She Who Shops Read online

  BECOMING A SHOPAHOLIC

  Spending time with Lana over the past few weeks was showing Weslee that there was a whole other world that she had unwittingly become part of but that she was unprepared for. It irked Weslee to have Lana tell her what kinds of clothes she should be buying, the types of restaurants she should eat in, that her nails should always be done (“Not long; that’s so ‘ghetto’”), and how to style her hair (“Highlights, highlights—you want to look a little exotic”).

  Weslee was having trouble with all this. She didn’t see anything wrong with the way she looked, and she hadn’t the foggiest idea of how to transform herself into a fashionista. Since the only magazines she ever read were Fortune and Forbes, she really wasn’t even very familiar with the term.

  “Weslee, you’ve never heard of Robert Cavalli?” Lana had asked incredulously one day. “You’re never going to get a date with that mass-market, department-store wardrobe.”

  That had stung. Weslee defended herself. “Lana, why would I spend one hundred dollars on a tiny tank top? That’s such a waste!” They had been standing in the middle of Neiman Marcus, Lana in tight Seven jeans, halter top and her customary heels, Weslee in a Banana Republic khaki skirt, slides and a pink T-shirt from Ann Taylor. They looked like the before and after in a magazine makeover section.

  Lana had tried to explain to Weslee the wisdom of dropping huge sums of money on designer clothes. “Trust me. Men care. They say they don’t. But they do. And it’s not just that; they make you feel better. Great clothes will change your attitude!”

  Weslee wasn’t convinced but she purchased the Cavalli tank top anyway . . .

  Books by Joanne Skerrett

  SHE WHO SHOPS

  SUGAR VS. SPICE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  She Who Shops

  Joanne Skerrett

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  BECOMING A SHOPAHOLIC

  Books by Joanne Skerrett

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6 -

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  SISTER, SISTER . . .

  Copyright Page

  For Theresa Skerrett,

  who always had the shoes and bag to match.

  Thanks, Mommy.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost: Praise God from whom all blessings flow. To my family, thanks for being there: Daddy, Desry & Spencer, Been & Mark, Herman & too many to mention, Jeff & whoever it is this minute, Lucy & Brian, Curtis & Ellen, little Spencer, Jasmine, Sam and Steve, Caron, Nichelle, and all the other folks in Dominica, Guadeloupe, Paris, and beyond.

  Thanks to my friends and colleagues for their support. A million thanks to my editor, John Scognamiglio, whose astuteness saved me from all those abrupt endings. And my deep gratitude to the most efficient Frank Weimann.

  Chapter 1

  The plane hit the ground hard, and Weslee feared she would lose her Cheez-Its and pretzel snack mix, her only meal of the day.

  The woman seated next to her was obviously shaken, but elected to appear as nonchalant as possible as the aircraft roared up the runway. The woman had used the satellite phone nonstop throughout the flight, talking to a daughter whom she would be meeting for dinner.

  “Well, honey, what in the world do you want me to do?” she had said, agitation in her voice. “You chose to move to Boston. No one forced you!” The woman had even yelled at one point, causing other people to turn in her direction.

  Now the elegant-looking woman did her best to look composed, smoothing out her white linen pantsuit as the plane taxied to the gate.

  Weslee didn’t fully calm down until the engine stopped.

  She absolutely hated flying.

  She looked at her watch as the seat belt light darkened. Two hours and eleven minutes from Chicago to Boston. She was glad she had parted with those frequent-flier miles to get the first-class upgrade. No waiting a half hour to deplane while everyone in front of her wrested their luggage from the overhead bins. Plus, she had had the pleasure of listening to the well-dressed, perfectly made-up middle-aged woman talk to her daughter.

  Weslee stepped gingerly from the plane onto the jetway leading to the terminal, careful to thank the pilot and the stewardesses.

  Good job, but make it smoother next time, she wanted to tell the very young-looking pilot.

  She adjusted her overnight bag on her shoulder. The movers were bringing the furniture and most of her clothes to her new apartment tonight, so thankfully there would be no waiting in baggage claim. She started to look for signs leading to a taxi stand.

  Relief swept through her. She was finally on the ground and on the way to a new chapter in her life.

  Strangers stole glances at Weslee Dunster as she walked through Terminal C at Logan International Airport. Maybe they had seen her before. Maybe. They were looking at the former power forward for the Northwestern women’s basketball team, and that would explain those legs. Weslee never thought of that much these days—of herself as a star athlete . . . or as a leggy goddess, for that matter. After all, she did spend most of those three years on the bench. And goddess was something she associated with other, more glamorous people—not people like her, who wore Gap jeans and button-down shirts with tan loafers.

  If she ever caught people looking at her, she always assumed that it was because of her height.

  And maybe it was. At 5 feet 11 and 131 pounds, she cut quite a striking figure. And, in her opinion, for a tall, skinny black woman, that wasn’t always necessarily all good. Her sister, Terry, who had the same willowy build but a better sense of humor, always said people either thought that Weslee was a crackhead or a supermodel the first time they looked at her.

  Thanks to her parents, both string beans themselves, there was nothing she could eat too much of that would change her physique. And, her sister’s comments notwithstanding, to most observers she appeared to belong more in the supermodel camp than with the emaciated junkies, thanks to the strong cheekbones and high, naturally sculpted eyebrows she had inherited from her West Indian–born father, Milton.

  She was no great beauty, but she managed to turn heads. Maybe it was her natural athletic grace, those legs finely tuned from her passion for running. Who knew? She certainly didn’t. If you asked Weslee, she’d say she wanted to be shorter, prettier, with a tiny nose and smaller feet.

  She walked down the es
calator, following the signs to Ground Transportation and ignoring the tempting aroma of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

  And people still looked. Why did she have that half smile on her face? men wondered.

  Why did she walk, not strut, women thought, as they would if they had a body like hers?

  The hum and drum of the harried passengers did nothing to pierce her daydreaming.

  She skipped past the more immediate task of starting business school to picture herself two years from now: a fabulous job at one of the major investment banks, an even more fabulous apartment in New York City, or perhaps here in Boston, and hopefully a fabulous new husband. She’d even settle for a fabulous boyfriend. One nothing like Michael, thank you very much.

  There were plenty of cabs waiting as she exited the terminal.

  Weslee knew it would not all be a bed of roses. She had done her research. The economy stunk, and everyone at her firm had told her the last thing she needed right now was an MBA. Everybody had an MBA these days, and everybody was still getting laid off. Well, it wasn’t just getting the MBA, she had argued in defense of her decision. It was the whole getting thing. Getting away. Getting something else than what she had now. Something better.

  But, yes, Boston would be a challenge, no doubt about that.

  Look at all this construction, she thought, surveying through the smudged taxi window the big wreck that the Big Dig had wrought on Boston’s infrastructure. This new highway was “almost done” the last time I was here five years ago, and it’s still “almost done.” She shook her head.

  Despite her months and months of detailed research, it still felt new to be in the city now. In typical Weslee fashion, during her last six months in Chicago she had read almost every book, article, and newspaper story that had to do with Boston, Boston University, and her new neighborhood. She was a planner, always prepared. So she took inventory as the cab made its way through the city, making sure that everything was where the books had said it would be.

  It satisfied her somehow that it was seventy-three degrees, though it was August. That was what she had expected: unpredictable weather.

  The skyscrapers leaned against the grayness of the late summer day. Some of the buildings looked as if they were decaying, as if the life or lives inside of them were just not enough to keep them standing. And the colors of orange and construction yellow were omnipresent and threateningly permanent: cones blocking off lanes and heavy-duty highway building equipment. And detour signs everywhere. It was as if all the old roads now led to new, unknown destinations.

  The taxi crawled through the snaking afternoon traffic. The driver turned up the talk radio station even louder as the radio host poked fun at the female former Massachusetts governor. The cab driver laughed, and Weslee unconsciously tapped her cell phone in her pocketbook, like she often did when she was uneasy.

  She tuned out the sound of female-bashing and nervous laughter from the cab driver. She started to go down her mental checklist again to make sure that everything was in place. Account balances: savings, money market, 401(k), IRAs, mutual funds—a grand total of $376,935.50. A year’s tuition was already paid up. The only thing she would have to worry about was rent and other living expenses. She had budgeted everything down to the last penny. If she spent no more than $1,879.00 a month over the next two years, she would come out of this with barely a dent in her treasured savings. She smiled with satisfaction again. She had saved well over the years, thanks to her father, who had instilled the value of frugality in her since childhood.

  The traffic barely moved. Two months ago, when she’d come here looking for a place to live, she’d been stuck in traffic on her way to and from the airport, too. And five years ago, when she had visited Harvard with Michael, they had been stuck in traffic as well. She remembered him almost losing his mind with worry about being late for his interview at Harvard Medical School.

  That seemed so long ago now. When Michael was rejected from Harvard, he had “settled” for Northwestern. She had supported him through the disappointment but was secretly happy that he would stay in Chicago. She had never thought about Boston again until she decided to get away from Chicago—and Michael and his new live-in girlfriend.

  Boston had won out over New York and Philadelphia. Actually, she couldn’t afford to live in Manhattan—at least not the way she wanted to live in Manhattan—even with an NYU fellowship. And the Wharton School had laughed in her face. Or at least that’s the way she liked to explain their rejection letter.

  Those rejections had hurt her so much. They tore at her soul for weeks. She must have read each letter hundreds of times: “We’re sorry . . .” “The competition was so . . .” All that, plus Michael’s “It’s just not working out right now.”

  It would be six months exactly in two weeks. One night Michael came home to their loft from work and said that he was moving out. His explanation was that he had to get his head together. He wanted to wait a few more years before settling down and getting married. At twenty-eight, he was just too young, he said. There was still so much of the world he wanted to see. That world turned out to be some internist at the hospital, a University of Chicago graduate, he had said, proudly. After five years with Weslee, he had found the perfect woman—not Weslee. She created the picture of Michael’s new love in her mind: most likely petite, light caramel skin, probably long, naturally straight hair, and light brown eyes. Maybe she did deserve Michael more than I did, Weslee had told herself then.

  Ugh. She frowned. I’m not even going to think about this anymore.

  She reached for her cell phone to let her parents and sister know that she had made it to Boston in one piece.

  “What did you say the address was?” The cabbie peered at her through the mirror again.

  “Sixty-eight Commonwealth Avenue.”

  “Coming right up,” the cabbie said as he turned onto Storrow Drive.

  Weslee could see the university’s buildings in the distance. She couldn’t help but feel excited. She hadn’t been on a college campus in seven years. And she had never been on an urban college campus. This would be nothing like Northwestern. No idyllic settings, picturesque ponds, tranquil surroundings, and, of course, no loud, stomach-churning basketball games—and no Michael.

  They had met at Northwestern. They both loved basketball. He played on the men’s team; she played on the women’s. She thought it was so cute the way he would always let her win when they played together. She knew she could beat him fair and square. She was a better shot.

  The year they had lived together in the Chicago Loop had been a dress rehearsal for what was surely to come, she had thought. Weslee had never once thought that she would not marry Michael, not even when she found herself constantly walking on eggshells when he came home in a bad mood every other night. She had even learned to ignore the way he made her feel as though her career as a fund analyst at the top mutual fund rating firm in the country was basically as good as being a check-out girl at a grocery store. Those things didn’t become clear until the day he walked out of her life and she was really honest with herself about the lie she had been living.

  But that was all in the past, she thought, as the taxi pulled to a stop in front of the five-story brick apartment building. She had risen out of that fog, and the road was clear in front of her now. She would finish her MBA, make new friends, visit Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard, and go to Cheers.

  Maybe I’ll even run the Boston Marathon, she thought as she rifled through her wallet to pay the cabbie.

  Chapter 2

  Weslee tried to concentrate as the professor droned on about globalization. No matter what those protesters said, he was saying, it was what made the world the global village it was today. Multinationals employed people in impoverished countries, created roads and infrastructure in tiny countries most Americans had never heard of, blah, blah, blah.

  She wondered if everyone else shared her boredom. She wondered if everyone else was thinking Tell me somet
hing I don’t already know. No. Some guy had his hand up and was asking a question: Why is it that multinationals ignored the African continent?

  Her mind kept wandering back to the previous night at the meet-and-greet.

  Weslee surveyed the classroom filled with her fellow students. She shifted in her seat and tapped on the keyboard of her laptop. Appear involved. Interested. Present.

  Last night she had shifted her weight often, too. From one painful foot to the other, cursing her new pumps as she smiled at her new classmates. They were all dressed casually. Her calves had ached from the long run that morning. Her head also hurt because she had forced herself to drink a glass of white wine when all she wanted was a diet soda. But everyone else had wine and seemed to be enjoying it. What was she to do?

  The professor’s answer to the Africa question was lame.

  Last night had been OK. But she wondered about the impression she had made. What did people think of her?

  She was one of three black faces, she had immediately noted upon walking into the faculty dining room. Yup. Just the three of us. There was a very attractive woman who was most probably biracial and seemed to be sucking up all the attention, and an older-looking man. Married, to judge by his ring. There were a few Chinese and Japanese and Indians among the group, but the two other black faces stood out—at least to Weslee.

  The gathering was meant to give everyone a chance to network and get to know one another. She could tell that school was going to be competitive, but she had been warned. People seemed to have no problem asking her to recite her resume. So for the fifth time, here she was proving to some white guy that she belonged.

  “Nice to meet you, Charles . . . uh, Chad,” she said, shaking his hand firmly after he corrected her on his name. He seemed nice enough.

  “So, are you fresh out of undergrad?” he asked, beginning the inquisition. She took it all good-naturedly. Everybody did it. She told him about her short and unspectacular journey from Northwestern to fund analyst at Research Associates Inc. Of course, she left out the Michael angle when he asked her why she had decided to leave such a good company to return to school.