“I want that low-down, cheating bastard to eat his heart out.”
The edict echoing in her head, Sandra Woolcott swept the graphite pencil over the paper in bold, rapid strokes. Turning a client’s dream dress into reality was her business.
Still, this particular request was a first.
A revenge dress.
Sandra sat cross-legged on her living room sofa, sketch pad on her lap, and examined the illustration. A sleek, backless dress with a thigh-exposing split. Sexy and beautiful, the gown encapsulated the hallmarks of a garment worthy of bearing her Swoon Couture label.
She stuck the pencil behind her ear and gnawed at her bottom lip as she continued to study the sketch. Her client had a lot riding on this particular dress.
It had to be better than good. It had to be perfect.
She ripped the page from the sketch pad, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the direction of a wastebasket stationed near the sofa. It landed on the hardwood floor in a pile of similar wads filled with rejected ideas.
Sandra scrubbed a hand down her face in frustration.
She worked by appointment only, with a private clientele, her schedule packed months ahead with back-to-back appointments for consultations and fittings. She also had to handle the business end of running her custom shop.
Mondays were the day of the workweek Sandra focused solely on the creative side of Swoon Couture.
Instead of retreating to the studio at her shop, she’d decided to work from home, hoping a change of scenery would help her get caught up on the tasks she’d put on hold last week to help arrange her friend Janelle’s wedding.
No such luck.
She’d barely made a dent in her to-do list, which included ideas for Everley Madison, a pop singer she was scheduled to meet with in a few days to discuss a gown for her New Year’s Eve wedding, and the preliminary designs for clients preparing for the spring season of charity balls.
Instead, she’d spent the majority of the day stumped on the last-minute plea from one of the most prominent citizens of Wintersage, Massachusetts.
“We built that business together. Now he expects me to sit home alone while he strolls into the party celebrating its silver anniversary with his new skank on his arm,” Octavia Hall had complained during her design consultation. “A party I spent over a year planning. I didn’t even use Alluring Affairs, because I wanted to see to every detail personally.”
Sandra had listened patiently while Octavia spent the entire hour painstakingly listing her soon-to-be ex’s faults, without giving as much as a clue to the style of dress she wanted.
It didn’t matter.
Behind the older woman’s bravado, longing had lurked in her eyes. It told Sandra that, deep down, her client was really seeking a gown so breathtaking, the sight of her in it would make her estranged husband think twice about abandoning their marriage for a twenty-year-old.
It was a lofty goal for a dress. However, Sandra intended to do everything within her power to make Octavia, a former Miss Massachusetts, once again the most stunning woman in the room.
The clock on the mantel over the fireplace chimed, and Sandra calculated she could squeeze in another hour of work before making the short walk from her house, overlooking the harbor, to The Quarterdeck for her weekly business meeting/gossip session with her two best friends and business partners. In the meantime, she needed to concentrate on coming up with a showstopper of a gown.
She stared at the blank sketch-pad page. A vague idea of a shimmering dress embellished with beads and sequins...no, satin in the same caramel tones as Octavia’s skin...danced on the edge of Sandra’s imagination.
She closed her eyes and focused as the details slowly unfolded. Excited, she opened her eyes and snatched the pencil from behind her ear. She needed to get this design down on paper quickly, while it was fresh in her mind.
The doorbell sounded. Both the jarring chime and the accompanying pounding on her front door jerked Sandra from her thoughts, and visions of the satin gown faded.
So much for thinking working from home was a good idea. Muttering a curse, she set the pencil and pad aside.
She peered through the peephole and frowned. What were her parents doing in town?
“I thought you two were in New York City.” Sandra shivered against a blast of late-October wind coming off the nearby Atlantic Ocean as she pushed the door closed behind them.
“We barely had time to visit with the Kings before your father began griping about getting back to Wintersage and returning to work,” Nancy Woolcott said, “and his girlfriend.”
Stuart Woolcott winked at his wife. “Don’t be jealous of my side piece. She may be sexy, but you’re still my number one.”
As they walked into her living room, Sandra couldn’t help smiling at her parents’ running joke over her dad’s prized 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS. He’d acquired the muscle car of his boyhood dreams back when Sandra was in elementary school, and the rare hours he wasn’t in his office he spent in the garage, restoring his girlfriend to her seventies glory.
“I got a call about a 454 engine. I need to take a look at it,” he said. “Afterward, I’m going into the office.”
“That office isn’t going anywhere. Surely it can wait until tomorrow morning,” her mother countered.
“Woolcott Industries doesn’t run itself, dear. And neither of our children can be bothered to help run it, either.”
Sandra felt her father’s pointed stare as she bussed her mother’s upturned cheek.
Here we go, she thought, and steeled herself for the lengthy lecture that always accompanied that look. Sure enough, he launched into it.
“Computer hardware was good enough for me, my father, my grandfather and his father, who started out selling typewriters and adding machines, but it’s not good enough for my kids.” Her dad walked past her into the living room. “Fred King’s daughter, Ivy, is vice president of his company, you know. Her husband also works for their company, and they’ve given Fred two beautiful grand—”
“Don’t start, Stu.” Her mother cut him off. “Sandra chose her career. When the time comes, she’ll choose a husband and when to have children.”
“She’s not getting any younger,” Stuart said, as if twenty-eight years old was ancient. “And I just happen to know Dale Mills has asked our daughter out several times.”
Sandra cringed inwardly at the mention of the Woolcott Industries’ executive. Every sentence the man uttered was bracketed with the words, Stuart says or Stuart advises.
No way she’d ever date that brownnosing suck-up.
“Dale’s a good-looking young man,” her mother added. “And so considerate. Last week, he stood in line overnight just so he could surprise your father with Red Sox tickets for game two of the World Series.”
Sandra willed her eyes not to roll. She looked away from her mother to see her father scooping a wadded sheet from her sketch pad off the floor.
Unfurling it, he frowned. “Just think, Fred’s daughter’s negotiating multimillion-dollar deals.”
Sandra reached out to snatch the discarded sketch from his grasp.
Her father shook his head. “Meanwhile, my daughter is determined to make her living doodling stick figures.”
Sandra stopped short as a long forgotten voice and a buried memory pushed their way to the surface.
“Whatcha