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Chapter 1
Hideous. Next…
Ugh. Another awful floral. Next…
A muumuu? In formal wear? Next…
Okay, this shade of orange should be outlawed…
Waverley Abbott reached the end of the clothing rack and looked around to see if there were any other selections in her size but only saw another rack displaying sizes zero to four.
Disheartening. Why couldn’t finding a dress be as easy as finding a pair of shoes?
A classic rendition of “Jingle Bells” began playing through the department store speakers, a song that in the past would have lifted her spirits. But after the horror of the last few months, it only irritated her.
It was six days after Christmas. A nice, smooth jazz would actually be an improvement.
A ring of laughter caught her attention, and she looked over to see a mom-and-daughter duo admiring a size-two silver sequined gown, their arms already weighted down with bags filled with their post-holiday shopping. Their joy at finding endless selections was seriously annoying considering Waverley had been searching for more than two hours for just one freaking gown for tonight’s New Year’s Eve party without any luck.
If she had her way, she’d be spending the entire day and night in bed eating leftover gingerbread cookies and drinking eggnog while watching that latest true crime drama that dropped on Netflix. But attendance at her father’s annual party was not optional. And with the gown she’d ordered online for the event lost somewhere between Oklahoma and Colorado, she was here in mall hell to find a last-minute replacement.
Would it kill the powers that be to actually carry decent options for women who were larger than a size twelve?
She sighed. This was definitely turning out to be more difficult than she’d expected. Unfortunately, telling her father that she wasn’t coming down to the party because she didn’t have anything—literally, anything—to wear wasn’t going to cut it. Not this year.
An appearance had to be made, not just for her sake but the sake of the family name that had been tarnished by recent scandal. No doubt her father had other motivations in insisting she make an appearance. Like enduring inevitable humiliation as people gawked at her. He probably thought the humiliation would push her to get her life—and body—back in shape so she could become the daughter he could be proud of.
It was as if he blamed her for the fact that her husband of eight years was caught messing around with a twenty-one-year-old cocktail waitress. If that hadn’t been horrifying enough, having Spencer raid their joint accounts and all of the investments they’d built during their marriage just days before the feds showed up at their Boulder home, committing a raid of their own and leaving her with almost nothing, had been the final injury. To her pride, her confidence, her bank account, and any standing she had left in their community.
Showing up on her father’s door and throwing herself at his mercy until she could lick her wounds and figure out her next step had been just a blip after that.
But that had been two months ago. Two months of trying to find the silver lining in the whole mess while eating her feelings and ignoring the social obligations she normally had to uphold in her role as Richard Abbott’s daughter.
Waverley looked around the floor of clothes and sighed one last time in resignation.
All right. If there was ever a sign that she needed to push through any potential embarrassment and put herself into the capable hands of the saleswomen at her favorite department store, this was it.
She turned to go, purposely evading the image that was reflected in the mirror. She didn’t need to be reminded that her dark blond roots were four months past needing coloring or that her sallow skin hadn’t improved after months of hiding inside. Or that despite the fact she had managed to keep a selection of beautiful gowns hanging up in her closet, any one of which would have been perfectly adequate for tonight’s event, she’d be lucky if she could get even one of them pulled up above her knees, let alone fully on and zipped.
At least the Eileen Fisher black ankle pants and matching black top that she’d been living in when she wasn’t inside her room assured her she didn’t look like a total troll. She’d even managed to put on some lip gloss and a coat of mascara, which was something.
A few minutes later, Waverley walked into the hollowed entrance of her favorite high-end department store, a store that she’d spent thousands of dollars in over the years buying designer cocktail dresses, ball gowns, shoes, and casual daywear that would befit not just a member of the board of the Abbott Foundation but the wife of the once-up-and-coming financier Spencer Johnson and daughter of Richard Abbott, of Abbott International.
She passed through the makeup counters, where a steady stream of customers tested out shades and scents as friendly sales associates assisted. She waited for a few of those friendly smiles to turn her way or maybe a simple greeting or inquiry whether she needed help. But instead, the gazes seemed to all look past her.
Almost like she wasn’t there at all.
No. She was being silly. No one was ignoring her. And once she reached the women’s department and saw some familiar faces, someone would help her find what she needed, and this nightmare would be over.
When she finally stepped off the escalator and into the world of women’s apparel, the tension that had been building in her shoulders seemed to ease. The sales floor wasn’t a crush of people like some of the other stores she’d visited today, probably because, sale prices or not, most of the usual shoppers couldn’t afford the extravagant prices.
Technically, Waverley couldn’t afford the extravagant prices either. But today’s trip was on her father. Everything these days was on him, and he didn’t let her forget it. Because, other than a small inheritance her mother had left her when she was fourteen—well before her marriage to Spencer and out of his reach—every charge card and penny currently in her wallet was provided to her through the generosity of her father.
Waverley scanned the floor, looking for a familiar face, and nearly wept when she saw Janet, the woman who’d helped her select the gown she’d bought last May. It had been worn to a wedding for one of the partners at the equity firm where Spencer worked, a big black-tie affair, and she’d had tons of compliments on it. Maybe Janet could work her magic again.
Waverley crossed the aisle, a smile of relief already slipping into place.
“How are you today?”
