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of the Chambers clan dealing with a flighty, not-so-capable stylist. Izzy’s words were an understatement. Adelaide Chambers—not to mention some of Izzy’s dad’s sisters—was commanding and demanding. They would make mincemeat of Tanya in the time it took to heat a curling iron.
    “Tanya will mature. Hopefully, anyway. And she might even get over being mad at me—and Tiffany, too. But the fact is, Tiff is a good stylist; she’s nice to people and doesn’t talk too much. And she’s patient. Tanya has a way to go.” She looked at the clock. “I know Tiffany’s absence today isn’t great verification of her competence, but if she left, she had a good reason. In the meantime, I apologize for wasting your time.”
    “It’s not wasted,” Nell assured the salon owner. She held up her glass and smiled. “This is a fine glass of wine.”
    “And we’ve plenty of time before the wedding,” Izzy added. “Just have her call me tomorrow morning, and we’ll figure out another time.”
    M.J. walked with them to the front of the salon, assuring them once more that it wouldn’t happen again. Tiffany had looked pale that morning. M.J. suspected maybe she’d gone home sick. A reasonable excuse.
     
    But Tiffany Ciccolo didn’t look ill two hours later when Nell, Birdie, and Izzy climbed the steps to the Artist’s Palate deck for the Fractured Fish’s evening performance.
    Izzy nudged Nell and pointed to a picnic table near the railing of the old deck. Tiffany sat alone, large sunglasses covering most of her face and her sandals tapping the wooden floor. At first the tapping seemed to be accompanying the plucking of Pete’s guitar as he tuned the strings. But soon it turned into a nervous staccato, and Tiffany’s gaze, as best they could tell, seemed focused on Andy Risso, not on Pete at all.
    Andy sat on a stool, his ponytail hanging over one shoulder, and his long torso leaning forward. His eyes were on the drumhead as he fiddled with the lugs. The clicking sounds made by his key were picked up by Pete’s mic.
    Tiffany watched, as if the process of tuning a snare drum was the most important thing in her life at that precise moment.
    She finally pulled her gaze from Andy and looked around the deck, as if noticing the gathering crowd for the first time. She stopped suddenly, her eyes on Izzy and Nell. Her hand flew to her mouth and she started to get up from the bench. “I’m so sorry,” she mouthed.
    For a moment Nell thought she was about to cry.
    “No problem,” Izzy mouthed back, and held up her phone. “Call me.”
    They followed Birdie to a table in the middle of the deck and quickly claimed it, piling sweaters and bags on the benches to make sure Ben, Sam, Cass—and whoever else might show up—would have a place to sit.
    Izzy looked back at Tiffany. “She looks embarrassed, poor thing. It’s not a big deal. People forget things.”
    Nell nodded. Tiffany was back to watching the band, but the look Nell had seen in her eyes was more than embarrassment. There was a touch of that, but something else. Worry? But missing an appointment didn’t merit that, unless she thought her job was at stake.
    Whatever the cause, something seemed not right.
    Tiffany Ciccolo had been working at M.J.’s salon longer than Nell had been a client there. Nell remembered her as so shy, one barely noticed her as she swept the floors and straightened products and magazines. She was tall, slightly awkward, as if she weren’t completely comfortable in her own body. Then, with encouragement from M.J., Tiffany became a receptionist and some of her shyness faded. Finally, she’d gone to beauty school and returned with more confidence and a new hair color—a deep shade of red as smooth and shiny as copper tile. She was still quiet, but after beauty school, she seemed competent, more assured, and M.J. had rewarded her efforts with another promotion and even an office of her own.
    Nell liked the young woman—the little she knew