she could depend on. “Does she hate me?”
“You know better,” Malcolm said. “She loves you. Always has.”
“Is she trying to punish me?” Other than being born into the right family, Dorian had done nothing to deserve the advantages handed her on an heirloom silver platter. She had always stuffed the feelings of unworthiness down in the place where she stored all unacceptable emotions.
“I’m sure that’s not the case.”
“Oh, my God.” She stopped pacing and whirled to face him. “Has Granny Pru gone senile? Please tell me she hasn’t lost her mind.”
“No, of course not.” Malcolm dismissed the idea as absurd. “Prudence Channing Burrell is the sharpest, most savvy and sensible woman I know.”
“Then I give up. Did she mention why she feels compelled to turn her only grandchild’s life into a waking nightmare?”
“Actually, she said if you asked, I was to give you a one-word answer.”
“Which would be?”
“Cassandra.” He leaned back in his chair, apparently pleased with his cryptic response.
What did her self-absorbed mother have to do with anything? Pru and Cassandra had engaged in a bitter mother-in-law versus daughter-in-law battle for over two decades. Since John Burrell’s death thirteen years ago, his merry widow had maintained a palatial home in Dallas, but spent most of the year jetting around the country with her snooty, old-money friends. The last Dorian heard she was summering at Hyannis Port, still trying to worm her way into the Kennedy enclave.
Cassandra Burrell hired out unpleasant tasks. She had gardeners to clip hedges, chauffeurs to drive cars, cooks to prepare food and maids to clean up. She would have rented a womb if she hadn’t accidentally gotten pregnant first. Since she found motherhood an especially odious chore, she’d brought in a succession of nannies to perform the duties she found distasteful.
Early on, Dorian had learned to torment and manipulate the poor women paid to care for her. All in the foolish hope that if she could drive them away Cassandra would become a sweet, loving mother who gave hugs and kisses and cuddles. Dorian’s childhood tantrums were legend. If she wanted a bed-time story, she ordered the nanny to read. If she wanted a cookie at five in the morning, she sent the nanny to fetch one. If she flung her expensive clothes from drawers and closets, she waited for the nanny to put them away.
The one thing Dorian had not been able to order was the thing she had longed for most of all. Her mother’s love. She’d given up that dream years ago. “Since when has my mother helped anyone? Especially me.”
“I don’t think Pru meant for you to seek Cassandra’s assistance, Dorian. I believe your mother is meant to be an object lesson for you.”
“A what?”
“Think about it.”
She was thinking, but not about her narcissistic, emotionally distant mother. “Wait. I know! I’ll liquefy something.”
“I assume you mean liquidate.”
Dorian waved her hand. “Whatever. I’ll sell the Mercedes and buy something cheaper, like a Lexus.”
“I don’t think the leasing company would approve of you disposing of their property.”
“Oh. Right.” She flipped a strand of chin-length hair behind her ear. “Tell me again why I lease?”
“Because you like to drive a new vehicle every few months.”
She knew there had to be a reason. “Then I’ll just take out a loan that I can repay in September.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear.” Malcolm leaned forward. “Your grandmother has pulled the plug, so to speak, on your finances. All your credit cards have been suspended, including your retail charge accounts. Even if you qualified for a loan, which you don’t since you have no credit history, you could not get one.”
“Why not? I’m a responsible adult.” Legally, at twenty-six she was an adult. But responsible? Dorian tried to recall the name of a girl she’d met in college. She’d worn discount-center clothes and ridden a rusty old bike, but she’d had goals. Purpose. She’d been a responsible adult at seventeen.
Mallory Peterson. Dorian hadn’t thought about the quiet, mousy honor student in years. They’d only spoken once, in the library, when Dorian had asked for help locating a book.
The girl had seemed eager to cultivate Dorian’s interest. Her mother waited tables, her father drove a truck. And yet she wanted to be a doctor, the first in her nowhere, west Texas town. Every month she received a small stipend, donated by townspeople, so she could stay in school and realize her dream. When she earned her medical degree she planned to return to take care of them.
Having earned a full scholarship, Mallory had received her good-faith money because people believed in her. Dorian, on the other hand, had done nothing to deserve the generous allowance her family deemed her due. She was in school because of her grandmother’s influence.
The earnest premed student had made Dorian feel so ashamed she had retreated to her shallow sorority sisters, spurning what might have become a real friendship with a person who could have taught her something about responsibility. Regret weighed like a stone on her mind as she refocused on what Malcolm was saying.
“I think you can forget about a loan, dear. Prudence Burrell’s influence is far-reaching. There’s not a lending institution, pawnshop or loan shark named Guido in the Dallas-Fort Worth area who’d risk giving you a nickel now.”
“She can do that?” Dorian knew her grandmother was powerful, but hadn’t realized just how powerful until now. She sank back in the chair, unable to decide if she was frustrated, angry or simply terrified of what the next ninety days would bring. Then there was the regret thing. And the awful suspicion that without money Dorian Burrell did not amount to much.
“She already has. There is something you can do,” he suggested tentatively.
“What? Jump off a bridge?”
“You could get a job.”
She laughed. “What in God’s name could I do?”
“I’m sure you could find something. You’re a college graduate.”
“From a school whose art history department is housed in Burrell Hall, and whose scholarship program is endowed by my grandmother. The dean was grateful enough to overlook things like grades.”
“Still, you must have learned something in four years.”
“I majored in art history,” she reminded him. “Which really only qualifies me to visit museums. I minored in classical mythology. Seen any openings for a CEO of myths lately?”
Dammit. How had she let this happen? She was smart. She had money. Why hadn’t she done something with her life? While shopping, lunching and partying filled time, they did not fulfill much purpose.
She hadn’t always been without goals. Once in seventh grade one of her boarding school instructors told
