“Screw the viewers,” D’John said airily. “You were born to be a blonde. And I’m the man who’s going to take you there. Think Jean Harlow. Carole Lombard. Think bombshell, baby!”
“You’re making me nervous,” Gina told him, smoothing moisturizer over her face.
“Scott says we have to take your whole presentation up a notch if you’re going national,” D’John said. He bent down and looked at her face, clucking in disapproval. “And you have got to start getting more sleep. There’s only so much concealer can do, you know.”
“I’ll try,” Gina agreed. She closed her eyes and tried to relax as D’John began applying her makeup.
He hummed as he worked, and the featherlike strokes of sponge, brush, and powder puff made her sleepy. She had nearly dozed off when she heard the door of the room open.
“Oh,” a male voice said. “Sorry.”
Regina opened her eyes. The intruder was tall, but not as tall as D’John. Maybe a shade over six feet. His brown hair was wavy and needed combing. He was deeply tanned, with a nose that was too big for his face, and starting to peel. Intense blue eyes under bushy eyebrows a shade darker than his hair. He wore faded blue jeans, a short-sleeved turquoise golf shirt, and scuffed-up boat shoes with no socks.
“Uh,” he said, looking from Regina to D’John. “Sorry. I didn’t know anybody else was in here. I’ll come back.”
“Wait!” D’John said sharply. “Who were you looking for?”
“Uh, D’John?”
“You found him,” D’John said crisply. “And you are?”
“Tate Moody. My producer, Val Foster, said you’d be expecting me.”
“Oh yes,” D’John said. “You’re the fisher boy, right?”
Moody laughed. “Sorta.”
D’John waved toward the other seat in the makeup room.
“Never mind. Sit. I’ll be with you as soon as I’m done here.”
“You sure?” the visitor asked, squirming in the chair and glancing down at his watch. “I’ve gotta be on set pretty soon. Some dudes from New York are coming in, and Val said—”
A few notes of banjo music filled the air. He glanced down at his lap, rolled to one side, and took a cell phone from his right hip pocket.
“Hey,” he said abruptly.
Gina glanced at D’John and raised one eyebrow. D’John shook his head.
Her own cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen and saw that it was Scott calling again. Quickly, she shut the phone off.
D’John busied himself with her hair, removing the hot rollers, fluffing, teasing, spraying. They both worked hard at pretending not to listen to Tate Moody’s telephone conversation.
“So what’s the word?” Moody demanded. “I thought you were gonna call yesterday. You said we’d hear something by five o’clock, no later.”
He listened but didn’t like what he was hearing. He frowned and rubbed his forehead.
“No. No! That’s impossible. I don’t have that kind of money. I thought you understood that.”
He listened, then interrupted. “Wait, dammit! No, you listen. There is no way. Okay? That’s not even close to what I can afford. Anyway, I happen to know another parcel, just down the road, sold six weeks ago, for fifty thousand less than they’re asking. And that piece has deep-water access. Yeah. That’s right. I am watching all the local transactions. You tell them that. This ain’t some dumb hillbilly they’re dealing with.”
He shook his head violently. “No. I’m through. I mean it. Tell them I’m walking away from the deal. Yeah. Well, you tell ’em what you want. I’m done.”
Tate Moody snapped his phone shut. He inhaled deeply. “Shit.”
Glancing over at D’John, his mood seemed to worsen. “Look, man, I gotta go.”
“Wait,” the stylist said. He gave Regina’s hair a final touch. “We’re done.”
He stepped over to Tate Moody’s chair and whisked another plastic cape out of the drawer in the makeup table.
When Regina made no attempt to leave, D’John gave her a questioning look.
She held up the magazine she’d been pretending to read. “Don’t worry about me. I just want to finish this article about sunscreens. Go ahead with him.” She turned and smiled sweetly at Tate Moody, who gave her a sour look. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“How long’s this gonna take?” Tate asked, turning toward the stylist.
Instead of answering, D’John spun Tate around in the chair. He bent low at the waist and peered into his subject’s face. He lightly touched Moody’s face, lifted a lock of his hair, sighed, clucked his tongue in disapproval.