Retail Therapy Read Online Free PDF Page A

thing, but this was a weariness more pervasive than a small time difference.
    Spring ennui.
    Yawning, I sat up in bed and reached for my peignoir, the lacy pink one that was an accessory to this pink negligee. What a find! The fabric was amazing, and it draped so gracefully, I felt like one of those heavenly bodies Reverend Tyson preaches about at Aunt Nessie’s church. The only snag with the gown was the pink color, a poor match for my smooth mocha skin. Hmm. That’s a problem with many designers’ attire. Some of those creative geniuses just don’t choose colors that go well with African-American skin tones. I swished the gown around my legs, letting the skirt fall open on the air. Pink didn’t work for me. I would have to find one in a better color.
    But that was a chore for later. At the moment, I had to get moving if I was ever going to make my one-thirty facial at Armage, followed by a much-needed mani-pedi. If I had time, I would squeeze in a hot-stone massage with Chantelle, but it was going to be tight if I was going to make my date with Hailey. We were on for high tea at the Plaza—a much needed pick-me-up for Hailey, who was suffering some sort of career crisis. I don’t know ... something about ankle-strap shoes? I was going to treat her to tea, then lure her off for some retail therapy. Both of us were in need of some serious shopping to cure the ills in our lives.
    Myself? I was simmering mad at Daddy. During the flight back from London the night before, I’d had time to ponder the lunacy, the sheer ludicrousness of his cross-Atlantic summons. Really! I had ventured to Europe for a very worthy cause—the support of my good friend Petey—and to be scolded and ordered home like an errant puppy! The indignity of it all had my blood boiling, and it didn’t help that the air was humid and hot when I stepped out of the Manchester lobby.
    â€œGood Lord, is it summer already?” I shielded my eyes from the sun and smiled at the doorman, Mr. Barnes.
    â€œIt’s still May, but we have summer weather.” Mr. Barnes squinted at me, the laugh lines deep around his eyes. He was one of the few African-Americans on staff at the Manchester Apartments, and his presence made my father uncomfortable. Daddy always frowned and fumbled for some dollar bills and felt incredibly guilty that a brother was opening the door for him when he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. I guess that’s one of those notions you’re stuck with when you start out in the middle class—wanting to do things for yourself, feeling guilty when other people provide services for you. As one of five children growing up in Great Neck, New York, my father was forced to learn so many tedious tasks. Cooking, washing, sewing, vacuuming, dishwashing. How many times had I heard of the Sunday dinners after which he and his sisters spent three solid hours scrubbing pots and pans and buffing the kitchen till it shone? Please. If the Lord had meant us to spend our lives scrubbing, He would have given us scouring pads on our fingertips instead of nails. And that is enough about that.
    Still, it’s a shame that my father will probably never be able to shed his guilt. Here he is, a successful federal judge, and he can’t take a vacation in the Caribbean or hire a limo or live in a doorman building without having his guilt button pushed. Poor Daddy; poor Mama. She has no qualms about being pampered, but she’s stuck with the Mother Teresa of the service industry.
    Me? I think it’s great to see a black man in a well-paying job that suits him, and since Mr. Barnes is a fine conversationalist and a bit of a flirt, I’m happy to let him open my door any day.
    â€œDo you need a cab today, Ms. Marshall-Hughs?”
    â€œYes, I would appreciate that, Mr. Barnes. And let’s pray you can find one with air conditioning.”
    As he leaned toward the curb and whistled for a cab, I felt