Free All That Was Happy by M.M. Wilshire

a Pierre Jourdan Brut, from South Africa--it’s got
the most bubbles of any champagne we’ve ever tried. Maybe it’ll
help you forget about the loss of your personal coupe for
awhile.”
    “ None for now,” Beckie said. “I’ve got
to keep a lid on the booze and maintain a clear head. Just to let
you know, I’m expecting a delivery from Nordy’s sometime while I’m
here--a personal shopper named Virginia is going to give me a hot
new look.”
    “ Be careful what you say,” Scotia said.
“If Vito hears you’re looking for something hot, he’ll really do a
number on you.”
    “ I’ll just have him do a light trim and
pull it back,” Beckie said.
    “ Let me give you a clue,” Scotia said.
“Vito doesn’t do light anything and he never pulls anything back.
Before he’ll even touch your hair, he has to get the vibes just
right. I once saw him throw the Lewinsky woman out of here when she
failed to tune in properly.”
    “ What do you mean?” Beckie said. “The
guy just cuts hair spontaneously? Is he some kind of birdbrain or
something?”
    “ Not exactly,” Scotia said. “Vito’s no
cowboy--he’s not going to rope you and run. Let’s just say he likes
to work in an atmosphere of spiritual spaciousness--one thing I
will say--you won’t leave here the same as you came in.”
    “ She’s right,” a soft, high male voice
behind her said. “I’m no cowboy. I don’t come in with guns blazing.
I prefer flowers to bullets.”
    Beckie turned to behold a tight, wiry man in
Reeboks and jeans, a lemon-silk jersey hanging loosely from his
shoulders. His smiling face was crowned with a cap of artfully
tussled, short, bleached curls.
    “ Welcome to Vito’s Of Beverly Hills,”
he said, extending his hand. “I’m Vito.”
    He shook hands in the European manner,
without force or pressure, allowing her to take the measure of his
fingers, which felt spring-loaded.
    “ What a cute little dog,” Vito said,
reaching into the bag and drawing out a struggling Mr. Boopers.
“Scotia, call somebody and have them deliver a taco or something
for him--we don’t want him getting hungry and biting one of the
guests. And put Mr. Fleas in the closet until the doggy goes
home.”
    Beckie felt a laugh billow up and she let it
out. “Mr. Fleas?” she said.
    “ Our cat,” Vito said. “Pure bluepoint.
He’s a terror. Last week he chewed the ear off a lady’s teacup
poodle. I’m taking no chances with your tiny friend. You’re
laughing. That’s good--it means we’re making progress. Earlier, I
was taking bets with Scotia that I could cheer you up, no matter
what your initial mood.”
    “ I’m up and down these days,” Beckie
admitted. “My moods aren’t something a respectable bookie would
take odds on.”
    “ We’re going to start you off with a
bath and shampoo,” Vito said. “After that a massage to relax you
before you and I meet in my cutting room and see what kind of fire
we can light under you about going for a new look.”
    “ I was telling Scotia I’d really just
like a trim.”
    “ Hair styles are like cars,” Vito said.
“You can drive a truck or you can drive a Maseratti--it’s up to
you. But I won’t send you out of here in a truck--if that’s your
choice, you’ll have to get that from the hair criminals at the
mall.”
    Beckie swallowed hard and looked away. “I’m
sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to offend--the truth is, I don’t
know who or what I am anymore. I’m going through a divorce and I
just started dating someone new, and tomorrow I’m meeting with my
husband’s lawyers--the truth is, I don’t really feel up to any of
this. If I had my way, I’d just go home and sleep.”
    “ You’re crossing paths with a little
bad luck,” Vito said. “But the right cut can give you the
edge.”
    “ I wish it were that simple,” Beckie
said.
    “ Sometimes it is,” Vito
said.
    “ You sound like an optimist,” Beckie
said.
    “ You’re depressed,” Vito said. “Now