Love California Box Set: Books 1-3 (Love California Series Collection)

by Jan Moran

  Only her close friends understood how difficult it had been to start and grow her business. Verena, Dahlia, and Scarlett had their own businesses, too, and they often traded contacts and helped each other.

  She brewed a cup of tea and curled her legs under her on the couch. She checked her phone messages, but then remembered she hadn’t given Niall her number. Not that I care, she reminded herself.

  At that moment, her phone buzzed in her hand and the caller ID appeared on the screen. “Hello, Aunt Davina.”

  Her aunt’s melodious voice rolled across the phone lines. “Darling! I heard your show was a smashing success! Why didn’t you call to tell me? I’ve been dying to hear how it went. I got a media alert on my phone. Sounds like it was fabulous!”

  Fianna grinned. Davina often spoke in exclamation points. Her gaze fell on a grouping of antique, silver-framed photos on a table. A svelte, stylish woman in a variety of high fashion poses stared back at her. Davina. “I know I promised to call you right after the show, but something happened last night.”

  “Really? Do tell, darling! A new man?”

  “Well, yes, but not exactly. Anyway, doesn’t matter. Won’t ever see him again.”

  “Plenty more where that one came from, I’m sure. Oh, we’re going to have such a grand time in Ireland. I can’t wait to see you, darling!”

  Her aunt had always been an exuberant, Auntie Mame sort of woman who lived life with gusto and style, regardless of her circumstances. Since Fianna had been a little girl, everyone had said she took after her gregarious aunt, much to her mother’s consternation. She smiled to herself. In Mary Margaret Fitzgerald’s eyes, her daughter was too much like Davina.

  “I’m organizing the outfits this week. I’d love to have you walk, Davina.”

  “No one wants to see me on the runway again. Think of those horrible magazines that run the side-by-side, look-what-happened-to-her photos. We age, for heaven’s sake. Even Dorian Grey didn’t get out of this life alive.”

  “You look fabulous for a woman half your age. Come on, haven’t you always told me to grab life with both hands?”

  Davina sighed. “Yes. Wasn’t I was a greedy girl back then?”

  “No, you lived. And lived well. And you still are.” Fianna paused. “Sounds like you’ve been speaking to Mam again.”

  “Fair warning. Mary Margaret is expecting of lot of you when you return.”

  “The answer is no.” Her mother was forever trotting out suitable young men from what she called the “right families” for her. And Doyle O’Donnell was at the top of the social ladder. They had once dated, and her mother was still holding out hope for a reunion. The fact that her younger sister was marrying before her had her mother quite grief-stricken.

  Davina’s laughter burst across the distance. “There’s my girl. Live your life well, my dear. Every day is a gift; who knows how many we’ll receive?”

  “Seems I need twice as many as I’ve got. I’m not complaining, but there’s so much to running a business.”

  “The beginning is always the hardest. Stay focused and dedicated. I have a feeling a big break is just around the corner for you.”

  Fianna smiled. Davina was always making grand predictions, and everyone would laugh along with her. Oddly enough, they often came true. “I will, Davina. And I’ll send some press clippings on the show to you.”

  Fianna clicked the phone off. After butting heads with her strict Mam, she’d lived with her aunt in New York through most of her high school years. Her mother had never supported her creative dreams and ambitions, and she had actually torn up her fashion sketches, calling them childish. Her dad had intervened, and suggested she spend the summer with her aunt. Once in New York, Fianna had spent as much time there as she could.

  She sipped her tea as she remembered living with Davina. Every day had special moments, from the flowers her aunt chose at the market, to the wine and cheese she arranged for her impromptu, let’s-toast-the-sunset gatherings from her balcony. Anything was a reason to celebrate.

  All manner of people congregated, drawn at first to Davina’s beauty, and then to her sparkling eyes, musical laughter, and genuine empathy. Her high sculpted cheekbones were legendary and had graced many a Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar cover. Her flaming red hair had been her trademark, along with her shimmering azure eyes.

  Davina had just turned fifty. Certainly not old, Fianna thought. And yet, her aunt maintained otherwise. “Definitely past my prime for modeling,” Davina had said. She’d even let her hair turn silver, but it was the most gorgeous mane of platinum hair Fianna had ever seen. She hoped she’d age just like her aunt.

  Maybe she could talk her into walking again at her show in Dublin. It was for charity, after all. Would her aunt come out of retirement for her?

  Her phone rang again and she checked the number. Dahlia.

  “Hi, what’s up?” Her adrenaline rose as she listened. “Thanks, Dahlia. I’ll meet you at the Beverly Hills Hotel tomorrow.”

  She clicked off and pumped her fist in the air.

  Dahlia’s grandmother Camille—the legendary perfumer—wanted to meet her for lunch.

  6

  FIANNA FIDGETED WITH a pink linen napkin on her lap. The open air café at the Beverly Hills Hotel was a popular power lunch spot. She and Dahlia were waiting at the table for Dahlia’s grandmother, Camille, who’d established the family perfume company decades ago. Fianna wore a supple matte jersey dress with a flared skirt and sleeves, and draped lace accents. The peach shade set off her hair. It had been one of her most popular designs for her cruise collection last year.

  “I have to admit, I’m nervous, Dahlia.” Fianna and Dahlia had been talking about branding a perfume for her line for a long time, but Camille had not been supportive of the idea. Would she be now?

  “Relax, she’s always curious,” Dahlia said. “She likes to keep track of new talent. Plus, you look splendid. Every woman in here is wondering where you got that dress.”

  “I’m more than happy to tell them.” Fianna grinned at her good friend. “Do you know why she wanted to meet?”

  Before Dahlia could answer, Camille Dubois swept into the elegant dining area, a tuxedoed maître’d leading the way. “Bonjour, Fianna, I’m so pleased you could join us.”

  Fianna and Dahlia stood to greet her. Camille was a well-known doyenne of perfumery who’d garnered all the top industry awards for her perfumes. She still oversaw her company, even into what was rumored to be her eighties. She was an elegant, impeccably coiffed woman. Though petite like Dahlia, Camille had a commanding presence.

  After exchanging kisses on the cheek with Fianna, Camille sat down, nodding to other diners as she did. “I had to have a word with Mia and Pierre. They’re at their table inside. Mia is always protective of her skin, you know.”

  Mia was Verena’s grandmother who had started the Valent Salon, and she had been dating a widower for a few months. Even the grandmothers have a better love life than I do, Fianna thought wryly. She leaned across the tablecloth and brushed away deep pink bougainvillea petals that had drifted onto the table in front of her from the bracelets of flowers suspended overhead.

  Camille’s gaze roved over Fianna’s slim-cut dress, which was a buttery shade of rich duchess satin with a paler shade of lace just visible from beneath the wide, expertly draped neckline. Resting on the shoulders, the cut framed the face and skimmed the hips, showcasing Fianna’s lean figure without hugging too tightly. She’d swept her hair in a sleek style from her face, and accented her look with four-inch Manolo Blahnik pumps the designer had sent her before the show, insisting she keep them.

  “Exquisite dress,” Camille said. “One of yours, I hope?”

  “Yes, one of my most popular.”

  “Stunning work. A modern, classical point of view.” Camille seemed to ponder this. “And how is Davina?”

  “She’s doing well, still living in New York. But I’ll see her soon in Ireland.” Fianna told her about the u
pcoming show. She’d known Camille for years as Dahlia’s grandmother, and Mia’s closest friend, but when it came to backing a new designer for their brand portfolio, Camille was strictly business.

  They spoke a little longer, until a waiter appeared at their table.

  “I suppose we should order,” Camille said, making a little moue. She still spoke with a French accent, though she’d come to America in the 1950s. “I miss having Lance in the kitchen, and Johnny at the front.”

  “Their new restaurant is awfully popular,” Dahlia said. “Fianna, I’ve seen several celebrities there wearing the signature bow-tie you designed for them.”

  “That’s why it’s selling so well at the restaurant and in my shop.”

  “No, dear, that’s not why,” Camille said, arching a brow. “It’s because of your design. Never forget that. Celebrities will give your brand a moment of exposure, but it’s your work that keeps clients returning. Publicity has its place, but it doesn’t replace ingenuity, innovation, and quality.”

  “That’s true.” Fianna nodded. Camille didn’t miss a beat.

  Camille placed a finger alongside her jawline in thought. “Lance and Johnny have done a marvelous job with Bow-Tie. Excellent branding. I’m glad for them. I’ll just have to get to know the new faces here.” Even as she spoke, the maître’d brought a bottle of French champagne to the table.

  “Madame, allow me to welcome you back,” he said, pouring the golden bubbles with a flourish. “I believe this is your favorite, isn’t it?”

  Camille tilted her chin. “Very nice, indeed. Merci.” She lifted her glass and Fianna and Dahlia followed suit. “To new beginnings.

  As Fianna drank, tiny bubbles exploded against her nose like little firecrackers. Dahlia had told her that Camille had been very circumspect about this meeting, so Fianna waited for her to broach the subject.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  After they ordered, Camille talked about the runway show and how Fianna’s designs had matured. “I’m glad to see that the fashion press is covering your work. Dahlia tells me that Scarlett is representing you for licensing.”

  “Yes,” Fianna replied, quelling her nerves. “I know it’s premature. As you said before, I need more exposure in the media and broader distribution.” Recalling their last meeting, she didn’t want to appear too eager this time.

  Camille held up a perfectly manicured finger. “But not too broad. Maintain the appearance of exclusiveness, without actually committing to exclusivity with a retailer, if you can help it.”

  “Verena is making introductions for me to buyers at Barney’s and Saks Fifth Avenue.” Fianna had worked out a plan with Scarlett. Once her line was in a major retailer, Scarlett would approach manufacturers for distribution of ancillary products Fianna would design.

  “At Parfums Dubois, we’re always interested in keeping our portfolio of fragrance brands fresh, aside from our original iconic line.”

  Parfums Dubois still sold perfumes dating from the 1950s, the earliest ones Camille had blended, which still dominated the market. But Camille hadn’t stopped there. Once she’d established relationships with retail stores, she used these channels of distribution to sell more perfume brands into them. Fianna knew that was the real brilliance in her plan.

  “You have an enviable portfolio of well-established designers,” Fianna said. Parfums Dubois worked with leading fashion designers to translate their artistic vision into perfume. Camille and her staff created the perfume, coordinated the package design, and handled sales, distribution, advertising, and marketing.

  In return, the designer made a small percentage override, which often equaled millions of dollars. More important, it was the best marketing a designer could have. Their names were prominently displayed on perfume counters across the U.S. and around the world, which in turn sold more of the designer’s clothes and accessories. As long as the brand sold through at retail, everyone was happy with the arrangement.

  Camille held her champagne to the light. With a nearly imperceptible nod, she brought it to her lips and sipped. Satisfied, she trained her gaze on Fianna. “Perhaps someday we could create a branded line for you.”

  “I’d be honored.” Fianna held her breath, trying to keep questions from tumbling out and appearing too excited.

  Camille peered at her, seeming to weigh her words. “But not until you’re ready. I wouldn’t want to bring you to market too early. Trust me; that would be the worst thing I could do for you.”

  “Why is that?” Fianna would jump at the chance if offered.

  “Because your brand must sell through at retail. If it doesn’t, the product is returned, and you seldom get another chance. The timing must be perfect. You’re like a sister to my Dahlia. I have your best interests at heart. Believe me, I have enough money.”

  Dahlia shot Fianna a look. “But Grand-mère, we’ve already talked about creating a new line, remember?”

  “Of course I do, ma chère. Which is why I asked Fianna here today.” She turned her gaze to Fianna, studying her.

  Fianna straightened her posture, met Camille’s gaze, and held her breath. A signature perfume could send a designer’s career into the stratosphere. It was what every designer secretly hoped for. Many would fight to have this seat at the table with Camille Dubois.

  Fianna was lucky, and she knew it. But having a connection only took a designer so far. Her designs had to be excellent. Unique. A forward point of view. And so much more. Her brand had to be focused, her publicity pitch perfect.

  A smile crept onto Camille’s face. She removed a card from her purse and handed it to Fianna. “Call my friend at Neiman Marcus. She should see your line now.”

  Fianna stared at the name on the card, and her heart dropped. The woman was a vice president in Dallas. “Actually, I’ve spoken to her.” Very briefly.

  “But has she seen your new line?”

  Fianna shook her head. She couldn’t even get in the door. The woman had practically hung up on her when she’d finally gotten through.

  Camille inclined her head. “Then you must call her again. Use my name and tell her I said she needs to see your work. She’ll see you.”

  Fianna glanced across the table at Dahlia, who winked at her. Fianna could hardly breathe she was so excited. This is how business at the highest levels was done. It was driven by relationships and trust. And if you were adequately prepared, you might just get lucky.

  Fianna thanked Camille and tucked the card into her purse. As she did, she realized the bar had been raised. She had to be brilliant now. Nothing less would do.

  A waiter arrived bearing three bowls of tortilla soup, a specialty at the Polo Lounge.

  “Enough business,” Camille announced, picking up her spoon and ending the conversation. “Let us dine.”

  The next morning, Fianna opened the boutique. She turned on jazz music, lit soothing aromatherapy candles, and brewed a fresh pot of organic, fair trade coffee.

  She’d built up a devoted clientele who delighted in discovering her unique styles. Even on her most constructed designs, a flounce of lace might peek from beneath a sleeve, a whisper of chiffon might trail from a hem. She ran her hand across a rainbow display of her retro flapper girl cocktail dresses. Hers were sensuously cut to flatter the body, fun and flirty, and made of sumptuous silks and lace with exquisite beading.

  Other styles, like the one she’d worn to meet Camille, were quietly luxe in shades of sherbet and vanilla, but still made a statement. Top stylists who created looks for some of Hollywood’s biggest names had taken these dresses. They were perfect L.A. looks, though she wanted to design a similar line in shades of eggplant and black for winter. She sighed. She had so many ideas, but she had to focus on creating a unified look for each seasonal collection.

  “Good morning, Fianna.” Her intern from the Fashion Institute was right on time. Her best salesperson, Evangeline, was right behind her. “Have you checked the clothes from the show yet?” the younger wom
an asked.

  “On my way,” Fianna said. Thanks to the newspaper coverage that had also buzzed through social media, they’d been nonstop busy yesterday.

  “Give her a hand, Tiffany,” Evangeline said. “I’ve got this.” She poured a cup of coffee for Fianna.

  Fianna gratefully accepted it. “Thanks, I needed another cup.”

  They’d been swamped with curious new shoppers. It was exactly what Fianna had hoped for, but after she’d returned from lunch with Camille and Dahlia, she hadn’t been off her feet until nine o’clock that evening. She’d kept the shop open for late arriving VIPs and their stylists, which she often did. She would open an excellent bottle of wine, champagne, or sparkling water, and the restaurant down the block would deliver delicacies whenever she wanted. It was part of what set her boutique apart.

  Fianna walked through the shop to the storeroom. Tiffany hurried to keep up. “We’ll need to inspect all of these clothes,” Fianna told her. The young woman began sorting through the clothes.

  Fianna removed a sleek sage green evening gown from the rack and checked it. The delicate beading and chiffon godets, or flared skirt inserts, were still perfect. She swept through the collection, satisfied. Most of these items would travel with her to Ireland, and she was relieved the models had been careful with the garments.

  She stepped back to look at her collection. She couldn’t get the meeting with Camille out of her mind. Camille was right; her style had evolved, but she knew she had to raise her work to an even higher level of excellence if she wanted to step onto the world stage.

  And that’s exactly what she wanted to do. New ideas had been swirling through her mind, and she needed to capture them.

  Fianna picked up her sketchpad and settled into her favorite overstuffed chair. Depending on her mood, she had different ways of working. Most often she liked to sketch by hand, but she also used computer design software to test her ideas on virtual models in different colors and patterns. It saved a lot of time and mistakes, and it helped her create prototypes faster.