LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

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