Authors: Barbara Brooke
by Barbara Brooke
Copyright © Barbara Brooke 2012. All rights reserved.
First Kindle Edition: March 2012
Glimmers is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Gliding along metal hangers, my hand lightly brushes over lush designer fabric. Moving slowly, I shift the clothing apart. Each piece has a personality of its own and each clamors for my attention. My heartbeat quickens and my hunt shifts gears. A treasure is hidden in here somewhere. I can feel it.
A cashmere sweater falls into my arms. I hold it to my chest in deep embrace, caressing its velvety sleeves. But when I look in the mirror, I see its color is just too dull against my complexion, and right now, that’s the last thing I need.
I catch a glint in the mirror and glance over my shoulder. A golden mannequin stands there with attitude, wearing what must be the cutest pair of jeans I've ever seen. I rush over, and somewhat rudely, strip the jeans off the plastic goddess. With bated breath, I peek at the size . . . yes! I hug them tightly and continue on my expedition.
And suddenly, there they are: suede fold-over ankle boots. I pick them up and gently turn them over in my hands. The leather is smooth and supple; its color is rich and warm. There are only a few signs of wear on the soles, but they really are in great shape. These are true designer boots all the way from the eighties.
But what if they don’t fit? Don’t even think that way, Paige, they must, they just have to. After all, they will go perfectly with my new favorite jeans. Ever so carefully, I slide my foot down into the tan colored boot. I push a little further, and my toes barely graze the tip. The fit is absolutely perfect! Now, if only I had somewhere to wear them. No, I will wear them: to the grocery store, PTA meetings, and maybe even for Hailey’s bridal shower . . . or maybe not. I mean, who wears boots to a bridal shower?
~ * * * ~
Suddenly, a familiar sound drifts from the backseat of my minivan, “I am not a baby!” From a blurry distance, my daughter’s voice manages to find me. And just like that, my most recent shopping daydream is over.
“You are too!” Liam shouts back.
“I am not!” Elle exclaims.
I peer into my rearview mirror and see the reddened faces of my children.
I sigh and ask the dreaded question, “What’s going on back there?”
“Liam said I was too old to wear a kitty on my t-shirt. He said the other kids would think I was a baby!” Elle says, pointing toward the Hello Kitty graphic on her shirt.
“Liam, that little kitty is all the rage on the kindergarten playground,” I say, trying to lessen the tension in the car.
“The girls in
class wear shirts with guitars and cool stuff on them,” he replies.
“Well, you are also two years older than Elle. If she’s happy with her clothes, then that’s all that matters,” I say.
Liam rolls his eyes before looking out the window. I can barely hear him mutter, “I was only trying to help.”
Elle rests back in her seat, and a smile spreads across her sweet heart-shaped face. I know I must’ve said something right. I take another moment and stare at her reflection. Since the day she was born, Elle has resembled my husband: golden-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a smile to brighten my day. Today, she looks a little different. Is it possible she is beginning to resemble me? Her hair has darkened, and her waves are straightening . . . hmm, maybe.
Liam, on the other hand, looks remarkably like me. Except, his hair is golden, (like his father’s), his complexion is fair (like his father’s). All right, Liam still resembles Elliott, but he
have my chocolate brown eyes.
~ * * * ~
Sunshine Elementary School appears ahead . . . time to be herded like cattle. A person adorned in an orange vest whistles and motions for all of the cars, minivans, and SUV’s to merge into the right turn lane. I pull up to my assigned spot, and my kids hop out of the car.
“See ya,” mumbles Liam, leaving with a little wave behind his back.
“Okay my little man, see you later! I love you and will give you big hugs later!” I say very quietly to myself.
Elle’s a different story; she still allows me to dote on her with great affection. I receive a large hug goodbye, before she heads for her class.
First mission accomplished. Next, pick up a few groceries . . . sigh.
~ * * * ~
“What to cook for dinner, what to cook for dinner,” I agonize on my drive home from the supermarket.
Even after purchasing a cart overflowing with food, I’m still not sure what to throw together. If I’m being honest here, I dread coming up with meal ideas. I know in my heart, my feeble attempt in the kitchen will most likely fail in a major way. And although I loathe the process, I believe I owe it to my family to prepare something home cooked and healthy.
Over the years, my husband Elliott has endured countless sub-par meals . . . poor man. I suspect our lack of company at the dinner table is due to the fact dinners at the MacKenzie household are typically served burnt, dry, or tasteless. It’s very frustrating, to say the least.
My cell phone rings, and I rummage through my purse. Let’s face it; I already know it will be one of three people: Elliott, my little sis Hailey, or Mom. Who will it be this time? After finding the phone, I look at the screen . . . and it’s Hailey.
“Hey!” I say into the receiver.
“Good-morning, Paige,” she chimes. “So what’s on your agenda for today?”
I laugh a little in response. “Why do you even bother asking? You know it’s going to be the same answer: drive kids to school, grocery shop, clean house . . . and help my little sister plan her wedding.”
“Sounds fun, especially the last part,” she sighs before adding, “I like the article you sent on art inspired centerpieces.”
“Which do you like the best? Which do you want to use?” I ask eagerly.