Deception on All Accounts Page 8

  Sadie held out her hand; Soda Pop took it and followed. Sadie retrieved a glass jar from her credenza, opened it, and held it out for the little girl. Soda Pop stood on her tiptoes and peered suspiciously into the jar with one eye closed. When she saw the red, white, and yellow balloons tucked inside, she backed away, her face danced, and she let out a laugh.

  “Go ahead,” said Sadie. “Pick out one and we'll blow it up for you.”

  Soda Pop placed her tiny hand in the middle of the balloons and came out with two—one red and one white.

  “Okay, two it is.” Sadie blew up the balloons, tying a knot in each one so the air could not escape, and handed them to Soda Pop.

  Soda Pop thought for a moment and then handed one back to Sadie. “You can have one, too,” she said. “You have pretty hair.” And with a big gesture, she handed the red one back to Sadie. They bounced the balloons back and forth to each other while the rest of the customers in the lobby looked on—some with smiles, some with disgust.

  Soda Pop jumped for a balloon high in the air. Her arm caught the edge of her scarf and it slid backward off her head, revealing a bald scalp with just a few tufts of hair on one side.

  “Uh-oh.” Soda Pop's small voice sounded panicked. She grabbed and repositioned her scarf, simultaneously checking to see if her mother had seen what had happened. Relieved to see the back of her mother's head, Soda Pop quickly climbed into Sadie's lap, carefully running her fingers around the edge of her scarf and tightening the knot.

  “Is it okay?” she asked. “Did I mess it up?”

  “You look fine,” said Sadie, trying to hide her disbelief. “You look fine.”

  Sadie shifted the frail child on her knee and began a conversation that would eventually land her in a beauty salon, waiting for someone to cut her hair. Soda Pop's hair had been sacrificed to the chemicals used to treat a monster named leukemia. It broke Sadie's heart to see the child with no hair, so she decided to give her some of her own. The hair would be fashioned into a wig that would fit her small head precisely. Sadie wished she could do more.

  Soda Pop's mother had come to the bank that day to ask for help in securing a second mortgage. The insurance company had stopped paying for the expensive medical treatments after the bills had reached the maximum amount allowed on the policy.

  After Soda Pop and her mother left, Sadie spent weeks working with the loan department on the application. Overextended. Not enough collateral. The reasons from the loan clerk had been endless. Under the circumstances, the bank would never make the loan. So here sat Sadie, doing the only thing she knew how. She would share her hair with the little girl who wanted to share her balloons.

  Roberto handed Sadie a glass of wine and droned on in an irritating, nasal voice. “We could sell your hair, girl,” he said. “There are women out there who would kill for a piece of this gorgeous stuff.”

  “I don't think so,” she said. “Just save it in this paper bag like I asked, please.”

  Sadie placed her untouched wine glass next to a collection of scissors and combs on a shelf covered with tiny flecks of hair. She didn't mind a glass of wine now and then, but this didn't seem like the time, or the place.

  “We'll leave it one length. You know, just below your chin with a side bang,” he said, holding her hair up and to the side to help visualize the finished product. “Your hair is so thick and straight. You'll look very chic.”

  The ordeal began and Sadie tried to concentrate on breathing. She glanced in a side mirror at the other people in the salon, wondering if their visit was as traumatic as hers, then returned her gaze to the reflection of her own face in the mirror. She studied the shape of her face, her eyes, nose, and chin, and tried to imagine which part came from her father and which from her mother. All from her Cherokee father, she decided, except for her sky-blue eyes. They undeniably belonged to her mother and she wished her mother had kept them.

  The double-tone bell at the front door announced the arrival of a customer and Sadie sensed the presence of a man. Her view was distorted, obstructed by heavy strands of hair covering her face. The man removed his navy blue sport coat, rolled up his white shirtsleeves, and loosened his tie as he walked over to Crystal, who was now perched on a stool at the receptionist desk. The man looked almost out of place in the salon, yet very sure of himself, very comfortable. Sadie watched from a distance as the man settled in at the workstation of the salon's manicurist.

  Good grief, he's here to get a manicure.

  Sadie smiled inwardly. She couldn't think of a man she knew who would be caught dead in a salon getting his cuticles snipped.

  The scissors sliced closer to her ear and she could feel the clumps of hair falling from her head. She closed her eyes.

  What on earth was I thinking?

  Clip, clip, clip.

  Soda Pop—think of Soda Pop.

  Sadie tried to relax. Her shoulders ached from the tension that had invaded her neck and worked its way down her back and spread throughout her body. Roberto, or Bo, or whoever he was, chattered about something, but she couldn't hear him. Suddenly she felt hot—very hot and unduly claustrophobic.

  It'll grow back. She doesn't have any.

  Thoughts buzzed around in her head like dizzy bees while Roberto pulled the round hairbrush through her shortened locks to the hum of the hair dryer. The deafening sound stopped abruptly and Sadie opened her eyes.

  “You can give up that death grip you've got on my chair now,” said Roberto.

  “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize…”

  “I don't know what you're worried about, girl. You are gorgeous.”

  A reflection of the new Sadie stared back at her from the huge mirror. Her hair was parted just left of center, and gave way to feathered bangs. Her shiny black hair bounced with a fluid movement as she moved her head. The length of her new coif fell just below her strong jawbone.

  Maybe this is what a banker's supposed to look like, anyway.

  “Want to see the back?”

  Sadie took the handheld mirror as Roberto spun the chair so she could see the reflection of the back of her head. Sheepishly, she placed her limp hand on her bare neck as if it were a new discovery and maybe, just maybe, if she touched it her hair would instantly reappear.

  “We call this a bob, and it's perfect for your hair.” Roberto tugged at the towel, loosening the plastic cape covering Sadie's shoulders.

  She very graciously thanked Roberto when he presented her with the brown paper sack, then walked back to the reception area. Crystal sat on her stool behind the counter moving her head from side to side, mouthing invisible words. Two thin wires ran from a small contraption attached to her waist and disappeared into her vibrant hair. When she saw Sadie approach, she pulled out the earphones and hopped down, and began to write on a pink ticket.

  Sadie stood at the glass counter, rummaged in her purse for her billfold, and pulled out two twenty-dollar bills. As she waited for the young girl to finish writing, she rubbed Andrew Jackson's face with her thumb and wondered if she would ever be able to look at a twenty-dollar bill and not think of how Jackson had lied and turned his back on the entire Indian population of the New World. Her grandmother had repeated the story to her so many times, she knew it by heart.

  After the Cherokees had fought alongside Jackson to defeat the British, he repaid them for their loyalty by stealing their land. He cost the Cherokees thousands of lives as he sent his army to remove them by force from their homelands in North Carolina, Tennessee, and Georgia to be resettled thousands of miles away in Indian Territory, which would later become the state of Oklahoma. The money Jackson promised as compensation to the Cherokees for their land was never paid. Now, the memory of the Trail of Tears for most people had been reduced to an annual stage production at the Cherokee Heritage Center in Tahlequah and Jackson had been immortalized, his face patriotically displayed on the most widely used piece of currency in the country—the twenty-dollar bill. “Just don't seem right,” her grandmot
her had always said.

  “That'll be twenty-five dollars,” Crystal said, handing Sadie a copy of her ticket.

  As Sadie handed her the two bills and waited for her change, she shifted her thoughts back to her new haircut as she looked at her reflection in one of the salon's many mirrors, turning her head from side to side and poking at her bangs with her long, slender fingers.

  Not too bad…I still look like me.

  Crystal handed her a ten and a five. Sadie dropped the five back on the counter. “Can you give this to Roberto for me?” she asked. Crystal nodded that she would as she replanted the speaker wires into her ears.

  Sadie stood tall, pulled her trench coat tight around her shapely body, turned the collar up around her ears, and walked toward the door. She stopped, folded the paper bag holding her hair, and slid it into her coat pocket. From the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but sneak a closer look at the manicure man. A flash of a glance and their eyes met. Sadie blushed. It was Adam's friend, Jaycee Jones.

  “Well, look at you,” he said.

  The manicurist, a young woman with bleached blond hair, stopped buffing his fingers, looked up and smiled.

  “Oh, uh, hi,” said Sadie. She didn't know what to say. Her excitement in seeing Jaycee again was tempered with embarrassment for what she was sure was an uncomfortable position for a man.

  “I almost didn't recognize you,” he said. “Whatever possessed you to cut your hair?”

  “It's kind of a long story.” Sadie looked around as if worried someone might see them or overhear their conversation.

  “Say, I'm almost finished here. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  Sadie looked at her watch and silently searched her mind for an excuse. Her thoughts became a tangled mess within a millisecond. I don't know him…yes, I do, he has a business relationship with the bank…it should be all right, Adam introduced us at Gordy's funeral…damn, he's good-looking…he could be Jack the Ripper in disguise…

  “I promise I won't bite,” he added, as if he could read her mind. “There's a diner down the street that has great apple pie.”

  “Well, I love apple pie, and I guess just one cup of coffee would be all right. But after that I've got to get home.”

  Sadie waited by the front door of the salon while Jaycee paid Crystal for his manicure. The thundershower had passed, leaving the air clean and fresh. They walked slowly toward the Coffee Cup Corner. Jaycee absentmindedly removed a Hershey's kiss from his pocket, handed it to Sadie, then peeled another and popped it in his mouth.

  “Well, I don't know why you cut your hair, but all I can say is you are a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you.” Sadie smiled with her eyes and stashed the chocolate candy in her coat pocket for later.

  They entered the diner, chose a booth near the front, and placed their orders for apple pie and coffee. Jaycee began to talk.

  “I'm an investment banker,” he said. “That's how I met Adam. I handle several accounts for the bank. My company provides risk management and investment services to corporate clients like your bank.”

  Mechanically, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a card and handed it to her. She took his card, held it tightly in her hand, and read it. His name was printed in red ink as Jaycee Jones. Below this was the name of an investment company in Dallas—Powerhouse Investments.

  “I travel a lot,” he continued. “My company is out of Dallas but I maintain two homes, a small place not far from here between Sycamore Springs and Tulsa, and my main home in Piano just north of Dallas.” Then he turned his attention to her. “What about you?”

  “Well, you already know where I work. I've been at the bank a little over twelve years.”

  “Twelve years? I'd think you'd be running the place by now,” Jaycee laughed.

  “Let's just say Adam has been a little better at playing their game than I have. Kind of a good-old-boy network, wouldn't you say?” They waited while the waitress served their desserts and filled their cups with steaming coffee. “You work directly with the higher-ups,” she continued, “you should know.” Sadie poured a double helping of cream and sugar into her coffee, then held her cup with both hands and sipped, her elbows perched on the edge of the table.

  “Unfortunately,” he said, “I guess I'll have to agree.”

  Sadie put her coffee cup down and picked up her fork. “Maybe this new haircut will help.”

  “Help? Help what?”

  “I've been told not to look like an Indian if I want a crack at a promotion.”

  “You're kidding. They can't tell you to cut your hair. That's blatant racism.”

  “Well, I didn't exactly cut it for them. I cut it for a little girl. Her name is Soda Pop. But they don't have to know that. They can think it was for them if they want. I don't care. It's just a game.” The air between them fell silent. Jaycee finished his pie while Sadie picked at hers. “I made a promise to myself,” she finally continued, “that I would make something of myself. And I think I can do that as a banker. I promised myself that I would not be pulled down like so many of my friends have…alcohol…drugs…everything else. So, I guess I'll play the white man's game and do what it takes, as long as it doesn't compromise my values. I have to be smarter than the man.” Sadie laughed. “And as for my hair? It will grow back.”

  “You're quite a lady, my dear. Not only are you beautiful, you're smart. And on top of that you know what you want and how to get it. That can be a pretty dangerous combination, don't you think?”

  They laughed and infatuation began to trickle through Sadie's veins. She fought the sensation. What was it with this guy? Was it his wavy black hair and liquid brown eyes? His well-groomed fingernails? His witty stories, lavish compliments, or his remarkable laugh? He had a kind, soft voice and she began to feel like she had known him her whole life. He was mysterious, and unpretentiously handsome. She loved and, at the same time, unexplainably, hated how she felt. And true to her word, after finishing her apple pie and one cup of coffee, she excused herself.

  “You have my card,” he said. “Give me a call sometime.”

  “Thanks for the pie and coffee. It was nice. But I've got to get home.”

  They said their goodbyes and she walked out into the damp air, seeking relief from an overwhelming feeling of intoxication. She needed to leave this man's presence to regain her wits.

  She headed up the street toward Tango's, a quaint little dress shop tucked between a fancy Italian restaurant and Toby's Shoes. She walked with a spring in her step. She felt fresh. New. Her emotions had run the gamut, and she had finally transcended her fear of short hair. She couldn't help but think her life had taken a turn toward the future, and she secretly hoped Jaycee would be a part of it.

  For a split second before she disappeared into the dress shop, a man jogging away from her in the distance caught her attention with a certain familiarity. She stopped and looked again, but the jogger was gone.

  Chapter 9

  Sadie teetered somewhere between excitement and trepidation. When she had first seen Cindy handing out invitations to an evening pool party, she hadn't thought much about it. She was used to being excluded from the unofficial get-togethers of the social crowd at the bank. But this time an envelope for the “Memorial Day Bank Bash” for a Friday-night party magically appeared on Sadie's desk with her name on it. Boldly, she accepted.

  Now that the day of the event had arrived, she began to question her decision to go. But she had already committed and couldn't turn back now.

  She stopped at the Colonial Grocery Store on her way home from work to pick up a tray of vegetables she had ordered earlier by phone. She had requested whatever vegetables they had with a good mix of colors. Serving contrasting colors of vegetables was important. It was the only lesson she could remember from her junior high home economics class and for some reason the “vegetable rule” had stuck in her head all these years. She almost felt obliged to explain this to the deli clerk. But she didn't.
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br />   She brushed her bangs to one side, pushed her new short locks behind her ears, and impatiently waited for the clerk to insert the container of dip in the center of the tray. She could see the broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots arranged around a smattering of cheese. Adding the other garnishes of sweet pickles, black olives, and flower-cut radishes made the wait worthwhile. She wanted everything to be perfect.

  When Sadie got home, she pulled out her grandmother's favorite serving dish. Pink roses adorned the center and edge of the antique plate. She carefully transferred the vegetables, dip, and other goodies to the dish and covered the entire creation with clear plastic wrap. Smiling, she knew her grandmother would approve of the use of her dish. Now she was ready to get dressed.

  The occasion had definitely called for something new to wear. She held the plastic hanger with her new purchase high in the air with one hand and tugged at Tango's trademark gold-and-navy plastic covering with the other. Trying not to obsess over what to wear, she had asked the saleslady for something casual, but nice—classy, but not too revealing.

  The invitation had noted that swimwear was optional, so she opted for a compromise. She didn't want to be the only one there unprepared for a midnight swim, so she picked out a conservative but colorful swimsuit. She then paired it with a matching wrap skirt and open blouse creating a flattering summer dress. A new pair of white sandals from Toby's completed her outfit. With everything in order, she placed the vegetable tray and the map provided in the invitation on the car seat and drove toward the party.

  Sadie could see her co-workers' cars parked along both sides of the street—Greg's Mercedes, Donna's BMW convertible, and Bob's black Lexus. Any bank officer who wanted a fancy car could get on the waiting list to buy repossessed loan collateral from the loan department for the balance owed. At times the loan officers would bypass the required qualifying ratios, making questionable loans to get the right cars in the bank's portfolio. Many customers never realized until it was too late that one delinquent payment meant no amount of negotiating could return the car to the original owner. Especially if the car met the description of a vehicle coveted by the powerful people at the bank.