Free Stay Tuned by Lauren Clark Page B

definitive advice. Candace needed to answer her phone.
    Wait. I took a moment and channeled my best friend, like we used to when we were kids. We’d practice sending mental signals to each other when it was too late to talk on the telephone. Our secret, pretend channels included WWCD (What Would Candace Do) for boys, gossip, and parental crises, and WWMD (What Would Melissa Do), a dedicated line for algebra test prep and biology answers.
    So, WWCD?
    I started to laugh. Of course. Her personal philosophy was, “If you’ve big problems to solve, you might as well look great dealing with them.”
    The answer, at least temporarily, was shopping.
    My own closet was a disaster. Drew had practically told me so. And, hey, it might get some positive attention from Chris. Within minutes, I showered, tied my hair back in a low ponytail, dressed, applied a dash of mascara and a dab of lip-gloss, then bounded down the stairs.
    Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Posh Couture , one of the most exclusive shops in town. Society wives, bank president’s daughters, and other prominent women in the community shopped here. Everyone who was anyone.
    The owner had a savvy sense of style, bought from chic designers in New York, and carried only a few pieces of each, not dozens in every size. The price tags were exceptional, too.
    I sat in the car with the engine running, staring at the window display before I moved a muscle. A tall, slender mannequin, draped in a saffron-colored chiffon blouse, black cigarette pants and four-inch heels stared at me.
    My chest tightened.
    A tap on my window caused me to shriek like a child at a scary movie. Before I could catch my breath, a tiny blonde with a huge grin appeared, motioning at me. Once my pulse was normal again, I rolled the window down and managed a bright smile.
    “Good morning,” the blonde chirped. “Did you think we were closed? I forgot to turn on some of the lights. I’m new. I’m Cher. Come on inside.”
    This woman—who didn’t look anything like Cher the singer—wasn’t taking no for an answer. In a wink, she had pulled open the door, taken my arm, and guided me inside Posh Couture . Soft jazz music played in the background. The smell of spiced candles tickled my nose.
    Inside was a lush array of fabrics and textures. I brushed my hand along a washed silk suit, and then let my fingertips rest on a cherry red linen jacket. A soft, fluid dress in chestnut brown caught my eye.
    “BCBG,” Cher whispered, nodding in approval. Her cheeks flushed pink with excitement as if she were the one doing the shopping.
    I glanced at the price tag and felt faint. Cher either didn’t notice my reaction or didn’t care. I steadied myself on a mannequin in a pink Trina Turk sheath.
    “Special occasion?” Cher asked, circling with ballerina steps. “Are you a size four?”
    “Size eight,” I corrected her, then paused and changed my answer. “Maybe a size six.”
    Cher shook her head, her earrings jingling. “Can’t be.”
    I caught myself before I disagreed again. “Okay,” I replied in a whisper. “Anyway, I’m going to be anchoring at WSGA, at least temporarily, and I need to look the part.”
    Cher nodded thoughtfully, her finger on her lips, as if this was a regular dilemma her customers faced at Posh Couture .
    “All right.” Her arm plunged into a rack of blouses. “I’ll get you a few things to try on.”
    While she perused the store, we talked about children, family, and school. She’d recently adopted a little girl and was active in the community. She had good manners, and occasionally, even in Macon, that superseded gossip.
    Cher steered me to the dressing rooms, plucking items deftly from shelves and countertops as we walked. I started to protest, and then stopped. Why not let someone else worry about what I needed?
    Door shut, a palette of colors dangled in front of me. A quick scan of the labels was enough to make me shiver. Tahari, Dolce Vita,