Chapter 4
Bettine's client settled into her chair with a deep chuckle. "That should curb Ranalee's tongue for twenty-four hours."
"Oh, but I shouldn't have said what I did," Bettine mourned. "Miss Susanne is lovely."
"Now stop spoiling things. You merely threw Ranalee's wishful thinking back into her teeth. Bettine, I want you to do my hair today. Henri is excellent when I'm out to shock the natives, but, dear, it takes me two splashes of ice water a morning before I dare look in the mirror."
"You mean it doesn't stay?"
"I mean it stays so well, I have the weird feeling somebody else is running around in my robe. No, it is well you spoke when you did. Ranalee learned where Henri was taking Miss Susanne tonight. I think she planned something. Now she won't dare."
Bettine ran her hands through the thick hair, frowning. "Why?" , "She managed a dinner date with Bert Leehoff. If that is Miss Susanne," she waggled her head backward, "Bert would spring to her help and leave Ranalee dangling."
Bettine managed a trim without scalping the client but longed to know more. Should she warn Miss Susanne? Or was it better to leave things as they were and trust they would work out?
There,' the shampoo was over; now to bring her fingers under control for the setting; Oh, dear. Here came one of the salon's best-customers, operator's stool in hand, to cozy down in a corner and say brightly, "Bettine won't mind; I'll keep out of her way. Laura, wasn't that 'goon girl' bit priceless?"
Perhaps this compensated. Miss Mary had said she had kept the individual booths small to forestall any general committee meeting from getting underway while an operator was trying to set a patron's hair.
Idly she listened to the two talk until the visitor came to the evening's plans. "Heard Henri on the phone, I believe, and promptly affected a must-attend birthday dinner for her uncle at the same place. Planned inviting them to their table; you know how the old judge can't abide Henri."
"But why?"
"Basically, because Leehoff wouldn't break a Saturday night date to take her to the Kilmer's mountain place for the weekend. The date was with Miss Susanne."
Some signal was given, and the speaker promptly said, "Oh, Bettine won't talk; these girls never do."
"I'll bet they would bring the whole city down around its own ears if they did," commented the other. "But I still don't see what she hopes to gain."
"You are obtuse, darling. Helene saw the girl and said she was a complete wash-out, awkward, naive, with all the attributes a man can't stand. And her clothes were from the not-so-gay nineties."
"Helene must have seen the wrong girl. This one is poised, charming, and you should have seen her delete Ranalee with one word and one glance."
"Dryer, please," murmured Bettine.
Bettine glanced at the clock. Ten minutes before her next appointment. Swiftly she gathered her implements, signaled Jennet and rushed for the little cubicle Susanne had ordered made into a coffee-break room.
"A place to put your feet up," she called it.
Susanne was working on the thought if not the room at that time. She was ordering a six-by-nine-foot mural of a quiet mountain lake to stretch across one side of the room. She had an idea a complete change of scenery might be restful for the staff.
The wall was bare now. There was only one rather broken-down chair as yet, and the hot water was in a carafe, but who knew for how long? Yet Bettine sipped quickly made coffee, planted her feet on a wooden box and watched an inner vision.
By the time she was called she had reached a decision. She would simply place her money on Miss Susanne and neither tell her nor telephone Leehoff to watch for chance trouble.
That was one rule about which Miss Mary had been adamant. "What you hear in the salon," she had said repeatedly, "goes in one ear and down the drain."
And she had said, "There is something about a woman relaxing in a long chair that brings up the gossip in her. Why do you suppose a psychiatrist uses a couch?
"We are not psychiatrists. We can't be, nor have we time to sift the false from the true, so we discard all that is said."
Susanne turned from an inner contemplation of the coffee-break room to an outer contemplation of herself. She wouldn't have believed a single frock could have made such a difference. Julie had called it, "the executive."
It was, but why, Susanne didn't know. There was something in the way the folds were drawn up and caught that gave it, or rather the wearer, a look of competency.
And the hat! Imagine a hat both looking and feeling good on her. Then there was the shoulder cape. This wasn't a cape year; consequently, Julie had said, one wore a cape if one were tall enough to carry it with dash. Susanne was.
One thing, the ensemble certainly had pulverized that rude girl she had met at the entrance.
She had better learn her identity. If ever anyone needed Miss Mary's treatment, it was she. She was still young enough to do something about her mouth. Why, in no time it would look like a fly trap.
It was late before she got around to asking. Bettine was giving her a facial, though Susanne couldn't understand why. Henri, Bettine had sighed, would put on the finishing touches.
Bettine explained night lights cast different shadows from those of the day and one used different makeup. Henri was, naturally, an artist.
"And as I sail forth representing the Hair-After," mused Susanne aloud, "I'd better prove our salon's efficiency."
Bettine was swallowing the term when Susanne's question came briskly. "That girl who was blocking the entrance this afternoon-I'd better know her identity."
"I'll say you had," Bettine blurted. "She's Miss Ranalee Graton, her father is old Judge Graton, and she goes out with Leehoff whenever she can." She stopped. "I'm sorry, Miss Susanne; that's pure gossip."
"Imagine gossip being pure," murmured Susanne. Then she sat up despite Bettine's hands. "I am coming, too. Bettine! I am the goon girl; right?"
"Not anymore; I mean she doesn't think that now. You should have seen her when you were identified."
"Hm."
"And, Miss Susanne, it wasn't Mr. Leehoff who gave her that idea."
"And she's planning something for tonight. Bettine, give me the works!"
Frantically Bettine pawed through a drawer to come up with a small sign she thumb-tacked to the wall right where Susanne couldn't help seeing it, once Bettine had removed the pad from her eyes.
She did, and idly Susanne scanned the immediate wall surfaces. Finally she read the sign, unaware of its recent appearance.
"Cosmetics are but a feeble substitute for an inner conviction."
Interesting. Interesting? Ouch? That was one right between the eyes. What was she trying to prove? She had achieved more with one word and poise than she could have done with every jar and bottle at Bettine's command.
"Correction, Bettine," she said. "I'm not up to more than one layer yet."
Ranalee Graton had done all within her power to change the table she had reserved for that night. She was too late, the "spot" too popular. The most she could achieve was a change of place settings.
"And if I do that," she mused, "she won't hear what I say."
It was that or having Leehoff facing Susanne. With the change, he would be facing the entrance. She really didn't know which was the more devastating to her original plan.
She knew when she saw him rise, saw the look of amazed appreciation lighting his face. When he ignored her sharp, "Bert," and left their party to accompany Susanne and Henri to their table, she was furious. So much for plans.
"Hm, interesting," drawled her father. "That would be Miss Mary's niece?"
"Why?" snapped his daughter.
"Mary's inside-out theory," he replied. "Might be a good thing for you to learn, daughter."
"Dotage," snapped Ranalee.
"Watch that chin line," he reproved her.
Ranalee looked at Susanne. Well, really! She herself was much prettier, her frock an exclusive and not purchased in that small city. Just what had this Susanne to draw the eyes of everyone?
And here was that idiot Bert trying to draw them into their party, as though she'd have the owner of the salon she patronized, the very man who styled her hair, at her table. Democracy. Ha!
"Sorry," the Susanne person was saying. "Henri and I have so much to discuss in private, we decided upon a public place to do it."
"Smart girl," boomed the judge. "Another time, then, Ranalee?"
"Yes, Father, of course, another time. Bert, doesn't it occur to you you are not included in that private conference?"
It had, and he wasn't sure he approved. Something had happened to Susanne that made her shine. Having no eye for clothes, he attributed the change to Henri's company. Maybe he personally didn't mind her getting mixed up with that fop, but he owed it to Miss Mary's memory to see that the girl at least knew what she was getting into.
"Bert, why are you frowning?"
How could he tell her he was frowning at himself for being unfair? Henri was not a fop in any sense of the word. He, Bert, was proud of knowing Brion Case, an artist. Well, both Henri and Brion were artists. Both, in a sense, worked in oils. Both made women appear more beautiful than they were.
Henri on the golf course was so formidable he could play only when he offered a handicap. When hunting season opened, it was Henri the Hardy who was the first to return with a deer, an elk, and if he had time for a Canadian trip, a moose.
Henri could and did swim the lake when others, like himself, hugged the club fireplace.
Bert tried another mental approach, "He's a phony."
Was he? How about the Spot? The real West had finally accepted the image script writers had been giving it. The spirits of original westerners might stalk the Spot, completely bemused, but it was accepted as authentic, from vest-clad waiters with walrus moustaches to dance-hall hat-check and cigarette girls. The atmosphere made it a moneymaker.
Henri had had French ancestors; he could be a throwback. His accent, his appearance were no more phony than the atmosphere of the Spot. They were moneymakers.
"Bert, Father is speaking to you."
"Sorry, Judge."
"You should change places with me, son; you can watch your charge better. Quite a responsibility. Pretty girl with a pocketful of money will bring out the wolves."
"Oh, she doesn't look upon the money as her personal asset." Bert began to rise, then was reseated briskly.
"Father," Ranalee had cried, "surely you two won't be so obvious. Well, really."
Susanne was having a wonderful time. She didn't know why. She might have said she "fitted in." She was not looked upon as being different. And Leehoff had seemed so pleased to see her.
She'd better stop trying to listen to what was going on at the next table and concentrate upon Henri.
"Beauty," Henri was informing her, "is important. Do you garden?"
Susanne blinked at him. "No, but my mother has one of the best."
"She plants, then. Perhaps once in a while she waters the plants, occasionally feeds them, but bothers not with the weeds and the insects, the caked ground of summer?"
For a moment Susanne looked shocked; then she smiled. "No, Henri. She gives some a trim, she massages the earth to make it pliable, she feeds each what its species needs.
Insofar as she can, she tries to bring every plant to its greatest beauty. Even," she added softly, "as each dedicated beautician tries to bring each patron to hers. But I'd never thought of it that way before."
She had thought of the profession as superficial. Yet since humans were more important than plants, why not give to each its acme of beauty for the sake of everyone who saw her, as well as for her own sake?
Henri nodded. One hurdle was passed. This girl was not so naive as he had anticipated. She was even too quick to grasp the purposely recondite, bring it forward into the bright light of her analysis, and show him aspects of which he hadn't dreamed. She would need watching, and handling.
For her own good, naturally.
As they dined, he discussed the rising costs of maintaining the Hair-After; seemingly small costs which were barely visible on the books, yet totaled up to an alarming sum.
"As in groceries," he said fatuously. "A penny up here, two there, and you do not feel the rise until, finally, the many pennies make the dollars. Ah, these spiraling costs."
"We are a nation of sheep, aren't we?" she soothed him. "We nibble the little and run from the big. Now what is your idea on how to absorb these rising costs?"
Oh, to be a Frenchman, Susanne thought, as Henri used eyes, brows, shoulders, and hands to express ideas that could never be held against him because they were not articulated.
Susanne's head tipped a little. She'd had a French grandmother, hadn't she? Bien, two could play at this game. When Henri reversed the question, literally laying it on her plate, she was ready.
"Shall we take this up in six months?" she asked.
A cowboy band appeared, and Henri was up, asking her to dance. And again she was surprised. Didn't he ever let himself go, even a little?
Ranalee saw them dancing and took the occasion to invite her ancient uncle for a duty dance.
It was a mistake. The next time she could focus on Susanne she saw her in Leehoff's arms. Bert was talking to her in such a serious manner, the ancient uncle protested this was not a gridiron nor he a football to be carried through such a milling crowd.
Leehoff had literally scooped Susanne from Henri's arms. "Sorry," he'd said bluntly, "it's important. Wait. This is just once around."
Henri's dark eyebrows had neatly met his hairline; then he'd nodded.
"Susanne-" Leehoff forgot the Miss Morgan-"what are you doing Sunday?"
"Gathering loose ends together," she replied promptly.
"Is there anything at all, no matter how important it might appear, that would make you change your mind?"
Susanne backed away a little, the better to study him. My goodness, she hoped she'd never have to appear in court with him representing her opponent.
"There's nothing important enough," she told him. "I had no idea what I was getting into at the Hair-After. If the next three days are anything like the last, I'll need a solitary three-day weekend to recover. Why?"
The why breezed in under Leehoff's arm: Ranalee Graton.
"My uncle is just dying to dance with you, Miss Morgan. He says you're so much like your Aunt Mary. But before Bert releases you, do promise you'll weekend with us at the Kilmers' lodge. You will, won't you? Such an excellent opportunity to meet so many who are important to you."
Henri materialized at her elbow. Gratefully Susanne turned to him, then smiled at the old uncle. "We should have a full number. The next one?"
"But you haven't said if you will be my guest," Ranalee cried petulantly.