Jilly and Lorene, the two women who work for Lyle at A Cut Above, look just alike to me. They aren’t twins, not even sisters, but I never can remember which is which. They’re both trim and dark-eyed, they both wear jeans and black t-shirts that say “A Cut Above,” and they change the color of their hair so often that it’s confusing. Their stations are side by side in the shop, and they share hair dryers, curling irons, clippers, and even customers with equanimity.
The two women like to drink in the afternoons if business is slow, and if Nigel’s around, they’ll give him a twenty to walk over to Albertson’s and buy them a bottle of wine. When the garden’s going full blast, Nigel often takes them handfuls of fava beans to eat. Fava beans, zapped in the microwave of the little kitchen on the enclosed back porch of the shop, taste really good mashed and mixed with cream cheese and freshly-ground black pepper.
Most days, Nigel and I take a break around three o’clock and join Jilly and Lorene for a snack. Today, Nigel serves us pansies and nasturtiums with our wine, and, after a couple of glasses, we have fun imagining what other flowers we could cook up.
“How about ‘Holly Ham Hocks’?”
“’Banana-Daffodil Delight.’ It’s a blended, frozen dessert.”
“Pan-fried Petunias. With gravy.”
“What kind of gravy? What flower begins with ‘g-r’?”
“Geranium gravy.”
“That’s ‘g-e-r.’ Pour me another glass of wine.”
Jilly or Lorene--I don’t know which--looks out the back door of the shop. “Oh, Ni--gel,” she says in a sing-songy voice, “there’s someone here to see--ee you.” She points toward the parking lot where a slender young man in tight levis and a western-cut shirt poses against Nigel’s battered Rambler.
Nigel looks out over her shoulder. “It’s Trey.” He tosses the plate of flowers on the counter and hurries out the door and down the few steps to the parking lot. Jilly and Lorene stand at the window and watch.
“He’s so gorgeous.”
“I don’t get it.”
“What a waste.”
“You said it.”
They go through this every time Trey comes around.
Suddenly Lyle looms in the doorway of the break room, a bundle of towels in his arms. “Don’t you two have anything else to do?” He puts the towels on the counter, shakes one out with a snap, and begins folding.
Jilly and Lorene say “No” in unison and laugh. Then they peel themselves off the window and begin clattering the plates and wineglasses into the sink. I pop the last nasturtium into my mouth, squeeze past Lyle, and head for the front door of the shop.
“Out the back door with those boots,” says Lyle, and I swivel around and march back through the break room. Lyle follows me out the back door. Nigel and Trey are leaning together on the car, passing a beer bottle between them. Lyle frowns. “Am I paying you for that?” he calls.
Nigel laughs. “You couldn’t afford this, you old queen.” He takes one long, last chug of the beer and tosses the bottle into the back of his station wagon. Trey smiles a slow, tantalizing smile at Lyle--the kind of smile you see on beefcake calendars--then turns to Nigel and holds out a hand, palm up. Nigel unhooks a key from the bunch he digs out of his pocket and places it carefully in Trey’s hand. “See you later, kiddo,” he says. Trey folds his long legs into Nigel’s car and backs it out of the parking lot. He flutters a wave at Lyle as he drives off.
Lyle stands with his hands on his hips, fuming a little. I don’t think he’s really in a bad mood; he just thinks he ought to be. Nigel laughs again, and picks up the Weed Scourge. “Let’s get back at it,” he says, giving me a wink, “before someone gets pissy.”
