Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  By the time I caught up with Magda in the embalming room, she had changed outfits. Mario’s father was stitching up her hand. How handy to have a father-in-law who could both stitch you and bury you. Magda’s father was passing out canapés, while her mom popped the cork on a bottle of champagne. She poured glasses for the rest of the family, who were gathered around the body Mario was back to embalming. In my opinion, the whole scene wasn’t very hygienic.

  “Grazie,” Magda said, beaming. “You saved me from being a, how do you say it, bridezilla.”

  “Did you get blood on the dress?” I asked, my voice quivering.

  She shook her head and crossed herself with her good hand.

  Magda’s mother folded the wedding gown into a box, lay the red sash on top, and closed the lid. The tiara and earrings were in a separate jewelry case. “Grazie,” she said. “Ciao.”

  I left the wedding party to their canapés and corpses, and headed for the hotel, where the promise of an all-nighter lay ahead.

  NIGEL WAS WAITING FOR me in the suite. The instruments of his trade (needles, large spools of thread, two Singer sewing machines circa 1950, magnifying glasses, dressmaker’s shears, thread nippers, pin cushions, and OTT-LITES) were assembled on the table.

  “Show me the patient,” he said.

  I lay the dress out on the couch. “It was only deconstructed. You see? The seam stitching was removed,” I said, “but no fabric was cut.”

  Nigel gasped at the sight of it. Then he sat down and put his head between his legs.

  “Nigel, there’s no time for tears. Give it to me straight. Can this dress be saved?”

  Nigel lifted his head. Then he put on his magnifying glasses and examined the garment. “Can you give me a bit more light?”

  I switched on another of the lights.

  Finally Nigel spoke. “We can put it back together so that it looks like it did before. The average bloke will never be able to tell the difference. But it’s depreciated by at least ninety percent.”

  “Oh, dear God, no,” I said, sinking into the sofa. “Do we have to tell anyone?” It’s not that I wanted to be dishonest and hide the truth; it’s just that I wanted to know if it was possible to get away with it in case I did want to hide the truth (which, of course, I did not).

  Nigel shook his head. “It will be thoroughly inspected when it’s returned to the Hollywood Motion Picture Museum.”

  “And they’ll definitely be able to tell?”

  “Look at the fabric along the seam line,” Nigel said, showing me the inside of the bodice. “See this fine row of holes left from the original sewing machine needle as it passed through the silk? Each machine, combined with the needle used and particular seamstress, leaves its own signature. The stitch length, needle size, speed, and guidance of the material through the machine creates a unique fingerprint. We can try to stitch it back together in the holes made by the seamstresses at Paramount, but it won’t be a perfect match. Plus, there are new holes from where the dress was altered. And no one at Paramount could find the original thread, although I did bring some that’s pretty close from the early 1950s.”

  “I am so fired,” I said. Then I remembered that I was fired. “You know what? I’ll take the blame. There’s no point in us both losing our jobs. But you may have to support me for the rest of my life.”

  Nigel smiled. “For you, luv, anything.”

  “Come, let’s get started on the repair.”

  Carefully we dismantled the altered dress. It was then that we realized the enormous skirt was filled with horsehair stuffing and small lead weights to make it pouf and fall just the right way for the movie. Arrrgh, I thought, why does this have to be so difficult? Working with the 1950s Singers, we did our best to line up the seams as they had been previously and painstakingly sew the garment back together, stitch by stitch, coming as close to the original holes made in 1953 as we could. It was slow going, but there were two of us and we had all afternoon and night.

  As we worked, I caught Nigel up on everything that had happened. How I had fallen hard for Denis King and then lost him to Sydney. Poor Denis, I thought. His life will be misery if he marries that icy heiress. I’ll bet she’d never lick strawberry jam off his private parts. I giggled at the memory.

  As I told Nigel the story, it hit me. “You know,” I said, “I don’t have to roll over and take it. I could fight for him. I could. In fact I think I will.”

  “Bravo,” Nigel cheered. “She may be prettier and younger and wealthier and better connected, but you’re somebody too.”

  “Thank you, it’s true. I mesmerized a whole boatload of passengers with my chocolate corset and my fig-leaf bathing suit. I couldn’t have done that unless I had something to recommend me.”

  Nigel regarded me with affection. “I still can’t believe you did that, you naughty girl.”

  “Do you really think Sydney’s prettier than me?”

  Nigel threw an empty spool of thread at me.

  “Careful, you could poke my eye out with that. So was that a yes or a no?”

  “It was a no, by all means no.”

  “Thank you, it’s true,” I said.

  Three Coins in the Fountain

  NIGEL AND I ARRIVED at the Istituto Sunday morning with the Roman Holiday ball gown in hand. From the outside, the gown looked like perfection. But alas, that was not so. On close inspection, its defects were glaring.

  “Signor Barbaro,” I said to the Istituto’s director, a gray-haired, impeccably dressed gentleman who smelled of musk the way European men often do, “Allow me to introduce my colleague, Nigel Calderwood, who is here to help you dress the mannequins.” I handed him the gown. “I believe this is what you’ve been waiting for?”

  “Ah, signorina, grazie,” he said, kissing me on both cheeks and shaking Nigel’s hand. Then he launched into a rapid Italian soliloquy that I couldn’t understand, not that I could have if he’d spoken slower.

  A tall, slender woman with perfect posture approached us. She had fine features, jade eyes, and a heart-shaped face haloed by an upsweep of dark brown hair. It was Rosa Di Giacinto, the curator I had spoken with many times. “Grazie, grazie,” she said in her smoky voice. “We were so worried. What is the fiftieth anniversary of Roman Holiday without the famous ball gown worn by Miss Hepburn?”

  Signor Barbaro chimed in, sounding angry, but thankfully I couldn’t understand him.

  “How do I tell him I’m sorry in Italian?” I asked.

  “Mi dispiace,” Rosa said.

  “Mi so, so, so, so dispiace,” I said.

  “I was planning to help you dress the mannequins,” Nigel said, “but I see you beat me to it.” He gestured to the exhibit in an effort to change the subject. It had been set up just as we had done at the Fashion Museum, with costumed Hepburn mannequins placed in front of a series of small black box theaters showing movie clips (with Italian subtitles).

  “Sì,” Rosa said. “We could not wait. Now all that is left is for us to make the condition report and display this gown.”

  My stomach dropped. I had forgotten that the receiving museum’s conservator had to inspect the garments.

  Nigel whipped a piece of paper out of his bag. “There is no need. I knew we would be pressed for time so I made the report this morning.”

  “Ah, grazie,” Rosa said.

  “You’ve done the most beautiful job with the show,” I said, taking in the exhibit. I noticed the clip from My Fair Lady was playing the scene where Eliza Doolittle made her famous entry at the embassy ball in one of the theaters. But the mannequin in front of the screen was clad only in a cream silk and lace slip. “You haven’t received the My Fair Lady gown yet?”

  “It is being repaired,” Rosa said.

  “Yes, it was torn, but I thought it would be ready by now.”

  “Jacques Doucet is shipping it any day now,” Nigel explained. “You can’t rush these kinds of repairs, you know.”

  “Are you coming to the opening tomo
rrow? We just learned that Tanya will be here,” Rosa said.

  “I have a flight this evening,” Nigel said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I can’t either.”

  “Then I hope you will return someday and spend more time with us,” Rosa said.

  “I will,” I said. “I threw three coins in the Trevi Fountain just to be sure. I wish you great success.” I kissed Signor Barbaro and Rosa on both cheeks and bid my ciaos. The ship had already docked and I needed to get on board. Denis’ wedding to Sydney was scheduled for that afternoon. If I was going to fight for my man, I had no time to lose.

  Thanks for the Memory

  POPS, I’M BACK,” I said, exploding into the suite.

  Not a cool move. There, in my bed, was my naked father with an equally naked woman, who was completely and utterly nude. They were going at it like Irving the humping poodle and Bartholomew the submissive bulldog. It was a horrific sight for any child to see. Making it all worse, Famous was fast asleep on the bed, oblivious to the human fornication taking place in her midst.

  Carleen’s voice rang out from beneath the covers. “It’s okay, darlin’. We’re all adults here.”

  My eyes, my precious eyes, I thought, retreating for cover.

  Pops and Carleen donned their robes and joined me in the living room.

  “Sorry I walked in on you,” I said, my face burning.

  “That’s okay,” Pops said. “We didn’t know when you were coming back. Did you find the dresses?”

  I nodded. “Yes, it’s all handled, although I’ve been fired from the museum.”

  “Did that bitch can you?” Pops asked. “She was up here at least five times accusing me of lying. Can you imagine?”

  “I told her to go to hay-ell,” Carleen added. “Why would you want to work for someone like that? She did you a favor.”

  I sighed and crumpled into the couch. “It’s not that I want to. Pops and I need the money.”

  Pops’ face lit up. “I forgot to tell you. I got a job. The captain offered me a contract to sing and play piano in the Saloon for the next six months.”

  A feeling of pride mixed with relief washed over me. “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

  “Me too, darlin’,” Carleen added. “I’m thrilled to have him onboard.”

  “I’ll bet you are.” I laughed.

  There was a knock at the door. Darwin drifted in with a tray of hors d’oeuvres and a bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil. “I saw you come in and thought you might like a snack,” he said, setting up the table, popping the cork, and pouring three flutes.

  Pops started to spread caviar, egg, and onion on the little toasts. “Ain’t this the life?”

  I gulped down my champagne and started toward the bedroom. “I need to freshen up,” I said. “Darwin, can you find out where Denis King is right now?”

  Darwin’s eyes darted between me, Pops, and Carleen. “I’m sorry, but he and his family left the ship this morning. I believe he’s marrying Miss Bass today. Then they’re flying back to New York to bury Mr. Martin.”

  Darwin’s words hit me like a sucker punch. “Are you sure?” I said. “Did you see them leave? With your own eyes?”

  “I…I was told to remove Mrs. King’s clothes from your closet last night. The King party was picked up hours ago, right after breakfast,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Then he bowed and backed out of the room the way John used to do.

  I stood motionless for a moment, staring into the abyss, wondering if I could possibly look as tragic as I felt. Then I erupted into tears and fled to the bathroom, locking the door. Falling to the cold floor, I sobbed.

  Pops was knocking. “Holly, what is it? What are you doing in there?”

  “I’m having a nervous breakdown,” I gulped out, then continued blubbering.

  “I told you not to get involved with him,” Pops said.

  “In hindsight, you have perfect foresight…huh…huh,” I cried. It felt as if my heart had been ripped in half. This was just like Roman Holiday, the one Audrey Hepburn movie whose ending I didn’t want for myself, only Denis was the dutiful princess and I was the reporter left behind.

  “Let me in,” Pops begged. “Please.”

  My chest shook with sobs as I gasped for air. Hot tears came, sheets and sheets of them, salty to the taste as I blubbered, wailed, and choked until finally I was spent. Denis had moved on and there was nothing I could do.

  “SO THAT’S MY PROPOSITION, Carleen. A million dollars would go a long way in making you an important donor at the Met’s Costume Institute, and they’d take me seriously as a rainmaking curator if I brought you to them,” I explained.

  “Can you pass me the toast, Holly,” Pops asked, “and the strawberry jam?”

  I handed him the basket. “No more for me,” I said to the waiter pouring coffee.

  Carleen opened her pocketbook, ripped out a check, and started writing. “You sure one million’s enough?” she asked. “It doesn’t even put a ding in what I need to spend to keep Tex’s money-grubbing tit-sucking children from getting their sticky little paws on it.”

  “Well, I…”

  “Let’s make it two, just to be safe,” she said. “Here. Now, you listen to me, Holly, there’s way more where this comes from. Not just from me, but from all my girlfriends back home. They’d love to be involved in a big important New York charity. I’m writing the check out to you as my agent. If the Met won’t hire you, then find another fashion museum that will and give them my donation, got it? Now, you go out there and get yourself a new job so your daddy doesn’t have to worry about you.”

  My eyes welled at her generosity. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Carleen smiled and waved away her kind act. “Puh-lease, you deserve it. If that boss of yours with her thumpin’ gizzard heart can’t see how valuable you are, well, someone else will. In fact…” Carleen grabbed the check from my hand and ripped it in half. She turned over one of the halves and jotted down a name and number.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Carleen gave me a sly smile. “How much would it take to endow my own museum in New York, one that knocks the teeth down the throat of that two-bit fashion house you work for and spits ’em out in single file?”

  “Wait. You want to start a new museum?” I asked.

  Carleen nodded. “Yes, and you’re going to run it for me. What’ll it take? Fifty million? A hundred million? I got more money than sense and I’d just as soon spend it as leave it.”

  I stared at her, too stunned to speak.

  “Darlin’, when I saw you being carried through the dining room in that chocolate corset, I knew you were a fashion superstar. And that fig-leaf bikini just sealed the deal for me. It was pure genius, something I might have done in my youth.” She pointed to the name she’d written on the back of the check. “When you get home, you call this man. He’s my lawyer. Work with him to put the whole shebang together. I’ll be on your board. Sven’ll be on your board, and pick whoever else you like. And pay yourself a nice fat salary from the get-go. You hear?”

  “Carleen, I can’t take that from you. What about your stepchildren? Not to mention world hunger? AIDS? Cancer? That kind of thing…”

  “Bless your heart, darlin’,” Carleen said. “It’s sweet of you to be concerned, but you needn’t be. Tex was richer than a hound dog with two sets of balls. He left his family billions with a capital B. Those evil children of his will be swimming in dough no matter how many times I book the penthouse on this ship. Our foundation gives buttloads of money to all those five-hankie charities. I think it’d be a hoot to start my own museum. Tex always wanted me to have fun with his money. You gonna begrudge me that?”

  “Far be it from me…” I said. “Can we name the museum after you?”

  “After me and Tex,” Carleen said. “It’ll be another tribute to his legacy, not that he cared for dresses much. In point of fact, he mainly liked to remove my clothes to enjoy my womanly charms.”
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  I reached over and hugged her tight. “You are my fairy godmother.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” Carleen said. “Now, get on off to the ball. You’re about to be busier than a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest.”

  I turned to my father. “I’ll miss you, Pops,” I said, hugging him goodbye one last time.

  “Give my love to BL,” Pops said, putting his napkin on the table. “Tell her I’m sorry, she’ll have to find another dog walker.”

  “She’ll understand when I explain what you’re doing.” I was carrying an extra bag—Pops’ tuxedos and suits. The borrowed finery had to go back to Armani, but Svenderella had finally found his happy ending. Queen Carleen had taken him shopping on via Borgognona the morning before and now he was fully outfitted and moving into the floating castle.

  Pops and Carleen escorted me down the long hallway to the opulent two-story marble lobby where the staff was bidding everyone arrivederci. It was changeover day and they needed to get us off the ship so it could be cleaned and readied for the next lucky group of passengers.

  “Now, you be good,” I whispered to Pops. “Don’t get into trouble.”

  “Me? Trouble? Are you kidding? I’m going to be on my best behavior. This is the finest gig I’ve ever had. Room, gourmet food, a steady paycheck, hot women, I mean woman—I won’t mess up; I promise.”

  As I journeyed down the gangplank to the waiting bus, I turned and saw Pops smiling at me. Carleen stood behind him holding Famous, waving me off. Okay, so I didn’t get the prince. Thanks to my fairy godmother, I still had a shot at happily ever after.

  New York City

  The Boulevard of Broken Dreams

  AS SOON AS I returned to New York, I dug up the business card Denis had given me the day his car nailed my Versace suit in the rain. I wanted to apologize and let him know that while I’d deceived him about the donation, the rest had been real, at least for me. It was too late for the two of us, but I didn’t want him to go through life thinking I was a no-good conniving skunk. Each time I called him, I’d get his assistant, Elvira. She said she was giving him the messages, but he never called back.