Little Black Dress
An Anthology
There’s something about the little black dress. The go-to wisp of material that’s perfect for any occasion. The quintessential LBD hugs, stretches, and moves with the female form. Every woman needs one at some point, and sometimes that means borrowing from a friend.
Starting with Abby, this lucky LBD makes its way into the stories of Lucy, Katie, and Winnie right when they need it most.
Four women, four stories, and four happily ever afters…
And it all started with one little black dress.
All net proceeds will be donated to Gilda’s Club, Rochester. With over 1,200 FREE programs offered to men, women, teens, and children, they offer much-needed social and emotional support to those living with cancer, their friends, and family.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Book One - Abby’s Angels
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Book Two - Lucy’s a Dreamer
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Book Three - Kiss Me, Katie
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Book Four - Winnie Mae
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Meet the authors
Abby’s Angels
By Sarah O’Rourke
Abby’s Angels by Sarah O’Rourke
Copyright © 2017 by Sarah O’Rourke
All rights reserved. No part of this publication or cover design artwork may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods in current use or to be developed in the future, without the prior express written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law (US. Copyright Act of 1976).
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious, and are the sole property of Sarah O’Rourke. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any real setting, person, or situation is used in a fictitious manner with literary license.
This work of fiction is intended for mature audiences.
If you steal our work, we’ll sic our Mommas on you. Crazy One’s Momma will hunt you down and make you pay in blood. Crazy Two’s Momma will pray “for” your eternal soul (which is obviously in great peril if you resorted to stealing some poor little indie author’s romance story…really??? Really???) And trust us…you won’t win when she goes to the Almighty. And if that doesn’t scare you, please be advised that we have an attorney on retainer who will sue you to Kingdom Come. Don’t risk it. This is us, being there for you.
Dedication
To Crazy One’s Momma…who showed us how a true steel magnolia acts when she kicked cancer’s ass!
Want to find out more about Sarah’s books? Check us out at
Sarah O’Rourke web site
Books by Sarah O’Rourke
Chapter One
A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.
Abigail Layne Lehigh stared intently at the fresh cherry cheesecake she’d pulled from her stainless steel refrigerator just a mere second ago. Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore the nagging voice in her head - the one that relentlessly continued to scold her for her current dietary choice. It sounded remarkably like her eternally disappointed mother.
Ugh! She loved her mom, but hated that freakin’ voice in her head with a passion. She’d been listening to it for nearly thirty-one years and enough was enough! Really, it was remarkable she could hear anything at all since she currently had her stereo cranked to the max, blasting her seventies-era comfort tunes. Nobody should judge her, though; the seventies might have gotten the bell-bottoms wrong, but the tunes of that decade were on point. She would survive, dammit! Just like Gloria Gaynor said she would!
Concentrating on the music, Abby decided that ignoring the irritating yammering currently clouding her psyche was her only option at the moment. After all, she really needed to sublimate her rage. Grabbing a fork from the silverware drawer, she shrugged as the voice in her head only grew louder and even more annoying. The Fresh Prince of Bel Air had gotten it right, she reasoned. Parents really didn’t understand, she thought as she viciously stabbed the center of the cheesecake with her fork.
Shoveling the first heaping forkful of creamy, rich decadence between her lips, Abby immediately felt her body begin to relax, the tension of the afternoon fading into nothingness as the sugary goodness flooded her taste buds. “Oh, God! Yes!” she moaned as the confection melted on her tongue. Licking her lips, she nodded as she gave silent props for that show, The Golden Girls, for getting it right with that whole cheesecake-was-the-solution-to-anything shtick they’d used for several seasons.
As she crammed bite after high calorie bite into her mouth, she decided that she didn’t even care that her husband had stood her up for their counseling appointment.
Again.
For the third time in two weeks.
Did she mention a-freaking-GAIN?
Nope, she didn’t give a single fuck that her husband, Whitlock Lehigh, renowned economics professor at UC Berkeley and all-around so-called great guy, had left her hanging at the last minute. She had once again been seated alone in their obscenely overpriced marriage therapist’s tiny but expensively decorated office in downtown San Francisco.
Was she going to let his insensitivity bother her one little bit?
Nope. Absolutely not.
Why should it?
“It’s not like I’m trying desperately to save this decade-old marriage or anything,” she muttered to herself as she took another huge bite of the double layer cheesecake, shoving a long strand of her ash blonde hair out of her face. It didn’t bother her at all that in the last three months, her normally sweet, conscientious husband had become a distant, cold shadow of the man she’d married. No, according to Locke the Cock (as she’d recently come to think of him), these overpriced therapy sessions were just a huge waste of time and resources. Although, how her obstinate spouse could possibly make that assumption was beyond her since he’d yet to actually show up for an appointment!
He was a stubborn jackass. Sure, he was a tall, well built, darkly handsome jackass. With arresting green eyes and a smile that could melt the panties right off her, he’d been everything she’d wanted from the moment she’d laid eyes on him nearly eleven years ago. But, still, he was a jackass.
How could her near-genius husband be such a complete moron when it came to the state of their marriage? Couldn’t he see that if something didn’t change soon, there’d be an ocean of bitterness and regret between them instead of this minor lake of dissention? Scooping another bite of the cheesecake into her mouth with one hand, she reached for the steel door of her freezer with the other, her experienced eyes locating the carton of Rocky Road ice cream quickly. She and that oversized carton of ice cream had gotten to be close, personal f
riends over the last week.
She knew what she was doing wasn’t healthy—the whole sublimating her pain with food thing. But, damn, sometimes a girl just needed to sink neck-deep in a bucket of frozen goodness. Everybody knew chocolate had healing, restorative powers, right?
So consumed by getting a heaping scoop of her delicious ice cream into one of her bright red ceramic bowls, Abby didn’t hear her back door open. It wasn’t until she heard another equally judgy voice much like her mother’s, but years younger, that she froze and realized she was no longer alone.
“Alright, sis. I’m gonna need you to step away from that cheesecake and slowly put down the spoonful of Rocky Road.” Oh, goody, Abby thought sarcastically as she glanced over her shoulder at her willowy younger sister standing just inside the back door. She jammed another bite of cheesecake in her mouth just out of spite. Her sister held out a conciliatory hand as she approached, in much the way Abigail imagined a veterinarian would approach an injured animal—deliberately and with a great deal of caution. “Nobody needs to get hurt here today. Everyone can walk away from this situation with their diet intact, I promise you.”
“Well, you’re a couple of weeks too late then, Lucy. The diet’s already been blown to hell and back,” Abby declared, glaring at her well-meaning sibling as she pursed her lips and shook her head.
Cocking her head, Abby’s little sister smirked. “Oh, my God! I never noticed it before now, but you look just like Mom when you make that face. You’re doing a perfect imitation of her constipated fish face, Abs!”
Abigail’s already bad day worsened at that pronouncement and her face darkened. “Take. That. Back!” she seethed, her eyes narrowing on the youngest Adair offspring. “I mean it, Luce! You take that back right this second!” she demanded, pointing her spoon at her sister as ice cream dripped off the edges.
“Or what? You’ll splatter your kitchen with melted ice cream? We both know you’ll never hit me with it. Your aim is for shit. Remember that time you had to scrub that cheese sauce off Mom’s ceiling after you threw nachos at me for ruining your Nirvana tee shirt after I borrowed it? You don’t wanna repeat of that experience, do you?” Lucy pointed out with a laugh, kicking the still opened back door shut with her black leather boot.
“Yeah, I remember. My little sister sucked then and now. You know you stole that shirt right out of my closet when you knew I’d planned on wearing it for Senior Skip day in high school,” Abigail grumbled, sneaking another bite of cheesecake.
“Oh, please. You’re still just pissed that even in eighth grade my boobs made that shirt look better than you ever could,” Lucy snickered as she dropped her tote bag on the kitchen table. “And I’m sorry, babe, but you do look like our mother when you make your pissy face. It’s a fact. Just accept it, process it, and move on,” she advised breezily with a cheeky grin.
Eyeing her flat-chested sister, Abby arched one eyebrow. “What boobs?”
“Oh, shut up, Bitchzilla,” Lucy retorted with a glare.
Grinding her teeth because her sister really was right, Abby dropped her spoon back into the carton. Her aim was truly shit, and she didn’t feel like cleaning up after one of the legendary Adair sister food fights. “You should know that I hate you and it was me who decapitated your Skipper doll when you were in third grade. Not Josh,” she muttered, finally taking responsibility off their brother, Josh, for the dollycide that had occurred several years ago. Poor Josh had been the quintessential middle child in their family, often blamed (whether genuinely at fault or not) but seldom rewarded for his sacrifices.
“I KNEW IT!” Lucy gasped theatrically, pressing one hand to her chest as she stumbled into one of the oak dining room chairs surrounding the kitchen tables before raising one eyebrow and eyeing her elder sister critically. “Now, that we’ve established that you are a Barbie doll murdering bitch, maybe you could tell me why you sent the sister you abhor so much a 9-1-1 text demanding a girls’ afternoon of drinking and disco. We both know you only wanna listen to that seventies shit when you’re at your Whit’s end,” she declared with a wink. “See what I did there? Whit’s end? Wit’s end? Get it?”
Abby snorted. “Yeah, you’re a real comedian. And don’t say my asshole husband’s name in my presence,” she ordered, grabbing the glass pie plate and carrying it to the table where Lucy sat sprawled. “Besides, you’re between semesters, aren’t you? What’s the career goal for this month? A career in the dynamic world of Byzantine Archeology? Or is it something really useful, like funeral floral management?”
“Actually, it’s bakery science, smartass! And before you mock me, I think I really found my calling with this one.”
“That’s what you say about all your majors, Baby Sister. So far you have degrees in American History and Women’s Studies. Exactly how many diplomas would you like before you get an actual job?”
“Hey! My life plan is not up for debate right now,” Lucy retorted, frowning at her sister. “You called me, and I got my shapely ass over here pronto, Abby, despite the fact that I’m missing not only one of my classes but also my afternoon shift at Java Joe. Now, tell me what crawled up your ass and why you have ‘I Will Survive’ playing on repeat!” she yelled over the music, frowning at her sister until Abby snatched the remote from the center of the kitchen table and pointed it at the stereo on the counter, lowering the volume.
“I really don’t wanna talk about it,” Abby muttered, stabbing her fork into the cheesecake again.
“Tough,” Lucy snapped unrepentantly, quickly reaching out to steal the fork from Abby’s fingers as she slid the pie plate to her side of the table with her free hand. “I’ll just be taking this until you decide to use your big girl words and tell me what the heck is wrong with you,” she decreed, curving one arm around the pie and smirking at her sister.
“Hey!” Abby huffed as she leaned forward to grab her fork from her cheesecake-snatching sister. “That’s mine, you thieving wench!”
Popping a delectable bite into her mouth, Lucy moaned dramatically. “Mmm mmm good! Absolutely delicious!” she sighed, fluttering her eyelids for effect before leveling her older sister with a direct glare. “Now, are you gonna talk, or are you gonna watch me devour your coping mechanism?” she asked, poised to stab another bite of Abby’s precious cheesecake. “C’mon, it can’t be that bad. What happened, Abigail? Did Whit’s little willy quit working or something? You seem a little… what’s the phrase I’m looking for? Sexually frustrated to the max?”
“I wouldn’t know anything about my husband’s penis. I haven’t seen much of it or him lately. They both keep standing me up,” Abby complained, suddenly blinking back tears. God, she was tired of crying. It didn’t do any good. No matter how many tears she shed, her husband just drifted farther away. Several months ago, she’d tried talking to him about things, but he’d merely offered her a distracted smile and a patronizing lecture about how relationships were bound to ebb and flow, changing over time into something different, but no less treasured and valued. She’d tried to let that cheap speech soothe her for a while, holding his words close to her heart.
Yep, she’d held onto hope right up until he’d forgotten the milestone of their ten-year wedding anniversary three months ago.
Yes, after weeks of carefully dropping hint after frickin’ hint that she’d love a romantic getaway for them to reconnect and celebrate, her oh-so-considerate husband had completely overlooked that special day. Well, overlooked had been his word. Personally, she figured he’d just ignored the date that she’d circled in red on the calendar on his desk even though he swore that he’d just gotten overwhelmed at work and his days had gotten away from him.
That oversight, however, had been her breaking point. She’d demanded – albeit a tad bit shrilly – that they find a marriage therapist – STAT! Whit had initially scoffed at her and claimed she was exaggerating their so-called marital t
roubles, trying to find a long term solution to a temporary problem, but she’d known better. Forgetting their anniversary had just been the most recent symptom of their ailing marriage. His moodiness, distraction, and overall negligence regarding their marriage had already convinced her that something was very wrong between them. Whit forgetting about their anniversary had merely served to drive her suspicions home.
Her marriage was in serious trouble, and if they wanted to save it, then they needed to find some help before it was too late.
Thus, she’d commenced on the mad search for a qualified therapist - which wasn’t nearly as simple as most people assumed. It wasn’t as easy as scanning the internet for a site that caught her attention. No, first, it was imperative she find someone to whom they would both feel comfortable confiding their innermost feelings. Thankfully, unlike the shy introvert author he married, Whit had never had a problem talking to people. Direct, personable and friendly, he lectured students all day long at the university. He was well-liked and much respected, an open, articulate man to most everyone he met. Except, lately, his wife had been excluded from that number.
To Abby, it seemed as if Whitlock had closed himself off from her, not sharing much of anything about his long days at the university. Once upon a time, they’d been each other’s sounding boards, bouncing ideas together regularly. But, now, it seemed as if the metaphorical door to his heart had been slammed in her face. And it hurt. Because Whitlock Lehigh was more than her husband; he was her best friend, too. So, Abigail had been determined to locate someone capable of guiding husband and wife back to each other.
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