behind me, “I don’t like that he brought her home drunk,” but I am too weary and sick to straighten things out before morning. I’m sure once she remembers what the Endicotts have done for the Longbourne community, she’ll recognize that I’m the one to blame for my sorry state.
But before that happens, I have to figure out what it means that I seem to have rung in the New Year by being rescued by Michael Endicott and whether this was a good thing. I guess I at least know now what Michael was trying to warn me about with his cryptic talk about Jeremy and people who “use” people. I accepted the drinks–that’s true–but Jeremy concocted them and when they had the desired effect, he didn’t offer to take me home. He offered to take me back to his house. His empty house.
Instead, Michael took me home. At the risk of having me hurl all over his pristine leather seats. He showed up in Jason Antin’s living room at the right time. Because he knows Jeremy. They both went to the same prep school. And they both got expelled. And they both insist that they are nothing alike.
Which is definitely a point in Michael’s favor.
I finally sink into a troubled sleep knowing one thing: Michael Endicott is a mystery I need to solve. I’d already discovered he was a closet Rastaman, which I would never have guessed.
I wonder what other surprises lurk under that crisp Ralph Lauren collar.
Stephanie Wardrop
Stephanie Wardrop grew up in Reading, Pennsylvania where she started writing stories when she ran out of books to read. She’s always wanted to be a writer, except during the brief period of her childhood in which piracy seemed like the most enticing career option — and if she had known then that there actually were “girl” pirates way back when, things might have turned out very differently. She currently teaches writing and literature at Western New England University and lives in a town not unlike the setting of Snark with her husband, two kids, and five cats. With a book out — finally — she might be hitting the high seas any day now.
Look for THE CINDERELLA MOMENT coming from Swoon Romance this Summer.
THE CINDERELLA MOMENT
Jennifer Kloester
Chapter One
Angel knew the moment she saw it. The colour was exactly as she’d imagined—a deep midnight-blue. She ran her fingers over the velvet, catching it between her palms to test its weight. Just as she’d thought: pussycat soft, but heavy and luxuriant enough to hang perfectly.
She lifted the bolt of cloth down from the rack and carried it to the counter. The salesgirl smothered a yawn. “How much?” she asked in a bored tone.
If she only knew what it’s for, thought Angel. “I’ll need six yards.”
The girl looked at her doubtfully. “That’ll be three hundred and eighty-nine dollars.”
Please let there be enough, Angel thought, digging into her purse and placing the bills on the counter, her heart beating faster as the roll of cash gave up its twenties, tens and fives, until all that was left was a small wad of one-dollar bills.
She counted slowly: three eighty-two, three eighty-three, three eighty-four . . . She was five dollars short. “Maybe just under six yards.”
The girl unrolled the heavy bolt of cloth and Angel watched in quiet ecstasy as the fabric flowed in great velvet waves across the counter. It was perfect.
***
The uptown bus seemed to take forever. It was a sultry May evening and Angel’s legs prickled with sweat under the parcel of fabric on her lap. It’d be hot walking home from her stop, but she didn’t care. She’d help her mother with dinner, rush through her homework and get started on the dress. She’d have to go carefully. This dress, more than anything she had ever made, needed to be exactly right, down to the tiniest detail. And when it came time to cut the velvet—well, she’d work up to that.
It was nearly seven when she turned into Fifth Avenue and ran up the front steps of the five-storey townhouse. Inside, the marble foyer was brightly lit and she could hear voices upstairs. The hateful Margot by the sound of it, probably berating the cleaner again, unless—had Lily come home early from play rehearsal?
Angel paused for a moment, straining to hear. The first voice reached a new pitch and the answering murmur grew even softer. Definitely Margot and definitely not Lily.
It could be Clarissa. Angel hadn’t yet met Margot’s seventeen-year-old daughter,