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

behind his hands. He rubbed his eyes, then dropped his hands to the table, the strain evident on his face. “I’ll cancel the rest of your credit cards tomorrow. Your monthly allowance will end as of now. I will pay off your previous debts, and I’ll continue to pay the fees on your co-op, so you’ll at least have a roof over your head.”
    Panic rose in my chest, booming there like an oversize heart. He wasn’t bluffing. This was for real. The man was trying to kill me.
    I turned to Mama, who merely shrugged, her eyes rueful. “He does have a point, Lanny.”
    His point eluded me, but I wasn’t going to stick around and ask for clarification. I picked up my Gucci bag and, head held high, I marched from the table.
    In the coat-check room I spied the two tiny shopping bags containing my parents’ gifties and felt a wave of sickness. I hadn’t had a chance to give them the things I had brought for them, the items I had chosen so lovingly.
    After I tipped the coat-check person, I thought of taking the gifts inside, chasing the bad feelings away and putting an end to my father’s brutal edict.
    I turned toward the dining room, then paused.
    This was not a breach that would be healed by a few small gifts.
    I slipped into my cashmere coat and headed toward the door, calculating the cash refund from my Tiffany purchases.
    Many unhappy returns.

9
    Hailey
    M aybe I’m too blindly optimistic, but when the phone rang, I crossed my fingers, hoping it was my agent. I had left a message for her that afternoon, and thought maybe, just maybe, she was calling to let me know that one of the producers from All Our Tomorrows had called to renew my contract.
    Did I mention that my thirteen-week contract was about to expire?
    Did I mention that I can be a ball of insecurities at times? As in most of the time.
    I grabbed the phone hopefully, but the caller ID flashed WISCONSIN. My parents—probably calling from the nearest dairy store, where they would be stocking up on tofu, sprouts, and fresh veggies. Sunflower seeds and nuts and vitamins came in ten-pound packs through the mail. Otherwise, my mother, Teddie, made her own yogurt and bartered for eggs from a nearby farmer. Dad was the canning expert, and whenever I was home I tried to stay out of the garage for fear I would touch something that had been sterilized or leave the wax out in the sun to melt or snitch a berry, which was a big no-no when Dad was ready to make jam.
    â€œHey, Mom,” I answered, wishing that they’d waited another few days for their weekly call. My folks didn’t have a phone at the house—Dad had gone there determined to escape the invasive pressures of society, of which telephones topped the list—and consequently, they called me once a week, when they ventured into one of the local stores for supplies.
    â€œHey, Bright Star! How’s it going?” It was Mom’s nickname for me, a play on the fact that I was named for the comet. Yes, Halley’s Comet. Part of that latent-hippie thing, but I always figured it could have been worse, and I might be trying to shed a name like Sunshine or Moonbeam.
    â€œI’m fine,” I said.
    There was a muffled sound, after which Mom said, “Your father wants to know if they called you about a new contract yet?”
    That was the pattern of the weekly call. Mom took the lead, with Dad in the background, feeding her questions.
    I bent one leg and stretched into the warrior pose. “Not yet. But I had a pretty hot scene with Antonio Lopez today, and I think someone at a store recognized me.”
    â€œThat’s so exciting!” Mom said.
    She probably didn’t even know who Antonio Lopez was. How could she? My parents didn’t have a television in their home, another post–Wall Street career measure to cut off the stress of civilization. At the homes of relatives, they had seen videotapes of me playing Ariel in All Our