by Bridie Clark
Theo, rising to the occasion, hustled to her side instead of running away. “I’ll get you home,” he said, a hint of proprietary concern in his voice. They made an attractive couple, thought Wyatt as he watched them step into the elevator—or they would, once Cornelia washed her hair.
Crisis averted, Wyatt dove back into the library, where Lucy appeared to be mid-disclosure.
“Until a few months ago, I was making eight dollars an hour stitching zippers for Nola Sinclair,” she said. “I have no pedigree whatsoever—”
“Pedigrees are for dogs!” Rita shouted.
“Dear Lord,” breathed Rex Newhouse, transfixed. Wyatt noticed that Mallory Keeler was taking notes fast and furiously. Margaux Irving, on the other hand, was still as a statue, a hand planted against her lips. Wyatt didn’t know if he could bear to watch Lucy so exposed, so vulnerable. Dottie, holding the Cheetos, looked almost as pained as he felt. Neither of them had ever witnessed such social courage.
“I’m a completely ordinary girl,” she continued. “I grew up in Middle America, only we just called it America. Dayville, Minnesota. I chowed on pizza. I cheered at ball games. I watched too much bad television, waited in amusement-park lines, shoveled endless snow, shopped at Mall of America, bussed tables, clipped coupons, went to church along the side of a highway. That’s who I am, and I shouldn’t have pretended to be someone else. I like who I am.”
Wyatt waited for her to mention his name, to say that Wyatt Hayes IV had put her up to the deception—but no, she was taking full responsibility herself. This was her story. It always had been, he realized. “Moving about this world of power and privilege has been the best apprenticeship a designer could ask for. It is filled with beauty and style”—her eyes met Wyatt’s as she said this—“and I feel lucky to call all of today’s models my friends. But I believe that it’s my background, unglamorous though it may be in the eyes of some, that allows me to design what real women want. Our collection is meant to be as practical as it is inspirational; as flattering as it is fashionable. I hope you’ll agree.”
Lucy handed the microphone off to Eloise and Wyatt caught her eye again. She looked away quickly, before he could read how she felt about seeing him—before he could even summon up the smile, the nod of congratulations, the gratitude he wanted to express to her. Eloise put her arm around Lucy’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
But the rest of the room appeared to be frozen. You could hear crickets.
“Did she say Mall of America?” Wyatt heard one member of the glossy posse whisper to another, clearly appalled.
Most people in the room—despite their lofty fashion credentials—had never heard the notoriously tight-lipped Margaux Irving speak. When she did, her words were as crisp as a sterling silver spoon tapping the side of a crystal glass. “There is nothing ordinary about the ability to construct magnificent clothes that elevate the woman who wears them,” she told Lucy, loudly enough that Mallory Keeler, on the other side of the room, immediately scribbled down the rare quote. “Carlton-Ellis won’t need my support, but you’ll have it all the same.” Then, nodding her head in benediction, Margaux swept out of the room. Taking their cue from on high, the crowd burst into fresh applause.
As the others in the room—Mallory Keeler, Rex, other journalists and fashionistas too well dressed for a Saturday afternoon—swarmed around Lucy, Wyatt held back. He caught his mother watching him from her stage. She raised her eyebrows in some kind of warning, then smiled.
“Saks might be interested in twenty doors across the U.S.,” whispered Eloise as she passed. She gave Lucy a low five and a huge grin.
“That’s incredible!” Lucy kept her voice down, too. “Elle wants to feature the line for an upcoming ‘Fresh Faces’ piece!”
“I can’t believe it. Do you know what this means?”
Lucy giggled. “It means . . . howdy, partner, we’re in business.” It was exhilarating. And it felt damn good to be herself again, liberated from all the lies.
“You talk to Wyatt yet? I’ve been avoiding Trip.”
Lucy shook her head. She didn’t know what to say to him, or whether she was ready to forgive him. She let herself look down the long room to where Wyatt was standing, talking to Mallory. “Who do you think leaked? I didn’t want him here. Or I think I didn’t.”
Eloise shrugged. “No idea. But I wouldn’t be too hard on him. I heard he cut Cornelia off at the pass, before she could cause a major scene. And he seems really sorry—”
“Well, he should be,” Lucy interrupted. But she had to admit, her anger seemed to have cooled considerably. She allowed herself another glance in his direction. He had never looked so forlorn. She thought of the note he’d sent her: You’ve changed me. Let me prove it to you. He had canceled the book, after all, which required sacrifice—something he’d never had to make before.
“I should get back to the buyers,” said Eloise, giving Lucy a quick hug.
“Right! I should get back to the editors.” She had a career to launch—or so she hoped. The fashion business was brutal, even if you had Margaux Irving’s best wishes. She tossed her head, shaking off thoughts of Wyatt. They had time to figure things out.
“Eloise!” Both girls froze at the sound of Trip’s voice. He charged through the room, parting the crowd. Eloise stared at him with mounting horror, but Trip didn’t seem to notice. He was a man on a mission. Eloise clutched Lucy’s arm.
“Trip, this isn’t the time or place,” Eloise whispered through a pained smile.
“I can’t wait another minute to tell you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He took both her hands and dropped to one knee on Dottie Hayes’s Aubusson carpet. This seemed to get the crowd’s attention, and several guests backed up to give him room.
“This is the most exciting presentation I’ve ever been to in my life!” Lucy heard the buyer from Bergdorf whisper. “Did they stage this?”
“I think I’m going to faint!” exclaimed Eloise’s mother, who’d flown in from Boston to show her support.
“I’ve been a complete fool,” Trip said. “If getting married is important to you, Eloise, then let’s do it.” He pulled out the black velvet box, fumbling it open to reveal a flawless seven-carat emerald-cut diamond, flanked by two smaller diamonds, on a classic platinum band. Eloise’s mother gasped. “Will you marry me, Eloise?”
“We should talk, Trip,” she said quietly, trying to pull him to his feet.
But Trip wouldn’t budge. “Marry me, El.”
Lucy covered her face with her hands, peeking out between her fingers. It was beyond painful to watch. He’d left Eloise with no choice. “It’s too late,” she whispered, distraught. Time seemed to stop for a moment as she ran out of the room.
Trip just stared after her, eyes wide. He stayed on one knee, like a linebacker suddenly bereft of an opposing team.
“Buddy, why don’t you give her some time to think it all over?” Wyatt had made his way toward them. Lucy could hear real tenderness in his voice as he helped his friend get back on his feet. Trip hung his head, dazed, as though slowly waking from a tranquilizer dart.
“Did she just say no?” he asked Wyatt, dumbstruck.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Wyatt said. He looked at Lucy. It was the closest the two of them had been since she’d thrown his manuscript at him, and the electricity between them was so intense she felt every nerve in her body come alive. “I’m sorry about—well, everything,” he said. Lucy just nodded, too stunned by the intensity of her feelings to gather words. A lock of hair fell in Wyatt’s eyes, and he pushed it back. “Could we talk later? Maybe I could take you to dinner?”
She hesitated. “That sounds good.”
“Really?” His face showed his surprise and delight. “You won’t regret it, I promise.” He started toward the door, his friend using him as a human crutch, but then paused again. “Congratulations. I’m so proud of you, Lucy.”
“Wyatt?” she asked, a smile tea
sing her lips. “Please call me Lucy Jo.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to David Groff, a phenomenal editor, poet, and person, and the dream team at Weinstein Books, especially Harvey Weinstein, Judy Hottensen, Kristin Powers, Katie Finch, and Rich Florest. I’m lucky to have Rob Weisbach as an inspiration and friend, and my agent, Daniel Greenberg, always in my corner with good advice. Larry Salz and Marissa Devins, thanks for your guidance and patience. Thanks to Aneta Golawska-Nowak. My gratitude to my best friends and family, who offered notes, encouragement and babysitting. Most of all, thanks to my husband John and our beautiful little love, Jane Louisa.
Copyright © 2009 Bridie Clark
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher.
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Weinstein Books, 345 Hudson Street, 13th Floor, New York, NY 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-602-86104-6