The Bartlett Journals: Book 2 The Cosmetician

By Amy Patt

At age 21, Darbie Winner has had to manage her 'coming of age' years on her own. A series of family tragedies has led Darbie to move out on her own, sharing an apartment in town with volatile Kate McGinnis. Now more than ever, the talented but fragile Darbie must rely on the wisdom and advice of her trusted therapist, Emma Bartlett. The Bartlett Journals is a new series highlighting an intricate cast of characters that re-appear in each story from the different perspectives of the clients of Emma Bartlett. Follow The Journals and see what life is like for small town dreamers who learn to navigate their lives successfully with the help of the talented Emma Bartlett, and an entourage of richly developed individuals who make up the cast of these delightful novels that both entertain and train. The Bartlett Journals: Book 1 The Prima Ballerina is available on-line. Next up: The Bartlett Journals: Book 3 The Actress due out in July 2013.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Patt
• Release date: Apr 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988914919

Amy Patt

Amy Patt is a native of New England and currently resides there with her family. She has her BA from Adelphi University in Garden City, NY and an MBA from Boston University.

Book preview

The Bartlett Journals: Book 2

The Cosmetician

By Amy Patt

Copyright 2013 Amy Patt

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 978-0-9889149-1-9

Also by Amy Patt:

The Bartlett Journals: Book 1

The Prima Ballerina

Look for upcoming titles, including:

The Bartlett Journals: Book 3

The Actress

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This ebook is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For SMR.

Chapter One

The winter sun had long set over the frigid Atlantic waters in a last hurrah for the day. It glowed with a pink and orange intensity that even the locals looked up into the skies for a moment to appreciate before the celestial being moved on to other parts of the world. This was missed, however, by at least one local, a policeman getting back to his route after being detained in long conversation at the coffee shop. The uniform, bracing against the cold, stepped out onto the sidewalk and into the darkness. ‘Another cold one in New England,’ he thought to himself. He took a left-to-right look around at the quiet street. Dog barking, car driving by, laughter from inside the coffee shop. Otherwise, all was quiet.

Overhead, streetlights had fizzled themselves to life. A gentle source to light the way in glowing, orange balls suspended in a misty air. The policeman ambled down the street toward the elementary school. He was somewhat old-fashioned in his view of his work. Other cops, younger, liked to race about in the tricked out police cars, or cruise down the main drag looking for trouble, listening to the stream from the scanner. The older officer had been on the force for 38 years and followed the police captain’s advice to a T. ‘You can’t ever know your neighborhood unless you know your neighbors,’ he always said in his Irish brogue. Therefore, Sergeant Tutt spent most of his shift on his feet, and knew just about every person in town, at least by sight. As he walked his beat, he thought of the capable Mrs. Tutt, home alone with a brandy snifter and her cable TV. He thought of his grandkids that would be asleep by now, curled up in their warm beds. He felt a swell of pride thinking of them.

He took a detour down a side street where there were signs of life. There were still people at Shazzam!, the local hair salon where his wife got her hair done every two weeks. Good group of people there. Movement inside through the frosted window showed people slowly winding down after a hectic business day. The clients had mostly gone home for the evening and the beauty parlor looked empty and quiet. Just one regular client, Kiki the ballerina, ‘AKA The Ice Queen,’ he quipped to himself, and Juliette, one of the owners, were still chitchatting in the back. Two young women, one with blonde hair, the other dark, had their heads bent over a mannequin decorated with long brown hair. The grouping created a tri-fecta of hair colors and expert styles; an ad for the successful salon at one glance. He looked carefully at the blonde. Poor thing, he thought to himself, shaking his head. Lots of tragedy in that family. The dark-haired girl raised her eyes when he tapped on the window. She gave a wave of the hand – all clear. He tipped his hat in reply.

The policeman walked on, removing a glove and holding it under his armpit to free his large fingers, checking his cell phone and turning up his police radio. Nothing much going on. Just some teenagers having a bonfire at Lover’s Lane. Cops were already on it to shake them up, pour out the beer, disperse the party. Tutt was grateful for what might turn out to be another peaceful night. He replaced the glove and turned up his collar, continuing his jaunt back up the street toward the playground in case there were any vagrants needing shelter.

Inside the salon, the two stylists were continuing to practice a hair-do they had found in a magazine, preparing for a number of upcoming wedding parties penciled in on the datebook in neat letters. It was getting to be that season soon. In addition to the bridal parties, sweet sixteen’s and Colleen’s, they had been getting a lot of business from the dance studio upstairs recently. Soft braids were all the rage right now, and there had been requests for them by the younger clients. After having their hair in those tight buns, it was no wonder the girls longed for freedom and something different.

Darbie, one of the newest members of the Shazzam! staff, reached for her cup and was annoyed that the coffee was going cold already. She sipped at the brown liquid anyway as she contemplated what was going wrong. The braid wasn’t going in right. It didn’t look anything like the magazine picture. She stepped back and shook her head, tired of thinking too hard. She took a break from watching Rosy moving her fingers and walked to her station, stretching her legs. She could hear Juliette and Kiki sharing stories and advice and the TV still droned importantly from its perch.

Darbie’s pretty, manicured fingers selected a mascara wand out of a silver metal box sitting on the back counter. She leaned in close to the mirror, carefully drawing the wand through her already thickly blackened lashes. She would exaggerate to her clients to make her point by telling them that, You can never have too much mascara. I spend, like, hours in the morning with my wand, just laying it on as thick as I can get it.

And everyone listened. Darbie didn’t know it but she was one of those girls whom everyone secretly admired. They copied her look because she was beautiful, and she always seemed to wear the latest trends before they became popular on the local scene. Besides her perfect makeup, she had long, straight, ash blonde hair, high cheekbones and a clear complexion; icy blue eyes and her pretty hourglass figure enhanced her beauty. She was not short and not tall, around 5’8". Her arms and legs were thin and shapely. When she wore high heels she could pass for a model, and she knew how to show up to a photo shoot ready to wow the photographer. She was a natural. In fact, she had modeled quite a bit in the past. It came in handy when you were a high school drop out.

The fashionista stepped back to the mannequin project to see the progress.

Rosy, you are supposed to go over, not under! She clucked her teeth together in disapproval.

No! See, this gets tucked under here, like this, retorted Rosy in her thick, British accent, as her fingers moved expertly. And then I pick up this… She was holding three bunches of hair, but struggling to pick up a fourth. Her fingers reached down and grabbed at the strands but they both saw that there was not enough hair left to create a perfectly balanced braid. Each strand had to have the same amount of hair so that the finished product looked symmetrical. This particular French braid was supposed to start at the top and sweep around behind the ear and end up in a chignon, but their braid had gotten crooked, bunchy, and too tight. The picture showed a loose braid, natural looking and quite lovely. Rosy threw her hands up and dropped the hair strands.

What did you do that for? Darbie asked. She tried to sound less annoyed than she felt. It could have possibly been fixed without starting over, and they had been at it for, like, 15 minutes already. Rosy was known for being a bit bossy, and volatile. Even so, the ladies at Shazzam! felt lucky to have her, as she brought in fresh ideas. She offered the stylists in the shop extra training at no cost and without having to send anyone away from the salon and take up valuable time away from their customers. She also happened to have tons of gossip.

Rosy was the niece of Juliette, and was one of those transient people who worked by following the season. During the winter she came to New England to see Auntie and to make her money. She did this by spending time on the slopes as a snowboard instructor. She got paid $120 an hour, and she was a very popular trainer for prep schools and the children of wealthy New Yorkers who handed their kids off to her while they skied and partied and traded business deals. She could handle the snobby rich kids and their attitudes, and the parents showed their gratitude with big, fat tips. Rosy also worked part-time in winter as a hairdresser at Shazzam!, bringing with her a whole summer’s worth of information and hot celebrity trends. During the rest of the year she worked overseas, following the celebrity jet set to New Zealand, the Caribbean and the French Riviera as their personal stylist and sometime nanny. It was a very glamorous life, and one that afforded Rosy a bit of an attitude when she was around normal people.

You’re right, Luv! she said, looking up at Darbie. This is a freakin’ mess. Let’s just start over. The stylist drew her fingers through the locks and smoothed the tresses. They started again, Rosy at the helm and Darbie offering tips.

Maybe tease the hair more, she said, holding out a comb. Darbie was not technically a hair stylist. She looked over at her station where her makeup waited, screaming to be cleaned up for tomorrow’s busy day. She was going to offer free, five-minute consultations and had flyers all printed out and stacked neatly on her shelf. She and her roommate, Kate, were going to walk down Main Street tomorrow morning, handing out the coupons, drumming up business. She looked at her phone. 9:15pm. Kate would be done working soon and ready to be picked up. Darbie left Rosy to the braid and walked over to her station to wipe down the counters and throw away the used tips. She worked at this for many minutes before she was interrupted.

Ét voila! Rosy sashayed across the salon holding out the mannequin sporting a beautiful braid and perfect chignon. It was just a matter of practice. And a little freakin’ genius. Ha Ha! she laughed.

Oh, very niiice. Beautiful! Darbie clapped her hands. The ‘do did finally look like the picture. Soft, romantic, delicate. They both sighed, thinking of a possible bride or two looking beautiful with that hair. Darbie checked the time again. Oops, gotta go! At her words, everyone in the shop suddenly jumped to life to pack up for the night.

She closed and locked the makeup case, slid on her jacket, and grabbed the case and her purse, juggling them in her arms. She quickly clip-clopped across the worn, wooden floor of the salon in her high-heeled shoes. Her arms full, she teetered a bit as she dragged the heavy front door open. The little bell tinkled merrily, then got swallowed by the wind as the door slammed shut behind her from a big, wintery gust.

Oops! she said to the chilly air. It’s only response was to numb her exposed face. It was a dreary night, even for New England. Misty and wet with big, heavy snowflakes starting to drift down. Winter Wonderland, she said under her breath. She drew her fake-fur rimmed hood up over her head, grabbing it under her chin with her hand. A snowflake stuck to her thick eyelashes. She blinked her eyes and looked up into the falling white stuff, blowing out a puff of air trying to dislodge the flake. Instead it stayed where it was until it finally melted away in a drip that traced a black smear down to her nose. She really, really, really hated these cold winter nights.

She sighed, thinking instead of the days when her family vacationed in warm, beautiful Florida every season. She hadn’t known what a snowboard was then, or snow for that matter. Her mother didn't work, except to manage her and her daughter’s busy lives, which consisted of having a nanny watch the baby poolside while Mrs. Winner spent hours at the salon, on the courts, and yelling Fore! on the golf course. For most of the winter months they would close up their big house and head to their condo, romping in the playground of the wealthy from October to April. Her father ran his accounts from there, even setting up offices in the middle of town where his clients could manage their money with ease when they jetted in on the weekends. Those were hot, lazy days and active social nights. Nothing opened until 11:00am and everyone knew not to call anyone’s home phone before then. The dress code: pink and green. Car of choice: Rolls Royce. These were unspoken rules, until some ‘new richies’ blew into town and disrupted the locals with their ignorance.

Baby Darbie would spend her days romping on the beach in just her bottoms. She had been a beautiful child with a head full of bouncy, blonde curls and chubby cheeks. She would have soft serve ice cream that melted sloppily in streams down the cone before she could take more than three tiny licks. Then they would head home and nap for two hours before the nanny would take over again and Mummy and Daddy would head out for the evening while Darbie colored and watched Bammy on the TV. Daddy called her Honey-Bunny, and was proud to take her to the office once in a while. She had been a good companion to him, sitting in his office quietly playing with a dolly, and he had always made time for her in between meetings and phone calls. She was a plaything for the secretaries who gave her lollipops and coloring books, always remarking about what a little angel she was. But those Florida days were long over and it was a four-season life now. Cold, snowy winters; muddy springs; a too-short summer; and all the stuff that happened in between.

The pretty girl, now 21, shivered as she walked up the street, avoiding crusts of snow and ice in her little leather and fur heels. She headed for her old junker of a car. It was a dark blue Volvo from the late 90’s that Darbie had discovered in the carriage house, probably her mother’s old car before she had gotten a slew of brand-new black SUV’s. Darbie had fixed the Volvo up and it ran around town okay for short trips and had been a godsend when she moved out of the house a few months ago. She didn’t go far from town, anyway. If she wanted to go to Manhattan she could hop on a train and be there in just under two hours. Someday she just might do that. She had dreams.

As she sat in her car letting the old thing warm up, she popped the locks closed. ‘Safety Rule #1 for girls,’ she thought to herself. The young girl sighed and looked around the empty parking lot. Nope. No dangers lurking out there in boring Northport. Oh well. She knew in her heart she would rather be safe than…the alternative. Like when her Daddy taught her about seatbelts. In his crude way, he would sing out ‘It hurts a lot less than going through the windshield!’ as they both clicked the fabric belts into place in unison across their laps. She would laugh, but really, Dad, wasn’t that a bit creepy?

Her phone sang out a ringtone, bringing her back to the present. She shook herself a little. It was painful to think of old times. She had downloaded a Christmas ringtone because it made her smile and it added a cheerful tone to the moment. In this life, there hadn’t been much to smile about lately. The phone, singing away at her, was like a mini inspiration wall. She had filled it with happy photos, a cheery ringtone, and reminders going off all day long telling her to Be Amazing!, and You’re Fabulous!. She finally picked up the phone. She checked her makeup in the mirror, out of habit, as she answered the call.

Yeah, she said quickly, running a finger under her eye to wipe up the snowflake trail. She knew this was just Kate checking in. She listened to the voice on the other end. She could barely hear the words being said to her over the loud music and voices in the background Yeah! I’m on my way now! she said loudly into the phone. Just have a drink! There was inaudible talking on the other end. Just have a drink and keep your shorts on! I’ll be there in a min-min! She hadn’t meant to sound annoyed, but talking over loud noises on the phone was one of her pet peeves. She hit the End button and threw her cell on the seat beside her.

She was feeling nostalgic and slid a CD into the old, souped up stereo. Someone had installed an after-market sound system and upgraded the speakers, so that now she could blast the music and sing along to the rich sounds as she drove. It was totally rad. She thought of her country club mother listening to loud music in the car and laughed out loud. Was she once a real person before the hair and the suits? Was that why she had kept the car, as a metaphor for some previous life? Or maybe it was there in case she decided to run if the marriage hadn’t worked out. She had certainly disappeared at the first sign of trouble. It was a somber thought, and not one that Darbie wanted to contemplate.

The CD was spinning and the first song was one that Darbie had put together with her old band years ago. Whenever anyone asked who the singer was of this song, and she said ‘Me!’ she got really weird looks, so now she shrugged and said she didn’t know. They had chosen a fast beat to open the album with, and it definitely got her blood pumping. She was working on some new songs but it felt comfortable to listen to the sounds of her past. Darbie had a strong voice and natural talent. She missed her band so much. She hadn’t seen them in three years, and these recordings were at least that old. They were just kids with talent then. Over-active Ted; quiet, intellectual Brian; gorgeous, smiling Justin. She whooped as the music swelled up in the car and beat through her body. Her young voice was like an instrument all by itself and the first word was acapella. A slow steady bass started up after that, getting faster, urging the heartbeat to keep up with the expanding rhythm. It was very cool. How could they have known anything about music at such a young age?

Hey,

It’s 3am and you’re still not home

But don’t bother comin’ in

Cuz I’m sleepin’ in my jeans

Don’t knock on the door

Throw away your key

You’re not wanted here

And I’m not sorry

I’m sleepin’ in my jeans tonight

I’m sleepin’ in my jeans

If you came home

We’d just waste the night

We can’t help but fight

What you do to me, baby

Just ain’t right

I’m sleepin’ in my jeans tonight

She laughed again when she remembered writing this song. How funny Ted was, pretending to sob as he played the keyboard. They had no idea what they were writing about at the time. It was just pure adrenaline. Now, the words had much more meaning than when she originally wrote them. She turned the radio down slightly as she came to a busier part of town after circling the block and taking a right onto the main drag. She put her foot gently on the brake. Holy Cross loomed up on the left side of the car as she pulled to a stop at the light. It was a beautiful church, with its lit-up weeping willow trees and long sidewalk leading up to a lot of stairs. On both doors spotlights found two Christmas wreaths looking comforting and inviting. She hadn’t been to church in, like, forever. Since the funeral, actually. She shuddered at the thought and looked away.

There was the local coffee shop on the right that she sometimes went to buy treats for her clients and the ladies at the salon. The coffee was just okay, but she liked going in there because it was always packed with people. It was truly the center of town life, where you could run into your old boyfriend, or the Mayor. Everyone was an equal at Java World. No national chain had muscled its way into their small town yet, as they had to deal with New Englanders on a mission. ‘No Box Stores!’ screamed the bumper stickers, even the one on the Mayor’s car that was currently idling outside JW’s for a late-night snack after a big town meeting. There were a lot of people still in town, Darbie noted. Unusual at this hour.

She punched on the gas as the light turned green, causing the car to lurch forward. Maybe the gas pedal was sticking. Or maybe it was from trying to drive with heels on. Or maybe it was a lead foot to get as far away from the church as possible, as fast as possible. Whatever it was, the car was acting sluggish when she wanted it to go forward. She thought she would bring it in, just in case, to see her pal Eddie the Mechanic at that shop on Elm Street. She hadn’t seen him in a long time because he had an insane crush on her, which totally helped out if she had car problems, but otherwise it was just sad. Anyway, she was sure Old Blue needed an oil change at the very least. If she flipped her hair just right Eddie would forget to charge her. It was better than being taken advantage of and getting overcharged, paying full price for a refurbished part, or what happened to her last car when the guy forgot to put