by Nan Dixon
“Read another,” Jamison called in his strong Southie accent. “With more bad cobras!”
“I can’t.” Courtney shook her head. “Our time is up.”
Actually, she’d run over the library’s reading hour. But she’d wanted to finish The Jungle Book story. “I’ll see you next week.”
As she pushed up from her small chair, Jamison wrapped his arms around her knees. “Thank you, Miss Courtney.”
“You’re welcome.” She hugged the little boy. “Thank you for paying attention.”
Two months ago, Jamison hadn’t been able to sit still for more than five minutes. Now he sat for the entire story hour. She nodded as his mother took his hand. He’d learned she wouldn’t read if he was talking or running around.
Grandmothers, sitters and older siblings gathered up the rest of the children.
“Your reading group keeps growing.” Marlene, the librarian who organized the volunteers, took the book from Courtney.
“It’s fun.” And her little secret. No one knew about her weekly visits to this Southside Boston library.
Even though the book’s language had been formal, the kids had been great. How wonderful it would be to put together words to ignite the imaginations of children. Of course, today’s books couldn’t be as lyrical as Kipling’s writings, but oh, to be able to read something that she wrote to children. How amazing.
Not that it would happen. On her drive home, she rubbed the wrinkles in her forehead. Being her parents’ pretty little ornament took most of her day. To maintain her image, it took hours of shopping, salons and working out.
As she approached the gates of the family mansion, a dark shape darted from the bushes. She jerked the steering wheel. Metal scraped stone. She slammed on her brakes and her body jammed against her seat belt. “No!”
She threw the convertible into Park, jumped out and rounded the hood. Had she hit whatever had run in front of the car? She peered under the car, but didn’t find an injured animal.
Damn. Her front bumper was toast. Not again. Father would go ballistic.
She glared. They needed to expand the front gate. This was the third time she’d turned a teeny bit too tight and wrecked her pretty car.
Driving to the portico, she stomped up the entry stairs. Marcus had the door open before she hit the top step.
“Did you have a nice afternoon of shopping?” He took the bags from her.
She always said she was going shopping, which she did. It just wasn’t the entire truth. Her parents wouldn’t see the value of her spending time in a South Boston library.
She shook her head, curls whipping across her face. “I bumped the gate.”
One white eyebrow shot up. “Again?”
“An animal jumped out from the bushes.”
“Oh, Miss. Did you hit it?”
“No.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Could you...?”
“I’ll call the repair shop.” He tipped his head. “Your father would like to speak with you.”
She frowned, then forced her face to relax. She didn’t want a permanent furrow between her eyebrows, but it was hard. Nothing was right in her world. It had been off-kilter for months. “Where is he?”
“In his study.” Marcus headed up the left stairway with her packages.
Courtney’s heels clicked on the black-and-white foyer tiles. She longed to kick off her shoes, but she wasn’t sure what Father wanted. Had she done anything that might have irritated him lately? Last month it had been how late she was coming home, as if that mattered now that she was twenty-six. The month before he’d lectured her for a half hour about gossiping at the dinner table. And in February it had been the way she treated her new sister-in-law.
I can’t help that I’m not my perfect brother.
Outside Father’s study, she straightened her shoulders and smoothed the skirt of the red Versace sheath she’d worn to lunch with Gwen. Her eyes didn’t pop as much when she wore red. Now she wished she’d bought the dress in green, too.
She’d buy the green dress tomorrow. Better yet, she’d have them deliver it to the house.
Staring into the hallway mirror, she forced a smile onto her face and arranged her black curls so they cascaded over one shoulder. She was her father’s princess, even though he hadn’t called her that in years. The blasted furrow formed between her eyebrows again. She pressed on the hideous lines and took a deep breath. Opening the door, she glided into the room.
Father didn’t look up. He pointed to a guest chair and kept typing.
She stood next to the chair. Her dress looked so much better when she stood. She examined her manicure and waited.
Still not looking up, her father ordered, “Sit.”
Courtney gritted her teeth, but obeyed, moving around the chair. She slipped into her seat just as she’d been taught in the finishing classes she’d been forced to attend during high school.
Instead of crossing her ankles, she rebelled against the voice in her head and crossed her legs. By crossing her legs, she could admire the red soles of her Louboutin heels. They were a perfect match with her dress. She sat with her back ruler-straight, remembering the way the instructor had made her balance a book on her head.
Wasn’t she her father’s perfect daughter, dressed to the height of fashion? She folded her hands in her lap, but what she really wanted to do was thread her fingers through her pearl necklace. It had been a gift for her sixteenth birthday from her father, but Mother had probably signed his name to the card.
She could wait him out. She didn’t have anything else to do.
He looked up. Inhaled and exhaled. Twice.
Uh-oh. What had she done? He couldn’t already know about her car. She chewed her thumbnail, then quickly dropped her hand to her lap and twisted her fingers together.
His gray eyes narrowed and he held up an envelope. “Do you know what this is?”
Was he kidding? “An envelope?”
“Your credit card bill.”
She nodded, feeling her eyebrows coming together again. “Okay.”
“No. Not okay.” He pulled out the wad of paper. “Five thousand dollars at a shoe store?”
Shoes? She tapped her lip with her fingernail, longing to chew on it again, but she wasn’t fifteen anymore. “There was a sale.”
“So you spent five thousand dollars?” He spread out the pages, facing her. “We talked about this two months ago.”
“About what?” Whoops. She’d forgotten about that lecture. Paying bills wasn’t her responsibility. It was her father’s.
“About wasting money. About your shopping excesses.” He pushed back a black curl that slipped across his forehead.
She’d inherited her father’s hair, but she hoped never to see the white that peppered his. He might look distinguished, but women had to hide any sign of aging.
“It was an incredible sale.” She pointed to her shoes. “No one else I know owns this pair.” Or most of the shoes she’d picked up that day.
His face turned red. “Because they aren’t spendthrifts.”
“You always tell me to look my best.” It was all he’d ever expected.
“You have a mountain of clothes.” He pointed at the bill. “Two mountains of clothes based on the money you’ve spent. You’re done.”
“Done?” What was he talking about?
“I want your credit cards.”
“What for?” She couldn’t catch her breath.
“As of today, the endless spending stops.”
“But...”
He held out his hand and she dug into her Furla wallet. He stared at each card as she handed it to him. Pulling out scissors, he said, “Cut them up.”
“But what will I do?” If she couldn’t charge meals, drinks or clothes, what
else was there?
“Get a job. Make your own money.” Her father threw up his hands. “Marry one of those worthless boys you hang around with and spend their money.”
He’d never been this angry. Ever. She swallowed and took the scissors and the first card. She cut it in half. Then half again. And kept going. The handle of the scissors imprinted on the base of her thumb. It hurt, but she couldn’t complain while her father glared at her.
“You now have a five-hundred-dollar credit limit on this card.” He held it out. “I expect that to be used for gas and parking to get you to job interviews.”
This couldn’t be happening. She leaned over the divide of his desk, touching his hand. Then she smiled, the smile that used to get her father’s attention. “Daddy, just last week you told me you liked the way I dressed.”
“Because that’s all you’re good at doing. Looking pretty.” He spit the words out and flipped her hand away.
She waved at her dress and shoes. “It costs money to look like this. Ask Mother.”
“You should have enough clothes to do that for years to come.” He stood, leaning on his fists. “I mean it. It’s time you got a job.”
Her spine slumped against the back of the chair. The imaginary book balancing on her head tumbled to the floor. The furrow between her eyebrows dug deep. “A job?”
“A job.”
Her heart hammered in her chest. “I guess I could be a—a personal shopper.”
He scowled. “You’re a Smythe. I expect you to get a worthwhile job.”
“Of course, Daddy.” With her spine as straight as a ruler, she left the room.
Worthwhile job? She swallowed back tears. She was qualified to do...absolutely nothing.
* * *
COURTNEY SHOVED THE throw pillows covering her bed to the floor.
How could she get a job? Her father hadn’t let her go to the college of her choice. She’d been accepted at Yale, Gray and Father’s alma mater. But dear old dad had forced her to attend Mount Holyoke, her mother’s college.
Daddy saved all his pride for Gray. Her brother had been on the dean’s list his entire college career. The first semester of her freshman year, she’d worked hard and made the dean’s list, too, hoping her father would relent and she could transfer. But he hadn’t been impressed. It wasn’t Yale, right? In rebellion, she’d gotten an English degree with an emphasis in Renaissance literature, and hadn’t paid attention to her grades. She’d gotten to read and that was fun. Would someone pay her to recite Shakespeare soliloquies?
She flopped to the center of her canopy bed, not caring that her shoes were on her white comforter.
A job.
She’d had one job during high school. When her aunt and uncle had gone to Europe for a month, she’d taken care of her two young cousins. Their cook had still been in residence, but she’d been responsible for the children. How would Nanny look on a résumé? Two consecutive summers of working for a few weeks should wow a perspective employer.
U won’t believe what happened, she texted Gwen.
No reply. Right, Gwen was getting a facial.
She touched her cheek. How would she pay for next week’s facial?
She’d talk to Mother. Her mother would calm Father down. She couldn’t live on five hundred dollars a month. Who did that to their only daughter?
Courtney hadn’t even known there was such a thing as a credit limit. She rubbed her forehead. Although last January, Laura had complained she had to watch her spending. Courtney and Gwen had quietly stopped hanging around with her. Since she and Gwen didn’t invite Laura anywhere, her entire posse excluded her.
She sat up with a jerk. Would that happen to her? Gwen’s text ringtone, “My Best Friend,” sounded. What happened?
She couldn’t tell Gwen. She tapped her nail against her lower lip. I hit the driveway pillar again.
Again?
Yes She should be adding tears.
Club 2nite?
Her heart pounded. What was she going to do? Can’t. Family dinner.
K. 2morrow?
I’ll let you know. She would avoid everyone until this crisis had passed. Mother would fix everything.
She stripped off her sheath and stepped into her closet to hang it with the rest of her red dresses. This was her haven, her beautiful clothes. Her armor.
She placed her heels in their spot next to the rest of the pairs that had caused this firestorm. She stroked her gorgeous new Manolo Blahnik boots. Okay, they hadn’t been on sale. Actually none of the shoes had been on sale, but it seemed like a reasonable excuse when she’d blurted it out.
Her fingers tapped her bare thigh. What could she wear that would make her look fragile and innocent? She twirled in a slow circle. Audrey Hepburn. White sleeveless blouse. Skinny black capris and black ballerina flats. She’d pull her hair up. Emphasize her eyes. She wasn’t as thin as the actress, but she was willowy. Who could punish Audrey Hepburn?
Maybe she should take up acting. She’d done that all her life.
Her hand shook a little as she added eyeliner and more mascara. Then she pulled her mass of black curls into a French twist.
She checked her appearance one more time before slipping on her shoes. The look worked.
Straightening her shoulders so an imaginary book lay flat on her head, she forced her feet into the glide. It was her term for the walk she’d learned in her finishing classes. Like a ballerina, she floated down the hallway to her mother’s sitting area.
Her mother worked at her desk, the tip of her Montblanc pen tapping her lip.
“Mother?”
“Courtney, what do you think about a fire-and-ice theme for the ballet foundation’s benefit?” Mother asked.
“In August?”
Mother nodded, her blond hair swaying.
When Courtney was a child she’d wanted her mother’s straight blond hair instead of her father’s curly black hair. Now she didn’t know what she wanted. Her life no longer fit. “I don’t think fire-and-ice will work. I assume you would want ice sculptures and since you’re using the terraces, melting would be a problem.”
“I agree with you. But Dorothy loves it.” Mother set down her pen. “Maybe you want to join the committee and give us fresh ideas?”
Would it get her out of finding a job? “Maybe.”
Mother finally looked up. “That outfit looks good on you. Is it new?”
“The pants.” And shoes. Part of the infamous shoe purchases. She stroked the ballerina sculpture that graced her mother’s desk. “Have you talked to Father?”
“This morning.” She eased back in her chair. “Why?”
“He’s upset.” She moved to the coffee table and picked up the book her mother was reading. Some thriller. Not her style.
“About?”
“The shoes I bought last month.” She pointed to her feet. “But these are adorable.”
Mother stood. “He’s upset about a pair of shoes? That’s strange.”
“I bought more than one pair.” She turned, the words rushing out. “I showed you everything the day I bought them. You didn’t complain.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Did he put you on a budget?”
“Budget? He made me cut up my credit cards.” She ran and took her mother’s hands. “You have to help me. He said I have to find a job.”
“A job?” Mother shook her head. “He’s been listening to Gray.”
“Can you help? I—I can’t work.” She didn’t know how. “All my friends will abandon me. How will I hold my head up? Without credit cards I’ll be stuck in the house.”
“I’ll talk to him at dinner. We’ll work this out.” Mother wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go down and pour him his Jameson. Lord knows why he developed a taste
for it. It’s Gray’s wife’s fault. But maybe it will mellow him out.”
Was it the darn Fitzgeralds putting this stupid job notion in her father’s head? It would be just like his brother’s wife and her sisters to be envious of her life and whisper things to Gray. What did men see in them, anyway? Gray had given up a relationship with her best friend, Gwen, for the woman he’d married last February. Courtney had suffered through being a part of the wedding party. She and Gwen had envisioned a totally different wedding. Classy. It wasn’t fair.
Courtney followed her mother to the library. Just inhaling had the tension in her shoulders easing. Two stories of books soothed her. Heading to the small bar, she added ice to a tumbler and poured Jameson from a Waterford decanter. She’d always liked watching Mother prepare Father’s before-dinner drink. Once she’d turned ten, serving her father’s drink had become Courtney’s job, but he’d never noticed.
“What would you like?” Courtney asked.
“Wine, please. Marcus should have decanted a shiraz.”
The correct stemware was set on a salver. She poured two glasses to the perfect center of the bell, then moved to her mother’s chair and handed her the wine.
Courtney swirled her glass, tipped and watched the legs. Then inhaled. Taking a small sip, she let the wine linger in her mouth. Chocolate. Peppers. She frowned. “Are you catching blackberry?”
Her mother repeated the wine tasting steps. “I am. You have a great palate.”
Maybe Courtney could become a sommelier. Select wine for her friends as they dined. She shuddered. That was not going to happen. Mother needed to fix this.
Father entered the room, swiped the tumbler off the bar and brought it over to the sitting area. “Thank you, Olivia. It’s been a long day.”
“Thank your daughter. She prepared it for you.”
He nodded, not even looking at Courtney.
She started to open her mouth.
Mother shook her head.
Biding her time wasn’t her strength, but Mother had married the man. She should know how to get him to do her bidding.
“How was your day?” Mother asked Father.
“Market tanked. One of the companies I was looking at acquiring found an angel to finance them.” He took a deep swallow of his whiskey. His glance shot over to Courtney. “The only good thing that happened was Gray cleared inspections on his Back Bay project. They should get the certificate of occupancy soon.”
