She stopped crying as she considered my questions solemnly. "I think I feel it in my zorax/' she said. "It's stuck."

"There's no such thing as a zorax." My pulse was hammering. The answering service put me on hold. I wondered if swallowing a penny would give you metal poisoning. Were pennies still made of copper? Was the penny going to lodge somewhere in Carrington's esophagus and require an operation for its removal? How much would that kind of operation cost?

The woman at the other end of the phone was annoyingly calm as I described the emergency. She took down the information and said the pediatrician would call back within ten minutes. Hanging up the phone. I continued to hold Carrington in my lap. her bare feet dangling.

Mike approached us both. I saw from his expression that this would be forever engraved in his mind as the date from hell. He wanted to leave almost as badly as I wanted him to go.

"Look," he said awkwardly, "you're a gorgeous girl, and you're sweet as all get-out, but...I don't need this in my life right now. I need someone with no baggage. It's just...I can't help you pick up the pieces. I've got too many of my own pieces to pick up. You probably don't understand."

I understood. Mike wanted a girl with no problems and no past experiences, someone who came with a guarantee that she would never make mistakes or disappoint or hurt him.

Later I would feel sorry for him. I knew there was a lot of disappointment in store for Mike, in his search for the woman with no baggage. But for the moment I felt only annoyance at him. I thought of how Hardy had always come to the rescue at times like this. the way he would stride into a room and take charge, and the incredible relief I felt at knowing he was there. But Hardy wasn't coming. All I had was a useless male who didn't even think to ask if he could do something to help.

"That's fine." I tried to sound casual. I wanted to throw something, like you would to get rid of a stray dog. "Thank you for the date, Mike. We'll be fine. If you wouldn't mind seeing yourself to the door—"

"Sure." he said hastily. "Sure."

He vanished.

"Am I gonna die?" Carrington inquired, sounding interested and mildly concerned.

"Only if I catch you with another penny in your mouth," I said.

The pediatrician called, and he interrupted my frantic chatter. "Miss Jones, is your sister wheezing or choking?"

"She's not choking." I looked into Carrington's face. "Let me hear you breathe, baby."

She complied enthusiastically, hyperventilating like a phone pervert. "No wheezing," I told the doctor, and turned back to my sister. "That's enough, Carrington."

I heard the doctor chuckle. "Carrington's going to be just fine. What I need you to do is check her stools for the next couple of days to make certain the coin passes. If you can't find it, we may have to take an X-ray to make certain it hasn't lodged somewhere. But I can almost guarantee you'll see that penny in the commode."

"Can I have a hundred-percent guarantee?" I asked. "'Almost' is just not working for me today."

He chuckled again. "I don't usually give out hundred-percent guarantees. Miss Jones. But for you I'll make an exception. One full-out guarantee for a penny in the commode within forty-eight hours."

For the next two days I had to poke around in the toilet with a wire hanger every time Carrington reported progress. The penny was eventually found. In the months afterward. however, Carrington told everyone who would listen she had a lucky penny in her tummy. It was only a matter of time, she assured me, until something big happened to us.

CHAPTER 14

Hair is serious business in Houston. It amazed me how much people were willing to pay for the services at Salon One. Being blond, in particular, was a serious investment of time and money, and Salon One gave women the best color of their lives. The salon was known for a tricolor blond that was so good, women would fly in from out of state for it. There was always a waiting list for any of the stylists, but for the head stylist and part-owner, Zenko, the wait was three months minimum.

Zenko was a small man with a powerful presence and the electric grace of a dancer. Although Zenko had been born and raised in Katy, he'd gone to England for an apprenticeship. When he returned, he had lost his first name and had gained an authentic-sounding British accent. Everyone loved that accent. We loved it even when he was yelling at one of us behind the scenes.

Zenko yelled a lot. He was a perfectionist, not to mention a genius. And when

something wasn't just the way he liked it. there were fireworks. But oh. what a business he had created. It had won Salon of the Year from magazines like Texas Monthly, Elle, and Glamour. Zenko himself had appeared in a documentary film about a famous actress. He'd been busy straightening her long red hair with a flat iron while she answered an interviewer's questions. That documentary had boosted Zenko's career, already thriving,. into a white glare of fame known by few stylists. Now he had his own line of products, all packaged in glittering silver cans and bottles with star-shaped tops.

To me, the interior of Salon One looked like an English manor house, appointed with polished oak floors, antiques, and ceilings with medallions and hand-painted designs. When a client wanted coffee, it was served in bone china cups on a silver tray. If she wanted diet Coke, it was poured into tall glasses over Evian-water ice cubes. There was a large room with styling stations, and a few private rooms for celebrities and megawealthy clients, and a shampoo room filled with candlelight and classical music.