People magazine, on Eileen Rendahl's Un-Bridaled
"Rendahl's characters are like the friends you wish you had."
Cara Lockwood, USA Today bestselling author of I Do (But I Don't)
Rumor has it...
...that the Zimmerman twins, Ginger and Cinnamon, are the hot hair-stylists in Santa Bonita. Their Do It Up salon has been swamped ever since hometown-Hollywood-star Courtney Day had her wedding hair done there. Now the sisters know every secret of every bride-to-be that crosses their threshold: does she or doesn't she,/i>/b>/b>
Rumor has it...
...that the Zimmerman twins, Ginger and Cinnamon, are the hot hair-stylists in Santa Bonita. Their Do It Up salon has been swamped ever since hometown-Hollywood-star Courtney Day had her wedding hair done there. Now the sisters know every secret of every bride-to-be that crosses their threshold: does she or doesn't she, will she or won't she, how often, and with whom?
What happens at Do It Up stays at Do It Up until Craig Esposito strolls into the salon with the latest wedding party. Cinnamon's dazed reaction suggests there's something only she knows about this handsome cousin to the groom making Ginger wonder if he's the mystery father of Cinnamon's young daughter (which should kill her attraction to him, but doesn't). Now the sisters' own secrets are the subject of small-town gossip...and Ginger is about to tease out some surprising truths about her family, her town and herself.
"Rendahl's characters are like the friends you wish you had."
Cara Lockwood, USA Today bestselling author of I Do (But I Don't)
February 8, 2006
If it wasn't the wedding of the decade, it most certainly was the wedding of the year. Courtney Day and Brett Sedd vowed to love and cherish each other in front of a crowd so beautiful, it would have made Michelangelo weep. No one (except maybe the groom) was more beautiful, however, than the bride, who returned to her hometown of Santa Bonita, California, to have her hair done by her high school chums Cinnamon and Ginger Zimmerman at Do It Up for the lavish beachfront ceremony complete with fireworks.
Cinnamon's rune card for the day was Haegl, the Dark Goddess, the goddess of chaos and creativity.
"I don't understand," Cinnamon said, waving the card at me as she packed Sage's things up for a day at Grandma Rosemary's. We were thrilled to get the wedding business, but it did mean finding somebody to babysit Cinnamon's seven-year-old daughter, Sage. Keeping her at the salon didn't work. The last time we'd tried that, Sage had burned herself on a curling iron, spilled a soda all over the counter that almost hit the bride's veil, and generally pestered Cinnamon until I was afraid Cinn was going to duct-tape her daughter to a wall. Wouldn't that have given everyone something new to talk about? We could maybe even have made the Santa Bonita Daily Mail with that one.
"Courtney's a blonde. A white-blonde even. You can't be blonder than her without having no pigment in your hair at all," Cinnamon said, continuing to fret about her rune card. I wondered if I could duct-tape Cinn to a wall. But then, who would do Courtney's hair? I knew Cinn had something in mind already, probably something I wouldn't be able to pull off. And when an honest-to-goodness movie star is getting her hair done for her wedding at your salon, you want your A team playing. "She's even a real blonde, unless she started dying her hair in second grade, which I sincerely doubt. So this doesn't make sense. Why would I get the dark goddess?"
I resisted the urge to tell Cinn exactly what the odds were that she would eventually pick the goddess of chaos and creativity from the deck of twenty-five cards. I had taken statistics last semester and was pretty sure I could calculate that one in my head (four percent, if you'd like to know). I also wanted to tell her that because random chance dropped the goddess of chaos and creativity into our lives on that day didn't mean that anything chaotic or creative was going to happen. Or that the chances of the card she'd randomly picked having anything to do with what our day held were about as good as the chances of the alignment of the stars on the day we were born determining our personalities. Unfortunately, it wouldn't have worked. Cinn loves astrology almost as much as she loves runes.
I was pretty sure that the gravitational pull of Calista Flockhart probably had more impact on my birth than the stars Cinnamon consulted so regularly. My sister, however, doesn't allow facts to dissuade her from her favorite theories, and especially not from New Age-y belief systems, which she mixes and matches like a kid with a new wardrobe full of Underoos.
We were born all of seven minutes apart, and looks-wise we are peas in a pod. Personality-wise? We could get into a "tastes great/less filling" debate at the drop of a hat, but then we'd just be one more set of twins in a beer commercial, and I really don't think the universe needs any more of that.
"I'm sure it will all be clear by the end of the day," I said, and gave the screen door a little kick at the bottom so it would unstick. We all headed for the Mustang; I crossed my fingers that she'd start. That kind of chaos I did not need.
I twitched back the curtain of the shop and was nearly blinded by the flashes. "Geez, Courtney, I think every photographer in California might be out there."
Courtney giggled. It was good to know she still did that. It was less good to know that she also still tried to bum cigarettes, borrow jewelry, and cadge free snacks. "Isn't it great, Ginger?"
I tried to peer through the slit in the curtains without actually moving them and saw a sea of camera lenses trained unerringly on Do It Up. "I guess. If that's what you want." Having my every move recorded did not exactly sound like a good time to me, but then again, I wasn't trying to climb the ranks in Hollywood, and I have spent way too much time being the object of gossip here in Santa Bonita to make it sound like a good idea ever.
"It's not a matter of want or not want, Ginger," Courtney said from my sister's chair, her face a perky little ball on top of the purple cape Cinnamon had draped around her. "It's a matter of survival. This wedding will put Brett and me on the cover of every magazine in every grocery store for the next month, which means I'll be in front of every director and producer casting a movie. I'm getting tired of the sitcom schedule. Plus, don't you think half the girls we went to high school with are eating their hearts out?"
"No," Cinnamon said from behind Courtney as she slid Courtney's hair off her curling iron, using a comb so as not to damage the ringlet. "They all are. Every single one of them."
They could have gotten married anywhere. Hawaii. Greece. The Taj Mahal. Someplace where the morning mist would be guaranteed to burn off so no one's hair would frizz. Instead, they were getting married in Santa Bonita and everyone in town knew. Hell, everybody in the country knew, except possibly those who chose to live in caves.
Talk about getting the best revenge. After high school graduation, Courtney had left for Los Angeles as little more than the Santa Bonita version of trailer trash, and she was coming back the closest thing that America had to a princess without becoming a Kennedy, which as we all know can be detrimental to your health.
Her star had risen fast. First there'd been a toothpaste ad with her happy-go-lucky California-girl grin splashed on billboards all over the country. Then there'd been a guest appearance on E.R. as a bipolar college student whose blonde gamine looks captured the heart of Dr. Barnett. After that, there'd been an appearance on one of the Law & Orders as a rape victim whose pluck and courage helped the detectives catch her assailant. It seemed like those had barely aired when she got her big break: the part of Brandy, the feisty law-student-cum-cocktail-waitress on Bar None, the Cheers-meets-The Paper Chase sitcom that had been number one in the country three seasons in a row now.
Since then, there'd been a few movies, too. A clever indie to give her some street cred and a romantic comedy to test her box-office draw. But her biggest role to date was the fiancée of Brett Sedd, the pouty-lipped blond superstar whose name could make a thousand adolescent girls (and a few well past adolescence) swoon.
Having the wedding here was absolutely the perfect revenge on all the snotty rich girls who had gotten places on the pep squad instead of Courtney, despite the fact that she could jump higher and cheer louder, and on all the snotty rich boys who had wanted to spend time with her behind the stadium after the game, but hadn't wanted to take her to the Santa Bonita Country Club for the big winter dance.
Courtney could have had her hair done anywhere, or flown someone in. Instead, she was having her hair done right here at Do It Up, the shop Cinnamon and I own. I guess she felt partial to us. I had to admit, it was satisfying to play even a tiny role in serving up Courtney's sweet, cold dish of vengeance. It's not like Cinnamon and I went to the country club winter dance, either. After all, we're "those girls."
It's actually very unfair that we have slutty reputations. We are not slutty. If you start with Grandma, most of us are the exact opposite of slutty. It seems that Zimmerman women give their hearts once and only once. We just don't seem to give them to the right men.
Oh, and we seem to get knocked up as well. So far, I'm the exception to the rule.
Courtney settled back into the chair with a satisfied smile on her face. I tried to peer through the curtains without twitching them. Apparently, the photographers had seen that trick before and I once again received the supernova blast in my face. "I dunno, Courtney. I think I might get sick of having people watch every damn thing I do."
She shrugged. "There are ways to make sure they see what you want them to see and don't see so much of the other stuff. It's not so different from living here."
She had that right. Sometimes I felt like if I farted in the bathtub, they'd be discussing it over at Café Ole! before the bubble popped. Still, there were ways to keep a few secrets if you really tried. Cinnamon and I had certainly been privy to more than a few. "And you wanted them to see you ducking in here to get your hair done?"
"No. You wanted them to see me ducking in here to get my hair done. I'd be willing to bet you guys end up with more business than you can shake a curling iron at, after this." Courtney cocked her head, but Cinnamon straightened it back out immediately.
"It's true, Ginger," Cinnamon said. She'd seemed so absorbed in Courtney's hair that I hadn't realized she was still listening. Cinn often goes into almost a trancelike state when creating a particularly intricate updo, and Courtney's hair was nothing if not intricate. "This is great publicity for us."
I knew they were right. I wasn't sure it was going to translate into us making more money, but I hoped it would generate at least enough to replace all that grass that was getting trampled in front of the salon.
After Cinnamon finished Courtney's hair, she moved on to her entourage: her co-star from Bar None who played the downtrodden single-mother waitress, and another young up-and-coming actress who had played the quirky small-town girl slowly losing her mind while working at a fast-food drive-through in the indie movie Courtney had done. They were both pretty, but not nearly as pretty as Courtney, especially not after Cinnamon had created the deceptively simple, sweet, and romantic confection of hair on top of Courtney's head.
I'd always related to the single-mom character on Bar None, since I basically became a single mom along with Cinnamon. I was the birth coach and I was the first person to hold Sage. I changed a heck of a lot of diapers and I took care of Sage for as many hours as Cinnamon did during the year and a half we were getting our cosmetology degrees. Let's not even start on the nights I stayed up watching old movies on AMC for the months (and months and months) Sage had colic.
So I really liked the spunky, strong, down-to-earth single mom in Courtney's sitcom. She was my kind of gal. Now, I know that the people on the TV screen are not necessarily real. I know that their dialogue has been written by other people and that they're being played by actors, but after allowing them into my living room week after week, I feel like I know them.
So, suffice it to say, when Miss Co-star sneezed, blew her nose in the tissue that Cinnamon handed her, and then while looking me right in the eye dropped the tissue on the floor, a major bubble burst.
Miss Indie Movie, whose nails I was doing at that moment, didn't even blink. "I hear Janelle Richards had some new work done," she said.
I love Janelle Richards! I love that movie where she plays the spunky reporter who has to solve the big mystery before she's killed by the evil corporation's lackeys, and the one where she plays the plucky law student who has to solve the big mystery before she's killed by the evil corporation's lackeys, and the one where she plays the gutsy legal secretary who has to solve the big mystery before she's killed by the evil corporation's lackeys. She's great. She's also so gorgeous that I knew better than to think everything about her was untouched and natural but I didn't want to think she was completely a surgical creation.
"Oooh! What'd she have done? You know whatever she does, we're all going to end up getting done in the next six months. She is such a trendsetter," Courtney said, putting her hands under the nail dryer.
"I heard she had her cootch tightened," Indie said. "Apparently those twins she had stretched it all out down there. I've heard it was unsightly."
I froze and prayed that I had misheard, misunderstood, or mis-somethinged. It was bad enough to worry about my nose and my chin and my boobs and my butt. Did I actually have to worry that my, uh, you know, wasn't up to snuff either?
"Seriously? They can do that?" Miss Co-star Snot Rag asked. She twirled her chair around to look at Miss Indie Movie, causing Cinnamon to trot in a little circle to keep from pulling her hair.
Miss Indie nodded. "They use lasers."
Courtney and Miss Co-star nodded, serious expressions on both their faces. "Laser," they repeated. Then Co-star twirled back, with Cinnamon trotting behind her.
I started on Miss Indie Movie's toes. She pulled a candy bar out of her bag, took a big bite, chewed it, and before she swallowed, spit it out in a tissue, which she big surprise here dropped on the floor for someone else (me) to pick up. "New diet," she said. "I can eat anything I want as long as I don't swallow."
I really don't get people from L.A.
I heard the sound of footsteps outside the salon door and raced over to make sure it was still locked. The photographers were pushier than twenty-year-olds at a Bridal Barn blowout, and several of them had already tried to barge in. I squinted my eyes to protect them from the explosion of flashes that was sure to come when I peeked to see who was knocking. I was not disappointed. I wondered if I should wear sunglasses the next time. But the figure at the door came between me and the flashes, and there weren't many men in Santa Bonita who could block out a blinding light like that. I turned the lock and let the local law enforcement in.
"Troy!" Courtney squealed, jumping out of the chair and flinging herself at one of Santa Bonita's finest, who also happened to be Courtney's old high school flame, Troy Patu.
"Hey, Cor," he said, his voice a deep, soft rumble in his wide chest. "How's it goin'?"
"Seriously could not be better," Courtney said, flashing her patented toothpaste-commercial grin, the very one that had appeared in enough magazines to deforest small portions of Oregon.
"You want me to move those guys on the lawn farther back? They buggin' you?" Troy looked down at Courtney with his I-am-the-law scowl.
Courtney cracked up. I have to admit, it's kind of hard not to crack up when Troy acts like Mr. Tough Guy Law Man. Not that he wasn't always a hard-ass. Six foot five inch Samoans who work out tend to look like serious hard-asses, even in high school but along with being Santa Bonita High's star wide receiver, he had also been Santa Bonita High's star stoner and general troublemaker. His argument when he joined the police force after blowing out his knee in his senior year at San Bernardino State was who knew better how to keep the little unreformed fuck-ups in line than a big reformed fuck-up? Since little fuck-ups were pretty much all the crime Santa Bonita had to offer, it was a pretty compelling argument.
"Bite your tongue, Troy! Just keep 'em at bay a little. We want to be tantalizing, but not completely inaccessible. Pretty much like I was in high school." Courtney winked. She stood back and gave him the big up-and-down look. "You look great."
That was true. Troy did look great. His shoulders had, unbelievably enough, broadened, and the last traces of boy had vanished from his face. Plus, he still worked out. A lot. It showed.
He countered with "You look amazing." Which was also true. Courtney had always been pretty, but now there was a confidence in the way she held herself and walked that made her almost regal. Her teeth blinded with their whiteness and it was almost as if her skin had no pores.
Courtney did a little pirouette. "I eat right and do yoga every day," she said, her eyes wide and sincere. Then she winked. "And I know the number of a very discreet plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills."
I looked a little closer, trying to see if I could suss out where the surgeon's knife might have been helping Courtney. Whatever work she'd had done was good, because I couldn't see hide nor hair of it. Maybe she was joking. I mean, plastic surgery at twenty-four? What would she look like at forty? I thought about the last photo of Melanie Griffith I'd seen and shivered as if someone had walked across my grave.
Courtney sat back down. "So what've you been up to? Tell me everything!"
Troy sat down next to Courtney in my stylist's chair, which was presently empty, and it was everything I could do to keep my fingers out of that long, beautiful hair of his. These days, he keeps it back in a ponytail, but I'm not the only Santa Bonita girl with fond memories of it whipping in the wind as he drove through town in the old pickup truck he kept running with duct tape and baling wire.
"I'm an agent of truth and justice," Troy said, that slow bad-boy grin spreading across his handsome face.
"Girlfriend?" Courtney asked.
He shook his head slowly. "Sort of. Well, not exactly. It's complicated. I don't need to ask what you've been up to. I know pretty much everything, courtesy of those dopes out on the front lawn."
That surprised me. I hadn't heard about Troy seeing anybody, and Santa Bonita is the kind of town where you can't get your bikini line waxed without your mother knowing you have a date.
"Oh, you may think you know everything. I still have a few surprises up my sleeve," Courtney said.
"You always did." Troy smiled and leaned back in the chair.
"We had some good times, didn't we?" Courtney suddenly sat up straighter in her chair. "Do you remember..."
The rest of what she said was lost to me as she leaned over to whisper in Troy's ear. Based on the way the blush that started at his throat spread up his face to his hairline, it must have been a damn good memory indeed. "Yeah, Cor. That's not something a guy forgets," he mumbled.
Courtney laughed. "Do you still have those pictures?"
Troy's face went blank for a moment and then his eyebrows shot up. "I don't know, I haven't seen them in ages." He smiled at her. "I should look for those."
"You absolutely should," Courtney said. "Those puppies are probably worth some money these days. You could make a down payment on a house with those."
I looked up at that. Down payments on houses in Santa Bonita were not easy to come up with. I'd looked into it for Cinnamon and myself, and there was no way for us to amass a wad of cash that size. Of course, if you made a down payment, that meant you would have a mortgage, which implied putting down roots and staying. What was I saying? I was born with roots here. In fact, I was born rootbound.
Troy stiffened. "I think you're confusing me with someone else, Courtney. I'm not that kind of guy."
"Everybody is that kind of guy for the right amount of money, Troy." Courtney waved her hand in the air as if brushing away his comment. Her head tilted to the side as if she were listening to a voice from far off. "In fact, we should maybe talk about those photos, Troy."
"Yeah. Sure. Let's do that some time. Right now, I better go keep those chuckleheads in line." Troy stood, his shoulders rigid.
That was the other thing I liked about Troy. What a marshmallow. Courtney may not have realized it, but I knew she'd pricked his pride with that last comment. Whatever pictures she was talking about would never see the light of day.
Courtney said, "Hold on a sec, Troy. Give me your e-mail or your cell phone or something. You know, so I can get in touch some time, maybe."
Troy flushed again, which was completely adorable, I must say. His shoulders didn't relax though. "Sure, Cor. That'd be great." I gave him a pen and some paper, and he scribbled a few numbers out. I tucked them into Courtney's purse for her.
Then I let Troy out. The equivalent of a thousand suns glared into my face. Courtney didn't even flinch.
"You two stayed friends after you left?" Cinnamon asked Courtney.
Courtney shrugged. "Not really, but we didn't become enemies, either. My agent says never to burn any bridges."
She may not have burned it before, but I wondered if she'd just incinerated it now. Troy wasn't really joking when he said he was an agent of truth and justice. I think he really felt that way about his job.
See? Totally adorable.
By the time Courtney and her entourage left, I was seriously considering telling her exactly what I thought of her new Hollywood friends. Troy might still drive a battered pickup truck, but he would never expect someone else to pick up his half-chewed food or dig a booger out from underneath his fingernail for him. It must have shown on my face, because Cinn kept giving me the hairy eyeball every time I started to open my mouth, and once when she walked by me she whispered in my ear, "Remember, we never, ever slap the bride."
It's one of our few rules at Do It Up, no matter how Bridezilla-ish they become. And let's face it, they all become Bridezilla at some point.
Our other rule is "Whatever happens at Do It Up stays at Do It Up." Remember that old Clairol ad? "Only her hairdresser knows for sure"? Well, there's a reason it resonated with women. As hairdressers, we're privy to personal information. People tell us stuff. Plus, we see it in your hair. Mindy DeMarco's hair was getting thin; my guess was her new real estate business was stressing her out. I'm not sure if Cathy Orton's husband was fooling around on her or not, but I knew she thought he was why else would she get the new cut and color? It's almost always the first thing most women do. And Georgia Finkelbaum was tense about something; she'd been picking at her split ends and twisting her hair hard enough to pull it out. I'm also guessing that Joni Watts was depressed, since she hadn't washed her hair in several days when she dragged herself into the salon.
Having spent our lives as objects of gossip in a small town, Cinn and I made a pact when we opened Do It Up to never ever pass on what we learned while we snipped and plucked and dyed. So, no repeating that Janelle Richards had had plastic surgery on her private party bits. I'd bet money that all three of these women had laser vaginal rejuvenations scheduled within the month, though.
As the Hollywood harlots headed out into the paparazzi frenzy, Courtney threw her arms around me. "I can't tell you what this all means to me, Ginger. It really is the happiest day of my life. Thank you for being part of it."
I stood there, mouth agape, as she traipsed out the door.
"Shut you up, didn't she?" Cinnamon said, leaning against the counter, looking exhausted but triumphant. "She's always known how to do that."
I looked out the windows in time to see Courtney look back toward the shop. She saw me looking and winked at me. Damn it. I'd been manipulated.
I let the curtain drop and sighed, looking around the salon. It was trashed. Cinn and I had moved wedding parties with triple the people through Do It Up with half the mess, and that includes Jenna Thompson's wedding, where the bridesmaids showed up not only still drunk from the night before, but still drinking. Jell-O shots can make a terrible mess. If you allow Jell-O to sit long enough, it becomes a substance that you can cut glass with. Plus, it really should not be considered a nutritious breakfast for a bridal party.
Cinn looked around, too, the starch leaving her shoulders. "We could leave it for tomorrow."
Do It Up is closed on Mondays, like a lot of salons. It's my one day to focus on studying, writing papers, and that other life I try to lead, the one where I get an actual college degree. Although what I think I'm going to do with my bachelor's in biology in Santa Bonita is another problem altogether.
I shook my head. "I have class tomorrow."
"It's already three o'clock." Cinn bit her lower lip. I knew what she was thinking. Now that Sage was in school, Cinnamon didn't have nearly as much time with her as she used to during the week, making the weekends that much more precious.
"Go," I said. "I'll get it started and you can finish it tomorrow."
Cinnamon threw her arms around me. "Thank you! Promise you'll leave something really nasty for me."
"Don't tempt me." I wiggled loose. "Those girls are pigs."
"I think they get some kind of thrill out of making someone else clean up after them. It makes them feel important."
I looked at the tissues with the half-chewed food. "Then they must feel like they made it."
Cinnamon nodded, gathering up her purse and keys. "See you back at the apartment tonight."
"Where else would I be?"
I'd cleared the garbage off the counters and gotten the big chunks off the floor. All the combs and scissors were soaking in the Barbicide, and the nail equipment was in the sterilizer. I was trying to remember the ligaments of the elbow for my anatomy and physiology quiz at the end of the week when something smacked against the door. I turned and screamed. Something had plastered itself to the window. It looked a little like a woman.
Cautiously, I unlocked the door and opened it.
The she-thing stumbled into the salon. "You have to help me. The wedding is in an hour and a half. I can't go like this."
She could only have gone like that if she were marrying Frankenstein's monster. The woman's hair had been teased up into an enormous beehive. Her eyes were crusted with sky-blue eyeshadow and thick, dark eyeliner that made Baby Jane look like she'd been going for the natural look.
"How did this happen?" I asked, staring at her. "Who did this to you?"
"T-t-t-trudy. Over at ExcellaCuts."
"You had your wedding hair done at ExcellaCuts? What were you thinking?" I was thinking you get what you pay for. I was also thinking that I still had time to do the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle on an actual Sunday if I left in the next fifteen minutes, although I never seemed to be able to finish it without Brian helping anyway, and I wouldn't be seeing him until tomorrow. I was also thinking that if you were foolish enough to have a woman who looked like Tammy Faye Bakker do your wedding hair, then it was not my responsibility to straighten out your life.
"I was thinking that I only had twenty dollars left in my wallet until my next payday, which isn't until the end of next week. Please, oh, please, don't make me go to my wedding looking like this. I'll find the money. I will. Or I'll work it off. I'll come sweep your shop floor every day for the next year." She looked around. "It looks like you could use a little help with that."
I narrowed my eyes. Ask a favor and insult my housekeeping in one breath? Not the way to make friends and influence Ginger. "You're not earning points here."
"I know. I'm sorry. Please make this go away." The woman gestured wildly at her head and then grabbed my hands in her cold, shaking ones.
The floor-sweeping thing was tempting. Cinnamon and I had talked about getting someone in to sweep and clean, but we weren't even close to there, financially. "Look, I see you have a problem, but we're closed already." I looked at my watch again. I could even potentially go running along the beach trail before it got dark if I left now. It was perfect outside. Seventy-four degrees and the sun had burnt off the mist.
"I know. I know. I know I'm asking too much, but please, I don't know what else to do. Please don't make me go to my wedding like this. It's not for me. It's for Ronnie. He deserves better. He deserves the absolute best, because that's what he is. The best." The Bride of Frankenstein grabbed the broom from my hands. "I'll start sweeping now. I'll be back every day. I'm a good worker."
I grabbed the broom back from her. "Look, I don't know..."
She grabbed the broom back again. She had a solid six inches on me, though that isn't exactly hard to do since I'm all of five foot four. "Please. I just wanted to look as beautiful on the outside as Ronnie makes me feel on the inside."
Her words took my breath away; I am nothing if not a sucker for a good line. I took the broom back from her. "No sweeping on your wedding day. I can't do this alone, though. I'm going to have to call my sister."
I called Cinnamon and told her she had to come back we had an emergency.
Copyright © 2007 by Eileen Rendahl
Eileen Rendahl is the author of the Downtown Press novels Balancing in High Heels and Do Me, Do My Roots, which was nominated for a RITA Award. Her short fiction appears in the New Year's story collection In One Year and Out the Other. She lives near her tight-knit family in California.
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