Read Online Retail Therapy by Roz Bailey - Free Book Online Page A

“And I shop. It’s sort of a ritual for me, finding the perfect gift. In fact, I got you both a little something this afternoon. Oh, and Daddy, I found the best Dolce & Gabbana briefs for you at a funky little store in London called Foundations. It was so cute!”
    â€œUnderwear!” my father gasped, turning to my mother. “She’s spending my money on underwear!”
    â€œYou don’t have to be snarky about it,” I said, a little hurt. “I’m an excellent shopper, not just good—excellent. I get a charge out of snatching up a new design before anyone else has even heard of it. And then there are the sales. You have to be one of the first ones into the store if you want your pick of discounted merchandise, and I’m vigilant about that.”
    Across the table, my father snatched off his reading glasses to stare at me. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re pulling my leg.”
    â€œDaddy ... it’s what I do.”
    â€œShopping!” he said explosively. “Good God, Alana! You’ve got to get your life under control!”
    â€œErnest ...” Mama shot a nervous glance over her shoulder at the Schnabels’ table. “No need to raise your voice.”
    â€œReally,” I muttered. “And you don’t need to have conniptions. Shopping isn’t a crime, Daddy.”
    â€œWhen will you take responsibility for your life?” he demanded.
    â€œYou want to talk about responsibility?” I felt the thread of anger unraveling, and I couldn’t stop it. “How about the person responsible for paying the Bank of Freedom bill? Were you aware that you’re behind on the credit-card payment?” Try that on for size, Daddy dear.
    â€œQuite the contrary,” he said. “The account is up-to-date. I simply cancelled your card when the accountant informed me that you had charged more than ten thousand dollars on that card alone in a single month. Ten thousand dollars. Do you realize that is more than three times your budget?”
    â€œI can do the math,” I said, though multiplication facts had always bored me. “What you don’t realize is that many of those expenses were for the Hampton house. I bought two brand-new bedroom sets that will be delivered next month. Some fabulous Tiffany-shade lamps. Bed linens, quilts with matching wallpaper, statuary, and the most elegant antique secretary.”
    â€œSounds lovely,” Mama said.
    I told her, “I’m working on furniture for the sitting rooms, but you may want to give me some input on what you’d like to see in the master bedroom.”
    â€œDon’t encourage her, Rose,” my father snapped. “We are going to put an end to this spending madness.” His last words sent saliva spraying onto the table.
    I pushed my plate away and folded my hands. “Daddy, when you calm down, I think you’ll realize that it costs money to redesign a summerhouse. It may seem expensive, but I promise you’ll be delighted with the end results.”
    â€œNo, I won’t. I want it stopped—the orders cancelled, the sheets and statues and lamps returned. I like the old lamps. I can sleep on the old sheets another season or two. In fact, I don’t care if they carry me out on those old sheets. I want it stopped!”
    His voice carried well. At the table beside us, the conversation stopped while faces turned our way. My father was making a scene—my father the conservative, low-profile judge. This moment was history.
    The waiter stepped up to our table tentatively. “Everyone OK here, ladies? Judge Marshall-Hughs?”
    The silence burned my ears; my father didn’t even answer but slapped his hands to his face.
    â€œWe’re fine, thanks,” Mama told the waiter.
    But I knew it was a big lie. We were not fine. My father and I were on the verge of declaring war.
    â€œI want it to stop,” Daddy said from