Tinsel Read online

  TINSEL

  Copyright © 2018 by Devney Perry LLC

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-7323884-3-7

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Editing & Proofreading:

  Elizabeth Nover, Razor Sharp Editing

  www.razorsharpediting.com

  Elaine York, Allusion Graphics

  www.allusiongraphics.com

  Julie Deaton, Deaton Author Services

  www.facebook.com/jdproofs

  Karen Lawson, The Proof is in the Reading

  Kaitlyn Moodie, Moodie Editing Services

  www.facebook.com/KaitlynMoodieEditing

  Cover:

  Sarah Hansen © Okay Creations

  www.okaycreations.com

  Formatting:

  Champagne Book Design

  www.champagnebookdesign.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Preview of The Birthday List

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Acknowledgements

  Also Available from Devney Perry

  About the Author

  To my father-in-law, Richard.

  Thank you for all of your input and knowledge about the Blackfeet culture and living in Browning. I continue to be awed by your life experiences and am so grateful to be a part of your family.

  Kindergarten

  “Pop! Look it!” With a smile stretched across my face, I slid my drawing down the table toward Grandpa’s seat.

  His black-rimmed glasses were perched on the tip of his nose as he bent over my brother’s homework. “So when you’re changing a percentage to a whole number, all you have to do is move the decimal two places.”

  “Like this?” Logan asked, drawing a dot on his paper between some numbers.

  “Exactly.” Pop clapped him on the shoulder. “And then to change a whole number into a percentage, just—”

  “Pop!” I shuffled my drawing, the paper swishing on the wooden table. “Look what I did.”

  That got his attention. He looked away from Logan’s homework and picked up the drawing I’d done of our family, adjusting his glasses higher on his nose as he took it in. “Now what’s this?”

  “It’s our family.” I beamed with pride at the picture I’d drawn. “My teacher said we could draw our families on this paper, and then we get to hang them on the big board in my classroom tomorrow.”

  “Very nice.”

  “That’s me.” I pointed to the smallest person on the page. I’d used everyone’s favorite color to draw them, so mine was in pink. “And there’s Mommy in green. And that’s Daddy in blu—”

  “Pop, can you help me with my math too?” Aubrey shoved her way in between me and Pop.

  “Sure, sweetheart.”

  I frowned when he slid my drawing away and shifted his seat to make room for my sister’s homework.

  “I did you in red, Pop. See?” I pushed the drawing back.

  “Looks beautiful, princess,” he said, though his eyes were locked on Aubrey’s textbook.

  I pouted. “You didn’t look.”

  He sighed and met my gaze. “It’s wonderful. Now you keep coloring while I help Logan and Aubrey with their important homework. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I muttered, taking my homework back. Then I slipped off my chair, which was quickly filled by Aubrey, and left the dining room.

  Third Grade

  “Daddy, are you coming to my recital?” I asked, standing in the doorway to his office.

  He glanced at me then looked back at the mirror as he adjusted his tie. “I can’t tonight. I have a meeting.”

  “You always have meetings,” I muttered.

  “Enough of that pouting, Sofia.” The line between his eyebrows deepened as he scowled. “Adults have to work. Someday you’ll understand.”

  I might only be eight, but I understood already. Daddy worked all the time. If we wanted to spend time with him, we had to come into his office.

  I hated this room.

  I hated the dark bookshelves that bordered the walls. I hated the leather couch that faced the gas fireplace. I hated the smell of his cigars that would stick to my hair. I really hated the desk in the middle of the room that sat on an ugly, expensive rug Mommy had picked out special last year.

  I hated it all because Daddy spent more time in here than anywhere else in this house, including his own bedroom. If he was even home.

  His fancy office in the city was even more hated than this one.

  Because when he wasn’t here, he was there. Or at dinner meetings, missing my important things. He didn’t miss Aubrey’s or Logan’s things. Last week he’d gone to one of Aubrey’s school debates. And he’d been at Logan’s last soccer game.

  I dropped my chin so he wouldn’t see it quiver. “You miss all my recitals.”

  I’d been practicing my dance routine so hard for this recital because I got to be the leader of the chorus in front of all the other girls. My teacher had picked me to be first, and Daddy was going to miss it. But dance wasn’t important to Daddy, not like the stuff Aubrey and Logan did at school. Ballet wasn’t practical.

  Daddy sighed, something he did a lot with me, and finished with his tie. Then he crossed the room to bend down in front of me. “I wish I could go to all of your recitals. But I have an important job.”

  “I never want to have an important job.”

  He chuckled and tipped my chin up. “Then you never have to. You can do whatever you want, my darling. Now give me a hug and then I’ve got to go.”

  I looped my little arms around his neck and squeezed him hard. Then I watched as he went out one door to work, and I went out the other to my recital.

  One that he missed, along with all the others.

  Sixth Grade

  “But, Mom!” My voice echoed through the limousine.

  “No, Sofia. You’re not going.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled at the back of the driver’s head. “This isn’t fair.”

  “If you want to go to fashion week, I’ll take you in a few years. But right now, I don’t have the time to plan a trip to Paris.”

  I rolled my eyes. She didn’t have time? Yeah, right.

  She just didn’t want me to go with Regan because her mom—an interior decorator—had called our house out of touch. Which was why Mom had acted on a sudden “whim” to redecorate. We’d been dealing with her own interior decorator coming in and out of our house for the last two months with painters and flooring specialists and construction people in tow.

  “Logan gets to go to Washington, D.C. later this year,” I reminded her. “And you let Aubrey fly across the country to Seattle, like, a month ago
.”

  “Logan is almost eighteen and going to DC for his senior-class trip. Aubrey went to Seattle for a Future Business Leaders of America national conference. Fashion week for an eleven-year-old is a bit different, don’t you think?”

  “Whatever,” I mumbled. “Maybe fashion is what I want to do when I grow up.”

  Logan and Aubrey were already poised to take over the Kendrick family empire. Dad had plans for them both. And me? I could do whatever I wanted, just like he’d always told me.

  What I wanted was to go to fashion week in Paris with my friend so we could come back home and brag about it at school.

  “You’re not going.”

  I hunched my shoulders forward, casting my eyes down to my lap. Then I let out a deep breath and lowered my voice. This pout was something I’d been practicing lately. It worked on Daddy like a charm, but so far, my luck with Mom had been hit or miss.

  “Okay, fine. But would you take me shopping?” I asked. “Regan told me that she overheard Louisa Harty in the bathroom call my clothes old lady. I was hoping to pick up some tips from fashion week so she wouldn’t make fun of me anymore.”

  “What?” Mom gaped, turning in her seat next to me.

  I held back a smile that my fib had worked.

  “Your clothes are not old lady,” she said. “Everything you wear is this season and on trend.”

  I shrugged. “I thought so too, but . . .”

  “We’ll go together.” Mom dug into her purse for her phone. “Besides, you’re right. If this is what you want to do for your career, then you might as well get started early.”

  Before we made it home, she’d planned a trip for the two of us to Paris and gotten front-row seats along one of the most exclusive runways at the event, something Regan’s mom would never have been able to secure.

  As we pulled into the courtyard in front of our estate, a pang of regret poked my side for tricking Mom. Fashion wasn’t all that interesting and certainly not something I wanted to do as a job.

  Logan was the smart Kendrick child, the golden boy who would become a business tycoon like our father, Thomas. Daddy was always taking time to mentor him. Aubrey too. She constantly earned praise for how bright she was. She’d be right behind Logan, going to work with Daddy in the city every day.

  My role in the Kendrick family was different. I wasn’t going to get a job and miss out on the fun stuff. I wasn’t going to spend more time in my office than exploring the world. I wasn’t going to just let my money pile up in the bank when I could use it for an adventure.

  Logan could be the future leader of the Kendrick family and Dad’s right-hand man. Aubrey could be the gifted daughter Mom bragged about in her weekly society club meetings.

  I had my own path in mind.

  I was going to be the princess.

  “Sofia, you’re gorgeous.” Malcom kept the camera pressed to his face as he moved behind me to shoot at a different angle.

  I held my pose, keeping the pensive look frozen on my face, though I was smiling on the inside. Malcom didn’t need to tell me how beautiful I looked today. I felt it.

  My hair was pinned up in a billowing crown of espresso curls that had taken my stylist nearly two hours to perfect. My makeup had been applied by two artists who’d contoured and highlighted me so expertly I wouldn’t need Photoshop touch-ups. And the outfit the magazine had chosen for me was straight off the runway.

  My dress was a white strapless piece that fit snuggly to my chest. The sweetheart neckline plunged deep, giving me the illusion of cleavage. The A-line, tulle skirt poofed wide at my hips, making my waist look impossibly tiny.

  It was freezing now that the sun was setting on this deserted corner of Central Park. We’d gotten an early snowfall this November, and the trees around us glittered with ice crystals and tufts of snow.

  But I was surprisingly warm thanks to the white fur wrap looped over my arms and strung across the middle of my back. My bare shoulders were still exposed to the cold, but excitement and anticipation kept the chill from soaking in.

  I was going to be in a magazine. Me. Sofia Kendrick.

  I’d made the society columns countless times. My name graced their pages whenever my family made a sizeable donation to a local charity or whenever one of my relationships failed. The press had spent weeks speculating why both of my marriages had ended. But this magazine article wasn’t about my family or my failures. It was a feature about me and four other New York socialites, showcasing our unique lifestyle.

  The reporter had already interviewed me for the piece, and after the photo shoot was complete, I’d only have to wait six short weeks until I could show off my magazine.

  “Tilt your head down and to the left just slightly.”

  I did as Malcom ordered, the clicks from his camera telling me I’d gotten it right.

  “Damn.” He came to my side, showing me the display screen on the back of his camera.

  This time my smile couldn’t be contained.

  He’d nailed it.

  Malcom had captured me in profile, finding just the right angle so my face was in shadow compared to the bare skin on my shoulders. The late-afternoon light cast a golden glow on my already flawless complexion, accentuating the long lines of my neck. My Harry Winston earrings dangled from my ears and matched the ring on my right hand, which Malcom had delicately positioned in front of my chin.

  Malcom’s assistant nosed in next to him to see the camera. “That’s your cover.”

  “The cover?” My mouth fell open.

  “Ultimately the magazine has final say,” Malcom said. “But this is the best picture I’ve shot for this project. Once I do some minor edits, it’ll be the clear choice.”

  A feature in the magazine’s interior was definitely worth boasting about. But the cover? That was on par with my sister’s accolades.

  Aubrey was always being mentioned and discussed in Fortune 500 magazines or in periodicals like The Wall Street Journal. This feature would be in NY Scene magazine, and though it was a lesser-known publication, it had been gaining a lot of popularity lately. People were calling NY Scene the next New Yorker.

  And I was going to be on the cover for their New Year’s edition.

  Maybe the lifestyle I’d chosen wasn’t such a mockery after all.

  Maybe I’d finally be seen as something more than the other Kendrick child, the pretty one who hadn’t amounted to much.

  “Sofia, how could you not tell me about the article? You know we have to be careful around the press.”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise. And I didn’t say anything bad. She took everything I said and twisted it around!” I wailed into the phone as I sat in a crumpled heap on my living room floor.

  Tears coated my cheeks. Snot dripped from my nostrils. My normally tan and bright skin was a blotchy mess, and my eyes were too puffy. I was the definition of an ugly cry.

  All because of that miserable magazine.

  I’d been so excited an hour ago when my doorman had brought up ten copies of NY Scene. I’d ordered extra so I’d have some to give to my parents and some to get framed.

  But that was an hour ago, before I’d read the article.

  Now I was dealing with the aftermath of another classic Sofia mistake. It never got easier to hear that I’d let down my father. It always hurt to read one of my sister’s condemning texts.

  Seriously? Could you at least try not to embarrass us?

  It stung, though the pain was just a dull ache compared to my own agonizing humiliation. The words the reporter had used to describe me were cruel. Reading them had been like taking a lash to my skin.

  Instead of stylish, she’d called me superficial and gaudy.

  Instead of charming, she’d called me naïve and phony.

  Instead of witty, she’d called me flighty.

  Clearly, the woman had mixed up notes between interviews. That, or my self-image was off a touch.

  “Sofia.” Daddy sighed, his disappointment seeping
through the phone. “I’ll see if there is anything we can do, but since you didn’t run this by me first, I doubt we’ll be able to pull a retraction.”

  “O-okay.” I hiccupped. “I’m s-sorry.”

  “I know you are. But next time you’re asked to give an interview, I think you’d better have one of our lawyers come along too.”

  So basically, Daddy thought I needed a babysitter to speak. My sobs returned full force, and I barely heard him say his good-bye before hanging up.

  I tossed my phone onto the carpet next to me and my ten magazines, then buried my face in my hands.

  Everything was ruined. The reporter had been thorough in her portrayal of my life. She had found every unflattering detail and put them front and center in the article.

  She’d written about both of my failed marriages and how I’d rushed into each, only dating my former husbands briefly before walking down the aisle in multimillion-dollar ceremonies.

  She’d made sure to tell the world that I’d never had a job, and rather than dedicating my time to my family’s charitable foundation, I spent my days shopping for new clothes and handbags.

  She’d even interviewed my ex-boyfriend Jay to exploit the nasty details of our breakup. We’d been together for almost five years but had never married. I’d thought I was being smart, not hurrying into another marriage. Turns out, matrimony would have been better.

  My ex-husbands had both signed confidentiality agreements as a condition of our divorce settlements. If the reporter had called them, they’d been forced to stay tight-lipped. But not Jay.

  He’d told her I threw tantrums worse than a two-year-old when I didn’t get my way and that I hadn’t been supportive of his career.

  Lies.

  Jay hadn’t loved me, he’d loved my trust fund. He’d been determined to win the World Series of Poker—except he wasn’t good at poker. When I’d stopped covering his tournament fees, he’d picked a fight with me.

  My tantrum had been me shouting at him in one of the dressing rooms at Bloomingdale’s. He’d barged in on me, demanding I give him money. When I’d refused, he’d threatened to tell the tabloids I’d cheated on him with his scumbag manager. Again, another lie. But I’d lost it all the same and security had been called to escort us both out of the store.