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
