Secrets in a Still Life, Kari Ganske [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

"I see the dad jokes are still going strong," I quipped lightly.

"The phone has already started ringing with concerned neighbors," he said. And as if on cue, I heard the shrill ring of the house phone reminding me that everyone in Piney Ridge likely already knew the entire story.

Chapter 4

My picture was front page news. Above the fold. And not even a recent picture, like the professional headshot I use for my byline. Nope. My high school senior picture graced the page with the headline: "Local Woman Returns With a Bang." The main reason I left Piney Ridge was because I didn't want my pictures confined to the local paper. At least it was a picture of me, not one I had taken. Which actually made me feel a little better in a twisted sort of way. I still retained integrity in my art.

For now, anyway. I may need to amend my convictions depending on how much my car and the sign cost to fix.

My mother would rather I not be part of the news in any way. She'd been fielding phone calls for days from concerned friends and citizens. She'd dutifully supported me out loud to whomever would listen—that old, decrepit sign needed to be fixed anyway; Alex was forced off the road; we are so thankful she's okay—all the while giving me death stares and sharp head shakes.

"Concerned, my big Polish dupa," Mom muttered after a particularly long string of calls one afternoon. "They just want to gossip."

"Sorry, Mom," I said for the bazillionth time. I focused on the soggy Cheerios floating around my bowl to avoid the evil eye.

The phone rang again. Mom huffed and took it off the receiver. Yes, my parents still had a house phone. The same yellow landline with the same long, yellow cord that I used to stretch from the kitchen to my bedroom in high school. Cell phones, apparently, were for emergencies only. And heaven forbid Mom would actually text someone. Nana K, on the other hand, had a substantial following on several social media platforms. Go figure.

"This is ridiculous," Mom exclaimed. "You haven't been out of the house since you've been home."

She narrowed her eyes at me—a clear sign she was about to make an outrageous suggestion. I narrowed my eyes right back at her. I had learned from the best after all.

"What is going through that meddling mind of yours?" I asked.

"We are going out," Mom said definitively. "No more hiding."

"I'm not hiding!" I lied. I was totally hiding. I hadn't even seen Colleen since that first disastrous moment.

"I'm making you an appointment at Missy K's Hair Salon," Mom said.

I rolled my eyes. Mom ignored me and snapped the phone back on the hook long enough for a dial tone, then punched in numbers.

"There is no more public place than the hair salon to show we are holding our heads high. Plus, Kelly will be able to make you look more like an adult and less like you spent months in the desert."

"I did spend months in the desert!"

My mother knew this; I always provided my travel itinerary and sent plenty of pictures when I was on location. Before returning to Piney Ridge, I'd traveled to the Sahara for a spread in Nature magazine with my douche-canoe, journalist ex-boyfriend, Wreck-it Rick. It was after that trip that he ran out on me faster than our camels on hot sand. And took my career, and my pride, with him.

But there was no reminding my mother that hair salons were hard to come by in the middle of the actual, literal desert.

I looked at my father for support. He sat at the table with the local paper and a half-empty cup of coffee he'd let go cold on him. Same as he did every morning. Harrison made him that mug for Father's Day one year, the childish Sharpie drawings were almost worn away from age and use. He glanced at me over the top of the paper and shrugged.

"'You're meddling with powers you cannot possibly comprehend,'" he said with a smirk, quoting Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

I furrowed my brow at him. I'd come to terms with my father's obsession with the Indiana Jones movies—how could I not with a name like Alexandretta—but I didn't have to like it. Still, I knew arguing was futile: once my mother made up her mind about something, not even a hurricane could budge her. A fact my father had learned long ago, so he chose to exert his efforts elsewhere.

Two hours later, I sat begrudgingly in a salon chair getting my head massaged by a girl that looked young enough to be my offspring. Truth be told, it actually felt kinda good to have someone else wash my mess of long, brownish-blonde hair.

At one point, I thought I heard the girl ask, "Is that sand?"

"Yes. Yes, it is," I muttered. I'd be finding sand everywhere forever. Yet another lovely, long-lasting reminder of my final trip as a respected member of the photojournalism community.

"Okay. We're almost done here. Then Kelly is going to see to you personally," the shampoo girl said in monotone. Clearly, she'd rather be anywhere but at work. "Kelly is one of the owners."

I transitioned to the salon chair and waited for co-owner Kelly. A shadow appeared behind me as I scrolled through my phone. I looked up to see Kelly Kirkwood, a girl I knew in high school. A girl I didn't especially like in high school.

"Alex. Long time no see," Kelly said cheerfully.

"I didn't realize you were the Kelly that worked here."

I tried to get up, but Kelly planted her hand heavily on my shoulder. My mother gave me a fierce "you'd better not cause