Nights Under the Tennessee Stars. Joanne RockЧитать онлайн книгу.
be Scott or his wife, Bethany, who interviews you.” Her smile faded as she remembered why they probably needed a bookkeeper. Their marriage had been teetering on the verge of divorce this year. Bethany normally handled the books. “I think this will be a great dress for an interview, although if you have a jacket—”
“I don’t have a jacket.” The woman’s voice was tight as she shook her head, a limp strand of pale blond hair sliding loose from the tight ponytail. “I can’t afford more than the dress. This is a lot to spend on a job I might not get.”
“You definitely don’t need a jacket,” Erin blurted, sensing she’d touched a nerve. “I think you could style this a lot of ways—”
Her customer slumped onto the small wooden stool in one corner of the dressing room. “I don’t even have shoes to go with this. Or a bag.” She covered her face with both hands and shook her head. “Don’t mind me. I didn’t mean to have a meltdown in your nice store.”
“It’s okay.” Erin’s heart went out to the woman, whatever her story. Erin had been blessed. She had never had those kinds of financial worries, and she hated to think she had neighbors who fought battles like that. “Can I get you a tissue or—”
“No!” Her head lifted, and although there were tears on her cheeks, her eyes blazed with a fresh determination. “God, no. I am not crying over my rat bastard ex-boyfriend who took everything when he ditched his son and me to screw his home-wrecking whore of a secretary.”
She swiped her face fiercely to get rid of all trace of moisture while Erin reeled from her words. Even six months after finding out she’d accidentally cheated with a married father of two, the accusation of “home-wrecking whore” jabbed her chest as sharply as if it had been meant for her. Kind of like this woman had peeked into Erin’s personal ghost closet.
“I—” Her voice faltered. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m sorry to live it.” She stood abruptly, brushing over the skirt of the dress with her hands. “And I didn’t mean to make myself at home in the dress when I haven’t even bought it. It’s lovely, but maybe I’d better think it over before I buy anything.”
Erin wanted to help the woman even more than she’d wanted to assist Remy Weldon the night before. She’d given Remy a helping hand out of common courtesy. But the need to give something back to this woman went deeper than that—a personal need to soothe over some of the guilt in her heart.
“The store is actually hosting a big Dress for Success event later this month,” Erin lied, unsure about the name, but remembering an article describing an organization that provided professional attire to disadvantaged women. She’d thought about doing something similar in the past but had gotten busy with renovations. “I’ve been collecting clothes for it for weeks.”
That wasn’t true, either. But personal pride could be a hard-won commodity, and she didn’t want to injure this woman’s by making it sound as if she wanted to give her a handout.
The woman tilted her chin at Erin, her thin arms folded tight. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s an event that gives women who’ve had a hard time the chance to choose a nice outfit for a job interview. You know, help them get ahead?” She tried to gauge the woman’s expression. “It’s exactly for women who have rat bastard exes in their past.”
“Is that so?” Pushing at the sleeves of the too-big dress, the blonde smiled. “It would definitely save me a lot of time if I didn’t have to take in an outfit. Do you think you’ll have any smaller sizes?”
“I’m positive we do.” Erin’s brain worked fast to calculate how long it would take her to pull off something like this and make it a success. “I planned to unveil the project later this month, but since I’ve already got inventory for it, why don’t you come back and take a look at it—when is your interview?”
“Monday.”
Erin would have to shuffle aside everything else in her schedule to research this. She had off-season inventory at home, and she could raid friends’ closets.
“Why don’t you come by Friday after the shop closes and you can take a peek at what I’ve got in the storeroom?” The toughest part would be coming up with enough shoes, bags and accessories to make it look as though she’d been collecting for a while. “Er, what size shoe are you?”
“Seven and a half.” The woman extended her hand. “I’m Jamie Raybourn, by the way. This is really kind of you.”
“Erin Finley. And it’s no problem. You’ll do better at the interview if you feel happy about what you’re wearing, and the cool thing about this program is that women can come back for work clothes once they land a job.”
“Really?” Jamie’s one raised eyebrow suggested she was skeptical, and it made Erin sad to think the woman didn’t believe she’d ever get a break. She fiddled with the price tag on the dress she still wore.
“Yes. It’s a great program.” Or it would be when Erin got done with it. “I’d better get back to the front counter. But you’ll be here on Friday?”
Erin wanted to help. Needed to help. Even if she wasn’t desperate to somehow alleviate the guilt she felt about another mother with a bastard for a husband, Erin had been raised to be civic-minded and care for her community. Her father’s long stint as Heartache’s mayor had instilled that kind of community awareness in all the Finleys.
Jamie smiled and shrugged narrow shoulders out of the blue jersey dress. “I will. Thank you so much.”
Erin sidled out through the gap in the curtain on one side, careful not to flash her half-dressed customer. She worried a little about pulling off a small clothing drive in the next few days, let alone organizing the storage area enough to allow a client in there to browse some inventory. Expanding Last Chance Vintage meant a lot of furnishings and display items were tucked in storage to stay out of the way of drywall, sanding and painting projects.
Renovation work would have to wait a little longer because right now, Erin had a more important focus. Maybe helping Jamie—and other women like her—would put Erin on a more positive path to forgiving herself for being a blind idiot about Patrick.
And if not? At least she was doing something constructive with her time, unlike all the months she had wasted loving some guy who’d done nothing but lie to her.
Ducking behind the front counter, Erin grabbed her cell phone and sent out her first SOS text to start collecting clothes. If she acted fast, maybe she could coerce some friends into cleaning out their closets tonight and she could make the rounds in the morning to pick things up. Too bad her sister-in-law, Bethany, was one of the few “size two” women Erin knew. She couldn’t let Jamie walk into an interview with Bethany while wearing her sister-in-law’s former clothes.
Erin was just closing out the register and flipping the sign on the front door when Remy Weldon pulled up in a white sedan with out-of-state plates. Her hand paused on the Open sign, her attention thoroughly captured by the sight of him unfolding his long, lean frame from the vehicle.
He’d held plenty of appeal the night before with his dress shirt plastered to his chest and shoulders from the rain. Today, clean and pressed in a gray suit with a pale blue shirt open at the neck, he was a whole different kind of handsome. Something about the suit and the crisp shirt cuffs peeking out from the sleeves as he moved reminded her of Patrick and all the things she’d once admired about him. His sharp, professional appearance. His travel wardrobe that could fold down into the smallest possible roll-away bag.
Remy lifted a hand in acknowledgment when he spotted her. Her heart rate jumped a little at his smile, a fact that irritated her more than she would have liked. Opening the door, she concentrated on the fact he was just a client like any other. And he’d be on his way back to Miami before she knew it.
“I hardly recognize you when you’re not sopping wet,” she