“Ouch!” an elderly woman cried. “Oh, my God—I’m sorry!” Annie apologized to her client quickly, unaware she’d been pinching the woman’s fingers. Jillian’s eyes curled around Annie like a snake as she hung by the receptionist’s desk. Lips glossed in a shimmery maroon, eyes concealed behind oversized sunglasses, Jillian was wrapped in a black fur coat, her head covered by a matching fur hat. She was completely out of place in the rural salon. Ms. Devane should be walking a red carpet, boarding a private jet or dining in a five-star restaurant in some exotic locale. What was she doing here? Didn’t Annie tell her she needed time, that she’d call her when she was ready? Sliding the glasses from her face, Jillian tucked them into a deep pocket. Next, she tugged the leather gloves from her slender hands, her nail-enamel a blood red against her bronzed skin. Annie tried to ignore her. Drawing a nail brush laden with mauve lacquer down her client’s nail bed, she forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand.
