my grandfather and his father, who started out selling typewriters and adding machines, but it’s not good enough for my kids.” Her dad walked past her into the living room. “Fred King’s daughter, Ivy, is vice president of his company, you know. Her husband also works for their company, and they’ve given Fred two beautiful grand—”
“Don’t start, Stu.” Her mother cut him off. “Sandra chose her career. When the time comes, she’ll choose a husband and when to have children.”
“She’s not getting any younger,” Stuart said, as if twenty-eight years old was ancient. “And I just happen to know Dale Mills has asked our daughter out several times.”
Sandra cringed inwardly at the mention of the Woolcott Industries’ executive. Every sentence the man uttered was bracketed with the words, Stuart says or Stuart advises.
No way she’d ever date that brownnosing suck-up.
“Dale’s a good-looking young man,” her mother added. “And so considerate. Last week, he stood in line overnight just so he could surprise your father with Red Sox tickets for game two of the World Series.”
Sandra willed her eyes not to roll. She looked away from her mother to see her father scooping a wadded sheet from her sketch pad off the floor.
Unfurling it, he frowned. “Just think, Fred’s daughter’s negotiating multimillion-dollar deals.”
Sandra reached out to snatch the discarded sketch from his grasp.
Her father shook his head. “Meanwhile, my daughter is determined to make her living doodling stick figures.”
Sandra stopped short as a long forgotten voice and a buried memory pushed their way to the surface.
“Whatcha doing, doodling stick figures?” a boy looking over her shoulder in her high school art class had asked.
Sandra remembered spinning around, prepared to give him a piece of her mind. Instead, her angry gaze had locked with the dreamy brown eyes of Isaiah Jacobs, one of the most popular boys at Wintersage Academy.
One smile from him had turned her insides to mush, and all Sandra could do was gawk openmouthed. When she’d finally spoken, her tongue had twisted and her words had spilled out in a jumble.
Sandra sighed. Isaiah had gone on to become her first boyfriend, her first love and her first heartbreak.
“Stu!” Her mother’s sharp tone roused Sandra from the errant flashback.
“What?” Her father raised his hands in the air, his expression perplexed. “The girl tested off the charts in math and science, but instead of being an asset to her family’s business, like Ivy, she squanders her natural ability as a dressmaker.” He made the word dressmaker sound like loser. “How am I the bad guy here?”
Frowning at her husband, Nancy snatched the sketch from his hand and placed it on an end table. “You start this up every time we visit the Kings,” she said. “Let. It. Go.”
Sandra shot her mom a grateful look. The fact that Swoon Couture specialized in custom dresses and catered to the wealthiest women in Wintersage was lost on her father. As far as Stuart Woolcott was concerned, if Sandra didn’t work for Woolcott Industries, she didn’t really work.
Noticing the garment bag draped over her mother’s arm, Sandra jumped at the chance to change the subject. “I see you had time to do some shopping.”
Nancy averted her eyes. “Uh...well, I found a few things, including the most adorable Halloween costume for little Mason. He’s going to be a Patriots’ player.”
While her mother prattled on about toddler football helmets, Sandra zeroed in on the garment bag. In particular, the embossed logo of a hot New York designer who’d been getting incredible buzz in the fashion world. It was obvious the contents weren’t for Sandra’s nephew.
“I know this is a busy time of year for you with the holiday season almost upon us. I thought I’d take some of the pressure off by trying a new designer I read about in Vogue magazine,” her mother said, in way of explanation. “In fact, he’s been in all the magazines.”
“B-but I already have a capsule collection of holiday dresses, designed especially for you.” As always, Sandra had prioritized her mother’s dresses, having nailed down the perfect cuts, colors and styles for her over the summer. “They’re waiting for you at the boutique.”
“I’m sure they’re beautiful as always, dear, but everybody who’s anybody in Wintersage will be wearing your gowns this holiday season. No one will have Zack originals.”
“So you brought the dresses to show me?” Sandra asked, trying hard to keep the slighted edge out of her voice.
To be honest, she was also curious to see what the competition offered that was so dazzling her mother had purchased off-the-rack dresses without even bothering to see the custom ones Sandra had prepared.
“Not exactly.” Nancy glanced uncomfortably at the garment bag. “Actually, I was hoping to drop them off with you.”
“I don’t understand. Why would you need to bring them to me?” Sandra asked, confused.
“W-well, you see, your father was in such a hurry to get back home, I didn’t have time for a fitting and alterations,” her mother stammered. “I thought, well, since you know my measurements. I only need two inches off the bottom of all of them and a little nip at the waist of the green one...”
Nancy held the garment bag out to her, and Sandra’s jaw dropped as realization dawned. Her mom expected her to handle the alterations.
Stuart took the bag and shoved it into her arms. “Why waste time waiting around when we already have a seamstress in the family?”
Still stunned, Sandra could only blink. She wasn’t sure what stung more, her mother’s disloyalty or her dad’s total disregard.
“I...I’m not a seamstress, Dad,” she stammered, staring down at the offending bag. “I’m a designer.”
“Bottom line is you can sew, right?”
Sewing was something she rarely had time to do as Swoon continued to grow, and she contracted three expert seamstresses to handle the task.
“Of course I can, but—”
“Good.” Her father nodded once, in his view making it a done deal. He glanced down at his wife. “Do you want me to drop you off at home or are you staying to visit?”
Nancy looked from her husband to her daughter. “I’d love to stay and chat a bit, but I need to order Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Why? Isn’t Milly cooking?” Sandra asked.
Her mother shook her head. “Milly’s taking Thanksgiving week off to visit with her grandchildren. I’d cook myself, but I’m committed to spending Thanksgiving morning delivering boxes of groceries for my sorority’s needy families program, and the early afternoon helping serve dinners at the church. I simply don’t have time to prepare a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.” She sighed. “I’ll need to order a pie from
