow drying. She honed in on the men. Which one was Marcus? The first man stood about a head taller than Shea; lean, well-built with black curls glistening on the top of his head. His jaw was unshaven, his eyes a rich cinnamon, and he wore a leather wrist band, two silver rings, and a silver medallion around his neck. He could be Marcus. The second man was taller, broad and muscular with tattoos scaling his right arm, weaving curls of ink beneath his Under Armour shirt. Shea heard someone call him Rick. Her gaze settled on the third man as he leaned forward, fingers easing through his female client’s hair in a slow scalp massage. It was hard to tell his height, but Shea guessed just under six feet. He was well-built, too, in a black T-shirt, tight jeans, and clogs. She spotted a single tattoo on his right forearm, but couldn’t make out the design. His black hair was spiked and gelled, his skin tanned, his ears pierced with silver hoops.
    When he lifted his head, Shea knew he must be Marcus. His cheekbones were high and well-sculpted, his lips full, and he had the most brilliant blue eyes she’d ever seen. It was Marcus all right. No straight man could be so beautiful.
    Shea leaned back and sighed. If that’s Marcus, I have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all…
    “Shea Donovan?”
    She jerked her eyes open. Mr. Gorgeous with the blue eyes stood before her. Thank God. She smiled, and said, “Thank you so much for seeing me. Marcus, isn’t it?” She extended a hand and he took it in his own warm, callous-free hands.
    “I’m Marcus Orelean.