Rachel Grey clutched her chest theatrically. "Mother, I'd sell you into white slavery before I'd sell the Porsche. It's the only thing I'm taking away from my marriage. A marriage you pushed for, I might add."

"The fact that you and Trevor never found the common ground necessary to make your marriage a success is not my fault," her mother stated imperiously. A recently retired bank V.P, Rosaline Treadwell was a master at passing the buck. "The car is completely impractical."

"That's what I like best about it." Rachel crossed her arms in a way her mother would recognize from the many childish rebellions Rachel had fought—and lost—over the years. She wasn't losing this one—childish or not.

"Forty thousand dollars could provide you with enough of a cushion that you could stay in Denver and find a real job. You wouldn't be reduced to working as a clerk in a tourist trap." Her mom made a sweeping, all-encompassing gesture that would have caused Rachel to die of embarrassment if the establishment's owner, Char Jones, had been present.

"Native Arts isn't a tourist trap. It's more of an art gallery than a store. The local artists are amazing and I love working here. The energy is…electrifying."

Rosaline would never be so crass as to roll her eyes in public, but Rachel could tell her mother had no interest in, or respect for the creative process. She'd never forget an argument they'd had her senior year of high school.

"I've been accepted at a design school on the West Coast, Mom. Isn't that great?"

"Not if you plan to pay for it using the money I put into your college fund. Accounting might not be as glamorou