Good Hair Days

by Grace Helena Walz

Genres: Siblings; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Two sisters, a failing family business, and a whole lot of hairspray--Good Hair Days is a modern twist on Steel Magnolias with a little extra Dolly Parton flare.

"I've really messed it all up, Georgia," Junie says. "And this time it's the shop. June's is in trouble."

June's Beauty Shop is a staple in Whitetail, a small Southern town north of Atlanta. It may look like an outdated hole-in-the-wall slathered in Dolly Parton memorabilia, but to the women in town, it is a sacred space.

To Georgia and Junie Scott, it is their family legacy, particularly their late mother's. For generations, the shop has been passed to the oldest daughter, always named June. But Mama wanted more for her firstborn.

Now Georgia is living the life everyone expected, the life everyone wanted for her. Everyone, that is, except her. But what can a girl do when her mother's last wish was for Georgia to get out of Whitetail? So that's what she did. She lives in Atlanta, has a swanky job, drives a fancy car, and--as far as her family knows--makes the big bucks.

It should be no surprise then when Junie asks for fifty grand to fix her latest mess. But Georgia's never had that kind of money. Dad and the aunts don't have it either. To save June's, they'll have to get creative.

Bursting with energy, heart, and sass, Good Hair Days is about a family pulling together for a common purpose, finding healing from the past, and moving forward courageously as they encounter their hardest trial yet.

Release date: November 11, 2025

Publisher: Harper Muse

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter 1
Georgia

I belong to a generations-old line of hairdressers, women who snipped and sprayed and teased each head of hair to perfection in our small-town beauty shop. Well, I did belong until I was lovingly cast out. Nevertheless, salon blood runs in my veins. And since I can’t go home, I visit local salons like a meditation, like a pilgrimage, like a desperate grab at the life I wish I could’ve had. Even when my bank balance hovers around zero, I never regret an appointment. Not for a sniff of that life or the family I miss most.

Because good hair is not negotiable.

Not in my life, and not in my heart.

The floral perfume of the glossy, high-end salon wafts over me as I step inside, despite the fact that I absolutely, positively cannot afford it. It’s my first time here, and the familiar scent of tea tree oil floats by, pushed my way by the warmth of a blow dryer. It’s like a reminder that everything just might be ok. The music, a soft pop track, plays at a pitch-perfect decibel. Every employee is well-mannered, unruffled. Without question, these folks are professionals.

A blonde woman with pink streaks and a nose ring introduces herself as Sadie and wraps a towel around the back of my neck. I know the drill, and as she lifts my thick red hair like a velvet curtain from my back, I recline into the washbasin, my breath pouring out in a sigh as the water rushes over my crown. I was raised between the basins, under the feet of my mother, my aunts, and my grandmother, two hours north of here at June’s Beauty Shop. It’s the best hair salon in north Georgia—or at least in our small town of Whitetail—and it’s the most wonderful place on earth.

Well, to be entirely transparent, it’s also an outdated, hole-in-the wall shop slathered in Dolly Parton memorabilia. And there is no guarantee that the June’s staff is always on their best behavior—even if they try. But we cut folks a break when they’re out of a job, or down on their luck, or their transmission just quit, and we get by. With a little help from the occasional gambling tables we set out after hours.

June’s is where the women of my mama’s family have worked and lived and loved for generations. June’s is the reason every firstborn daughter in the family is named June. It’s the reason every June grows up to run the beauty shop, with the other women by her side. What can I say—we take our traditions seriously.

“Water a good temp?” Sadie asks. She’s definitely a hair apprentice, the person who will sweep and take out the trash until she’s a full-fledged stylist.

“Great,” I tell her.

I close my eyes and hear the quick squish of shampoo being pumped from a commercial-size bottle, and the tension in my neck unwinds as Sadie’s fingers begin to massage my scalp. Being the person in the chair feels like tossing someone else the keys, a break from the responsibility I’ve assigned myself. A chatty young woman sits down at the basin beside me, smacking her bubblegum loud enough to punctuate the music. She launches into a detailed account of her recent promotion and the vacation to the Bahamas she and her fiancé have planned. Must be nice. Still, I shouldn’t compare. I’m at the beauty shop; I shall savor it.

“Cutting the water back on,” Sadie announces, then starts to rinse.

Look better, feel better. That’s what my mama always said about a good hair day. June Louise Scott was the fourth June of her kind, and she died when I was only thirteen. Those of us left behind—me, my sister, and our maternal aunts, Cece and Tina—follow her mantras like a beacon, like a ritual of love.

Sadie turns off the water with a clunk when she’s finished and says, “Let’s get you back over to the chair.” 

the mirror-lined stations where expensive-looking clients clutter the seats. Sadie clips me into a cape and heads back to the wash station as my stylist arrives.

“Hey there, thanks for coming in. I’m Jaxy.” She has a short-cropped Afro and is wearing a skintight denim jumpsuit I could never, not in my wildest dreams, pull off. “What can I do for you today?”

I have the script memorized. “Only a trim, please. I’ll keep the long layers and not too choppy around the face.”

She nods. “I hate it when it looks all clunky when it’s pulled up.”

“Yes. You’re reading my mind,” I say, and I know I’m in safe hands.

Jaxy flashes me a pearly white smile, then gets down to untangling and cutting my hair as professionally as she represents herself. I feel myself loosen up with every stretching comb and quick snip, and eventually my eyes close.

The office where I work is right above us. One of many offices stacked on top of the retail spaces at street level, like this salon. Mine is a customer care center where phones ring incessantly and are answered in far-too-loud voices, almost as if the company’s success is measured by volume. I’d be lying if I said it was my dream, but it’s not all bad and I do my best to be a top-notch performer. I’m an executive assistant to the boss, the VP of customer support, Felix. I manage his schedule, his calls, and occasionally his moods, and my well-organized brain and take-charge attitude are well-suited to the job. I remind him about appointments, flag his documents for spelling and grammar mistakes, and generally cover his rear when he gets flustered.

Which isn’t infrequent.

I open my eyes, and in the mirror, Jaxy looks laser focused as she measures and trims. Before long she reaches for the blow dryer, and I let myself sink into the white noise and warm air surrounding me.

Now this is what life’s about. Hair nirvana accessible only from a premiere service.

Even if I’m doing fairly well as a secretary, this is where I want to be—in the salon.

Well, June’s Beauty Shop specifically.

Jaxy takes my thick red hair in sections, curls it, and rakes it into waves with her fingers once it cools. She hands me a mirror and turns my chair to give me a 360-degree view. “What do you think?”

“It’s exactly what I wanted. Thank you,” I say. “You’re a killer stylist—and that’s coming from a fifth-generation haircare family member.”

Jaxy’s cheeks flush. “Well, hopefully I’ll see you next time.”

I assure her that she’ll be my first-choice stylist for next time, but in my heart I know next time will be a long time coming.

I should be someone who can afford it, and if anyone were to ask my family back home in Whitetail, they would assure them I could. Because I am a hometown hero, the class valedictorian and varsity athlete, sent to college on a full scholarship. A Star Child who worked her way up to a job as a VP of customer support in only eight years. Or at least, that’s the lie I let them believe.

After Mama died, I was something they could point to that was going well. I gave them something hopeful to look at, something to brag about around town. Something to tack up on their fridges and the beauty shop walls in pride. Something to assure their friends that their lives had a silver lining. How could I tell them it all went wrong? That the family superstar had burned out? It would mean laying hurt and embarrassment on them. And I couldn’t do that.

Jaxy walks me to the checkout desk, and we say goodbye. I settle up my tab—on a credit card—and leave a generous tip.

I push out of the glass storefront into the thick, warm summer air. I hear the rumble of Atlanta traffic stopping and starting on the main road adjacent to this side street. It’s evening rush hour, which seems to last most of the day in this city with our overloaded highways.

I turn the corner and extend my badge to unlock the entrance that leads to the floors above. In the vestibule I press the button to call the elevator down. When it arrives, the doors opening with a friendly chime, a small group of colleagues empties out.

“Georgia!” Mercedes, an early-twenties bundle of energy, calls out. “A few of us are heading down to Russo’s for happy hour. Want to join?”

I smile as I brace an arm across the elevator door to hold it. “Thanks, but Felix doesn’t have anyone for Sophie, so I agreed to keep her.” 

ucky to have you.”

I playfully look left and right, then whisper, “Don’t tell him, but it’s for Sophie, not for him.”

Something about Felix’s daughter reminds me of my little sister, Junie, the person I love most in this world. I step inside, and once the doors close, the elevator zips upward lightning-quick, making my insides flip-flop briefly.

I love home, and I love June’s. But I love my sister, Junie, in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever loved anyone or anything else. It’s probably a good thing, considering she got the name. In our family, every firstborn daughter is supposed to be named June—except when it came to me.

Mama bucked tradition. Well, she tried. She only made it halfway until, for some mysterious reason, she changed her mind and named her second girl June. And in naming her so, Mama also gave Junie the rights to June’s Beauty Shop. It was tradition after all. In her typical fashion, Mama put a good spin on it for me. I was the star of the family. I was destined for more. I shouldn’t be chained to the rickety old salon unless I chose to be. So she gave me a new name and an open door to any possibility. It was a dream I believed in too. Even if I couldn’t quite outrun the small but constant tug June’s had on my heart.

Since I didn’t get the name I was due, my consolation prize was my middle name, Louise, Mama’s maiden name, the last name her sisters Tina and Cece still held. Tina and Cece always called themselves Louises, and as girls Junie and I joined in too. As a group we are Louises. It was a sliver of proof of my belonging among them.

Any way I dice it, my name should’ve been a revolution. A ticket to an enviable life beyond the shop.

Until I couldn’t make good on the version of myself Mama planned for me. Until I didn’t turn out particularly glittery. Until I came to resemble a fairly average person. And the eagerness to please Mama’s memory turned to guilt inside me.

The elevator doors open and my mind clears as the sprawling open workspace appears in front of me. Most of the desks are empty since it’s after five. I snake through the rows and rows of low cubicles in shades of greige to my perch, in similar bland neutrals, outside Felix’s office. The door clicks open as I approach, and I catch sight of Sophie. She begins to bound out but corrects herself into a slow walk when she presumably remembers she’s a preteen now and a bit too cool to be excited about a strange woman in her thirties.

I raise a hand, trying to look cool. “Hey, Soph.”

She walks up and slouches on my desktop.

“You’re stuck with me again, huh?” I say, setting my bag on the desktop and pulling out my phone.

“Can we do a massive fishtail that goes all the way down like a French braid?” she asks.

It’s my favorite thing about hanging with Sophie—and probably one of the bigger reasons she reminds me so much of Junie—her love for hair. We’ve done every variety of French braid, mastered the fishtail, executed peak early 2000s butterfly clip styles, and even experimented with temporary hair colors (with her dad’s permission). She once asked me to cut it, but that was where I had to draw the line.

“Of course.” I smile and reach into my bag, then pull out my jumbo case of rainbow hair ties, clips, and every other hair trinket a girl could dream of. “I came prepared.”

Sophie squeaks and claps in excitement.

A tight part of my insides unfurls with relief. I’ve been waiting, expecting the moment when she decides she’s too cool for me. Because along with the inevitable polite “No thanks, I’m not into that anymore,” Sophie will close this magical window in my mind that allows me to go home for a bit, to see Junie, to revisit the moments we were closest.

Felix comes out of his office, pulling on a sport coat and finger combing his hair. “Thanks again for this, Georgia. You’re always Sophie’s first choice.”

I squeeze a quiet smile. I must admit babysitting isn’t exactly the picture I had of a Friday evening at thirty-two, but this is different. Sophie’s mom has been in and out of treatment facilities for her addiction and the mental health problems that have sprung from it like tendrils. I don’t know the details—they aren’t really my business anyway—but I feel a special desire to show up for Sophie. She’s eleven years old. The same age Junie was when our mom died. I did my best

 back then to step in and be there for Junie, to do whatever seemed like a “mom job” and to do it exceptionally, but I know it wasn’t a fix.

Just like my hanging out with Sophie won’t fix her missing her mom. But I know what it’s like growing up without a mom around, and if I can make the girl happy for even a few minutes by braiding her hair, saying yes is a no-brainer.

“You guys good?” Felix asks as he turns to go. He grinds to a halt, slaps a palm to his forehead, and groans. “Dinner. I didn’t plan dinner. Georgia—”

“I’ve got it,” I say, cutting him off.

Sophie grins and shoots a look my way. “We seriously always get the same thing. Pizza. Next to the hair place.”

Felix nods rapidly. “Of course. Yes, of course you do. Again, thank you.”

I wave him off as an exasperated Sophie chimes in, “Dad, just go. Georgia is, like, the most responsible person I know. And we’ve got plans.”

Felix throws us a final wave and disappears toward the elevator, and Sophie wastes no time in pulling up the YouTube video she found demonstrating the braid she wants me to execute. I watch it a few times to make sure I’ve got it before she settles on a makeshift pillow at my feet and hands me her brush.

“Braid first, then pizza, right?” I ask as I pull the brush through her brown waves.

“For sure,” she says.

We have a routine: braiding at the office, then pizza downstairs, and last, YouTube or TV on her tablet. It’s never made sense for us to sit in rush-hour traffic for the drive to their house that’s in the opposite direction of my place. Plus, Felix keeps these work dinners short, saving what he has of his single-dad energy for outings with true friends. Or at least that’s what I assume; we aren’t particularly close, to be honest. I have to admit the arrangement suits me, being able to help Felix out without having to go to his house. The last thing I need is people gossiping at the office about the nature of our relationship.

Sophie is quiet as I braid her hair, only making the occasional comment about shows she’s watching or something a friend told her that she wants to fact-check with me. I’m almost to the end of the braid when my phone rings.

I look over and the screen is lit with Junie’s smiling face, the photo I have saved for her. 

The phone rings off then immediately buzzes back to life on the desktop.

“You can get it, you know,” Sophie says. “She’s calling twice in a row—maybe something’s wrong.”

I reach for the phone, thinking the same. Ever since our mama died, even all these years later, I expect the worst every time Junie calls. As if losing Mama, a force of nature, was so baffling that the only possible explanation is that we are cursed. It’s a never-ending limbo, waiting until the next catastrophic thing happens. Other bad things have to happen; statistically it’s the case. But I’ve dedicated myself to being diligent and practiced and organized and efficient enough to minimize whatever ill arrives on our doorstep. If I can hold it together, it could make all the difference. If the ship goes down and I’ve trained long and hard enough, I’ll be a strong enough swimmer to save them, the whole family. Maybe even myself too.

I click to accept the call. “Junie.”

I’m met by a quiet sniffling that crescendos into a deep, heart-wrenching sob.

The braid slips from my fingers as I rise to my feet. “What’s happening? Where are you?”

I hear the sound of her breath that she’s trying to catch, the inhale caught on the sorrow reverberating inside her. “It’s—” She blows her nose. “It’s bad, Georgia. Can you come home?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll leave first thing in the morning, but what’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“I’m so sorry,” Junie says.

“Have you been in a car crash? I’ll call 911.” I turn and reach for the landline on my desk.

“No. Don’t. There’s no crash. I’m at June’s.”

I wait for her to go on.

“I’ve really messed it all up, Georgia,” Junie says. “Like always, with everything I try to do, I’ve messed it up. And this time it’s the shop. June’s is in trouble.” 

Chapter 2
Junie

Junie tucks the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. She promised Georgia they’d hash out the details in person. Junie drags the tissue under her nose and looks up from where she stands in the middle of June’s Beauty Shop.

Or what’s left of it. The maroon carpet that once ran under her feet—under their mama’s feet—is long gone, ripped out and tossed in the dumpster out back. The drywall is halfway gone, the storage cabinets that lined the back ripped down to the studs. Aunt Tina’s wig wall is boxed up and gone, now stacked in her guest room.

It’s demoed.

And Georgia doesn’t know.

The entire situation reminds Junie of the time she brought home the class gerbil, Pumpkin, in fourth grade, back when Mama was sick and they were mostly in charge of themselves on the weekends. Daddy sat at Mama’s side like a sentry until she needed something. Even when she shooed him away, he never went far, hovering instead on the outskirts. Thus, it wasn’t unusual for Junie to find herself bored and unsupervised, and this day she had decided to give the pet a bath in the kitchen sink. Ron Horowitz had told her that gerbils could swim and that he’d watched Pumpkin do it during his weekend to keep her.

Junie filled the sink, cooing at Pumpkin through the wires of her cage about the fun awaiting her. But when Junie lowered Pumpkin into the full basin, she spooked, scrambled out of the sink, and made a mad dash along the counter. Junie chased her, scattering cups and stacks of mail in an attempt to catch the gerbil as she neared the open door to the backyard.

To this day, Junie can feel the panic, the searing sensation of fear seizing her chest. She was doing something nice for Pumpkin, and horrible fates weren’t supposed to await people acting in good faith. It never made sense how good intentions didn’t count for squat. She’d realized that difficult truth as little Pumpkin hightailed it toward the door and the unfortunate fates beyond. It was like a twisted prerequisite to enduring her mother’s eventual death.

In that moment Georgia had spun around the corner in a flurry. “Junie Scott, what on earth?” Her long red hair whipped behind her as she skidded to a stop. Georgia’s eyes landed on the fluffy rodent as Pumpkin disappeared out the door.

Junie froze. Her big sister paused, snatched the Cheerios from the pantry, and tiptoed outside after Pumpkin. Junie didn’t act. She didn’t follow. Her brain hadn’t even considered that anything else might be required of her.

Georgia had returned a few minutes later, Pumpkin gnawing on a mound of Cheerios in her palms, and efficiently slid the gerbil back into the cage, dusted off her hands, and said, “Let me help you get her out next time.” Then she exited the room as quickly as she’d arrived.

At the time, Junie was flooded with admiration for her sister, and frankly, she was also flushed with relief knowing she wouldn’t return to school on Monday with an empty cage. But as the years passed and Junie watched her sister remedy situation after situation without breaking a sweat, the contrast between the two sisters was drawn so starkly in Junie’s mind, it was as if it defined her. Georgia was competent, a fixer, organized, and proactive. Junie made messes, rushed in, and didn’t think things through.

Georgia knew better.

Georgia knows better.

Junie runs a hand over the hair chairs covered in drapes. They were supposed to get dolled up as part of this whole thing too. 

Recovered, perhaps, in a modern fabric, something that would hold up and didn’t feel like a plastic tablecloth from a corner pizza restaurant.

It was another part of the plan, part of this big agreement Junie had reached with Goldilocks Haircare as a part of their “family-run salon investment project.” In exchange for Goldilocks covering part of the cost of a renovation and allowing the shop to purchase products at a discount, June’s Beauty Shop would feature a display of Goldilocks products, as well as various branded signage, in a prime location.

Junie had asked Daddy, who manages the accounting for the shop, and he told her the funds required on their end were available. Now Daddy claims otherwise, that he said some version of “probably” or “maybe” and “I’ll need to look into it further.” If Junie is completely honest, she might’ve stopped listening after he said, “It probably won’t be an issue, but . . .” How could she not? The excitement at the possibility, the opportunity, of seeing June’s brought into a new chic era.

Junie did her best to be responsible, checking with the accountant, crossing a decent amount of t’s before charging on, but at heart, she is a girl obsessed with hair and seeing stars over being close enough to touch one of the trendiest haircare brands on the market.

That brand alongside June’s Beauty Shop.

The heartbeat of the family.

The only physical piece of Mama left.

The door of the shop scrapes open with a muted jangle of the oversize bell attached to the knob. Even the bells are choking under construction dust.

Junie turns. Aunt Tina comes first, a compact woman at barely five feet two with her neat, shoulder-length strawberry-blonde bob. She’s flanked by her boyfriend-slash-dependent, Randy, and behind him follows Aunt Cece.

“Alright, Tina. Ten minutes, tops,” Randy says briskly. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Tina turns, opening her mouth to reply.

“I’ve got darts tonight, and I won’t be late because of you girls having some chitchat,” Randy says, and then the door shuts behind him.

Tina lets out a quiet, practiced sigh.

Cece scowls at the door. “Son of a—”

“Cecelia,” Tina cuts in. 

Tina cocks her head from side to side, as if she’s trying to come up with some defense for Randy. Eventually she says, “His soft skills need some work, I’ll agree to that.”

Cece tuts, making her disagreement clear, then lets it go.

Tina crosses the room to Junie, takes her hands, and squeezes. “We’ll get this figured out, sweetie.” Tina’s voice is as small as her physical presence. “I spoke to my Tuesday appointments, and they’re ok to keep things hush-hush.”

Junie pulls Tina into a hug, wrapping her easily in her long arms and standing a full head and a half taller. Even if she is small, Tina makes her love known in a big way. She is Junie’s hairstylist partner at the salon and the woman who kept the shop open and running after their mama died. Sure, other hairstylist friends tagged in and out to help, and their appointment capacity fluctuated as Tina, ever the people pleaser, subbed at other small businesses around town. “Tina, you’ve got your sister’s beauty shop to run. Why are you waiting tables on Thursdays?” Cece once asked. Tina might not know how to tell people no, but without her, June’s would’ve shuttered. Years later, the place was humming along, waiting for Junie as she finished cosmetology school, got her license, and took her spot behind the hair chairs.

Junie releases Tina, who begins walking slow circles around the open floor, taking it all in.

Aunt Cece examines the interior as well, but she is painstaking, covering every surface, her jaw clenched tight, eyes flitting as if she’s taking mental notes. Cece is the tallest among them, pushing six feet, and she long ago let her dirty-blonde hair fill with silvery streaks. It came as little to no surprise; Cece shrugged off the whole haircare industry after a short-lived term at June’s washbowl. Junie knows Cece cares—even if she is a little snappy sometimes—because she continues to show up, even if Junie suspects Cece might be ok with the shop slipping away into oblivion.

“At least the construction crew mostly cleared out behind themselves,” Cece says. Her face says the rest: “But look at what’s left.”

Junie squeezes a hopeful smile and nods, but despite her efforts, tears fill her eyes. “You’re right. Yup, that is one positive. But—I’m sorry, y’all.” Junie lets her face fall into her palms.

Tina rushes over and stands between them. “Nonsense, Junie, it was an honest mistake. We all know Rich isn’t always the best communicator. Not that I’m saying it’s your daddy’s fault—just to be extremely clear—y’all don’t tell him I said that. Promise? Gosh, I don’t want him to think I’m blaming him.”

Cece swats the air. “Stop. We know what you mean.” She turns to Junie. “And as for you, it’s no help getting upset now. We’ve got to focus on what we can do next.”

Cece is practical almost to a fault, as if her right mind can override her heart. How could Cece not want to wring Junie’s neck for ripping apart her twin sister’s salon and proceeding to immediately drop the ball?

“I might feel better if you yelled at me, Aunt Cee,” Junie says. “Just real quick.”

“Not interested in that,” Cece replies.

“Well, I know we probably shouldn’t, but what if we kept doing hair?” Tina asks, shoulders curling in on her in self-doubt. “Should I have suggested it? Was that awful?”

Junie crosses her arms and opens her eyes wide. “We’d have to be careful.”

Cece lets out a slow, pressured breath. “I hate to say it, but I’m not sure y’all have much choice.”

“One thing . . .” Tina drops her gaze to her toes. “Misty Prince.”

Junie lets out a groan.

Misty Prince is the town busybody. She wishes Whitetail had an HOA that governed every building, so she could run for president and send people notices for an off-center shingle, a tired flower bed, or a lawn measuring half an inch too high. Misty’s sunglasses always ride low on her long, slim nose (one that legend states was certainly bought and paid for) so her eyes can be in other people’s business without barrier. If it were a little glossier and a little less bureaucracy and paperwork, she might just run for local government. Misty seems to have it out for the Louise women, or maybe it’s June’s Beauty Shop where her issue lies, but whichever it might be, there’s no mistaking none of them are on her good side.

“Misty might be a piece of work, but she knows better than to mess with June’s,” Cece says.

Junie frowns. “Really? Since when?” 

ve to agree with Junie. I saw her at the grocery store the other day, and she mentioned seeing a crew at the shop. I knew better than to confirm or deny it to the old witch, but then she made some sly comment about ‘hopefully there aren’t any appointments going on since it’d be a terrible licensing violation.’”

Cece’s face turns slightly paler—which is saying something, considering that they all have the fair skin that tends to come with the red hair gene that runs among them. “Alright. Well, maybe I misjudged that one.”

“We’ll need to keep an eye out for her and remind the ladies to keep their appointments quiet,” Junie says.

“Not sure if she thinks driving that big, black Secret Service car makes her blend in or if she just likes the way it brings her attention.” Cece rolls her eyes.

Junie sighs. “Well, maybe we won’t be in a bind for much longer. I finally called Georgia.”

The room falls silent, Cece and Tina looking to Junie for her to continue.

“She doesn’t know everything, not all the details, just that the shop’s in trouble. She’s coming home tomorrow. So . . .”

In the silence Junie lets hang, she knows they all have the same thought: Maybe Georgia can fix it. With her plans or her unique ideas or probably, and most likely this time, her checkbook. Georgia is wildly successful with some swanky job in an Atlanta high-rise, just like Mama planned for her—above and beyond this little salon. Surely covering the fifty thousand dollars June’s still owes to continue the renovation will be nothing to her bank account.

When Junie packed up the place, there was a whole box filled with Georgia clippings. It didn’t rival the Dolly Parton stuff, but Georgia is a bit of a Whitetail hero. She always had great community service projects and won all kinds of prizes for being smart. Played softball and led the team to state—even if she did choose not to pursue one of the athletic scholarships she was offered. Musical theater, performance in general, was the one space Georgia had left for Junie to thrive in. And thrive she did, in her own way.

Cece sighs. “There’s nothing I hate quite as much as pulling Georgia back into this place, but I guess there isn’t much choice.”

“Georgia won’t mind,” Tina says. “She loves us and the shop, and she knows how much it means, and her mama—”

“It’s ok,” Junie says, leaning over to squeeze Tina’s arm. “Georgia is always calm and collected. She always knows what to do.”

What Junie doesn’t say is that Georgia has always filled that space because Junie couldn’t. If Junie had all the answers, she wouldn’t need to lean so heavily on her big sister. It only seems fitting that disaster would strike now, of all times, right when Junie felt like she was finally taking charge, ...