man in the photo was Gil. How had she not seen it right away? It had taken her a few seconds because of the black hair combed back over his scalp. She knew only the Gil Briggs with a bit of a belly, those studded, black-framed glasses, and a full silver mane. He must have been the director or the producer of Lost ‘n’ You.
She lost track of time and then saw that more than fifteen minutes had elapsed. She closed the albums and scurried out of the room before Felicia discovered her snooping around. Thankfully, Felicia had not yet made her way downstairs. This both relieved Isla and pissed her off, as she needed to get back to the salon as soon as possible.
Snooping on Felicia filled her with guilt. She paced back and forth in the open space of the dining room, wondering if she should bring up Lost ‘n’ You to her. She could always say she’d recognized her from the show, but that might be a stretch, seeing that Felicia had starred in it eighteen years ago.
Ten minutes later Felicia waltzed, barefoot, down the stairs in the same bathrobe as before. Or maybe she’d put on a fresh one. A white towel was wrapped around her head, and Isla saw her without those sunglasses wrapped around her eyes. She looked sad. Maybe depressed. How could she not be with her daughter still missing? Oversized silver loop earrings hung from her pink lobes.
Without thinking, Isla reached out and embraced her. But Felicia felt limp and skeletal in her arms and didn’t reciprocate with anywhere near the same enthusiasm. After stepping back, Isla noticed that Felicia’s eyes had that faraway stare about them, and Isla speculated that she might be on meds.
“Thank you for coming over. I absolutely could not face the world looking like this.”
“Stop that. You’re a beautiful woman, Felicia. And I’m here for you whenever you need me.” She felt excited about working on a bona fide TV star.
“Willow’s disappearance has devastated us. She is our only child and means everything to us.”
“They’ll find her, Felicia. I just know it,” Isla said, taking the cape out of her bag and unfolding it.
“Sometimes I wish we had never moved to this godforsaken town.” She dragged a dining-room chair under a dangling lamp. “Is there enough light here for you to work?”
“Yes, there should be more than enough.”
Felicia sat down and allowed Isla to wrap the cape around her neck.
“Do you know how to do a razor cut?”
“Of course. Would you like me to give you one?” Isla replied.
“If you’re able. It’s how my Portland girl usually does it.” She pulled out her phone. “Here’s a picture of her last cut.”
“Sure. I can do that.”
“Do whatever you think looks best. It can’t look any worse than it does right now. I get so frustrated with these frizzies.” She lifted up her hair and showed Isla.
Isla unwrapped her tool bag on the kitchen island. Felicia wore her dyed hair shoulder length and jagged, although gray roots had started to show. She combed through her wet hair before removing her three-inch German shears. Then she straightened strands of Felicia’s hair between her fingers and snipped off the dead ends.
“Katie really loves Willow. She’s absolutely devastated that she’s still missing.”
“Who’s Katie?”
She stopped cutting and gazed at Felicia. “Katie. My daughter.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me . . .”
“Isla.”
“Yes, that’s it. My mind’s been so screwed up since Willow went missing.”
Isla picked up the styling razor and opened it. Then she combed Felicia’s hair downward and edged the blade against the woman’s hair at a forty-five-degree angle. The effect, once dry, would be to shape and create a hip, spiky look that seemed to be all the rage in Hollywood. Isla had attended a weeklong razor-cutting seminar in Boston last year, after a few of her clients had requested the style.
“How did you meet Gil?”
“We met out in LA.”
“What were you doing there? Trying to break into show business?” She hoped Felicia might talk about her time on Lost ‘n’ You.
“For God’s sakes, my daughter is missing, and all you want to talk about is my past?”
“I’m so . . . so sorry.” Felicia’s words shocked her. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Please respect my privacy during this difficult time.”
“Of course.”
Felicia started to cry. “I’m so sorry for being mean to you. I’m a complete wreck right now and not being appreciative of all you’re doing for me.”