Seven-year-old Caleb Monroe had stopped asking her to stop.
That frightened him more than the clippers.
At first, when the buzzing machine touched the back of his head, Caleb had twisted away and cried, “No! I want Dad!”
Then he begged.
Then he promised he would behave at the party.
Then he tried reminding Vanessa that his father had said nobody was allowed to cut his hair without asking.
None of it worked.
Now he stood on the cold marble floor of the enormous bathroom wearing a tiny black tuxedo, white shirt, and bow tie while tears ran silently down his brown cheeks.
His thick black curls fell around his polished shoes.
Some landed on the hem of Vanessa Monroe’s white lace robe.
She barely seemed to notice.
“Hold still.”
Caleb squeezed his eyes shut.
The clippers moved over another section of his hair.
More curls dropped.
Vanessa examined the uneven patch she had created.
“There. Better.”
Caleb opened his eyes.
“No.”
Vanessa sighed.
She was thirty-seven, tall and striking, with straight blond hair falling nearly to her waist and the kind of polished appearance that made strangers assume she never raised her voice.
Usually she did not.
She had learned that quiet words could control a room more effectively.
Especially with children.
“You haven’t even looked yet.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Caleb.”
“My mom liked my hair.”
Vanessa’s mouth tightened.
The sentence had become increasingly common during the past several months.
My mom made pancakes like this.
My mom sang that song.
My mom said my curls looked like clouds.
My mom didn’t make me wear those shoes.
My mom let me sleep with the hall light on.
Vanessa placed one hand against Caleb’s shoulder.
“Your mother isn’t here.”
Caleb’s face crumpled.
She regretted the words almost immediately.
Not because they were false.
Because she knew Marcus would hate hearing them.
She softened her voice.
“I mean she isn’t here to get you ready tonight.”
Caleb stared down.
“My dad is.”
“Your father is at the foundation.”
“He said he was coming home.”
“Not before the gala.”
“He promised.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
“Your father promises you a lot of things.”
The boy looked up.
“What does that mean?”
“It means adults have responsibilities.”
Caleb sniffed.
“So do kids.”
“Yes.”
“And mine is keeping my hair.”
For a second Vanessa almost smiled.
Marcus’s son.
Same stubborn jaw.
Same ability to state a ridiculous argument as though delivering testimony before Congress.
But tonight she did not find it charming.
Tonight almost eight hundred people would fill the ballroom of the Monroe Children’s Foundation in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Donors.
Politicians.
Corporate executives.
Magazine photographers.
Local television.
Three national lifestyle outlets.
It was the first major gala since Vanessa married Marcus eleven months earlier.
More importantly, it was the first public event where she would be introduced as chair of the foundation’s new family advisory council.
The photographs mattered.
The Monroe family image mattered.
Marcus in a black tuxedo.
Vanessa in an ivory gown.
Caleb between them.
Elegant.
Unified.
Controlled.
And Caleb’s hair had grown nearly four inches since Marcus stopped taking him to his regular barber.
The curls were beautiful.
Vanessa could admit that.
But they were wild.
At least in her opinion.
They refused the neat side part she had tried to create that morning.
They flattened beneath water and sprang back ten minutes later.
They made Caleb look younger.
Messier.
More like photographs of his mother.
That last part was the one Vanessa refused to say aloud.
“You’ll thank me later.”
Caleb shook his head.
“No.”
“You will.”
“No.”
“Stop arguing.”
“You’re not my mom.”
The clippers stopped.
Vanessa stared into the large mirror.
Caleb immediately seemed to realize he had crossed an invisible line.
His breathing changed.
Vanessa set her jaw.
“No.”
She nodded.
“I’m not.”
Caleb looked toward the door.
Vanessa continued.