Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Well, there’s no need to worry,” I tell them. “I’m back and I’m okay.”
“Goodness, Avery,” Blanche says on a dramatic exhale of air while she clutches her pearls—literal Tiffany pearls. “You gave us such a scare.”
“Don’t you ever do that again,” Dottie chimes in, wagging a finger at me.
“Never again,” Ethel agrees. “I swear, you must have one thousand missed calls and text messages between the five of us.”
“I would,” I answer with a shrug and smile. “But I no longer have my phone. It’s…lost.” My voice shakes involuntarily, no doubt a trauma response to the morning Henry pitched it. I thought he was gone, dead, hurt. I thought…
A throat clears from behind my five elderly gal pals, and it’s only then that I realize my family is standing there completely bewildered by their presence.
My mom leans toward my dad, whispering, “Who are these women?”
“Oh, you must think we’re so rude!” Ethel answers before I can. “I’m Ethel and this is Joanne, Sarabeth, Blanche, and Dottie,” she introduces each of them. “We’re Avery’s clients.”
“And friends,” Dottie adds, and Ethel nods.
“Of course, Avery is such a dear friend to us all. It’s just icing on the cake that she’s been our stylist for the past year.”
“Stylist?” Mom repeats quietly, her confusion deepening, but none of my elderly gal pals seems to notice. They’re more focused on giving me hugs and shoving their handkerchiefs at me as they realize how upset I’ve gotten.
I’m trying to keep it together, but not being able to find Henry now, even in this crowd of people, while the memory of that morning on the island replays in my head has me feeling some kind of way.
“You okay, honey?” Dottie asks, taking the lead, while the other women look away in what I know is an attempt to keep from overwhelming me.
I nod. It’s all I can manage.
“Now that we’ve seen you’re okay with our own two eyes, we’re going to let you rest, Avery,” Ethel says, arranging all the flowers and balloons and gift bags they brought to my room on the nightstand beside my bed.
“Yes, honey, you get some rest,” Blanche says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You check in with us soon, okay? Let us know when you’re out of the hospital and settled?”
I nod. “Once I get a phone again, I’ll text you.”
“Good girl.” Dottie smiles.
They all give me hugs and kisses and pats of my hands a few more times. Ethel even mentions something about a new resident at The Pines named Darla, who’s a walking fashion disaster and needs my help. But eventually, they offer their goodbyes to my family and head back out of my hospital room, only leaving a trail of their Shalimar perfume in their wake.
When they’re gone, my family stares at me, dumbfounded.
“Who was that?” Beau asks.
“Just my friends,” I say, shrugging.
“Your friends?” my mom repeats. “They look about fifty years too old to be your friends.”
“And they said you were their stylist,” my dad adds.
I sigh, knowing this conversation is inevitable. “That’s probably because I am their stylist.”
“But, Avery, you’re not a stylist,” Beau says flatly.
“You don’t know everything about me, Beau.” I shrug and stick out my tongue at him. “And for the record, I am their stylist. Like Ethel said, I have been for about a year now.”
“Excuse me? You’re their stylist?” Dad asks, crossing his arms. “How the hell did that happen? Last I knew, you were an employee of Banks & McKenzie.”
“Clearly, I’m good at multitasking, Daddy.” I lean back, crossing my arms too. “And I met Ethel at Nordstrom’s last year. She was in this horrid Kate Spade getup, and I couldn’t stand by and let her buy last season’s leftovers from some clueless salesclerk. So, I helped her.”
“And that makes you a stylist?” Beau asks, raising a brow.
“Oh, c’mon, Beau. I think we all know that my sense of fashion and style pretty much makes me a stylist. I mean, it’s one of those talents that some people just have. Like, Edward Einstein and all his number stuff.”
“Albert Einstein, Avery,” Beau corrects like he’s saying stuff I actually care about. “Albert.”
“So, let me get this straight…” My dad still looks baffled. “You just help them pick out their clothes?”
“I don’t just help them pick out clothes, Daddy. I guide them on their wardrobe, shoes, hair, makeup. I style them.”
“And they pay you for that?” he asks. “As in, it’s a job?”
I laugh. “No.”
His face falls. “What do you mean, no?”
I scoff. “You don’t get paid for charity work, Daddy.”
“Charity work?” Dad repeats, his voice rising. “They live in The Pines, Avery. Those women have money. A lot of it.”
“Daddy, you know I don’t judge people on their money.”
“Do they at least pay for their clothes?”
“Again, it’s charity work,” I say, annoyed that he’s clearly not getting the point. “You can’t expect people to pay for stuff when it’s charity.”