“You are so weird. They don’t buy much couture in Wyoming.”
“In Jackson Hole they do. I could do cowboy couture.”
We drive the rest of the way to the BART station in silence, and there’s Poppy waving on the platform. She’s wearing her neon-colored, tie-dye skirt. “She’s wearing that ghastly thing on purpose. She knows I hate it!” I say to Morgan.
“It’s comfortable for her.”
“You are not defending that skirt.”
“Johnny Cochran couldn’t have defended that skirt.”
Poppy dumps her bag, an awful tapestry thing, in the trunk and comes around. “Hey, girls, are we ready? Did you bring the designs, Lilly? I can’t wait to see what I’m wearing.”
“I brought the designs, all the fabric, everything. I thought I’d perfect the designs and take measurements while you each get treatments.”
“Lilly, I signed you up for a massage and a papaya facial,” Morgan says, tossing her hair back. “It’s a Spa Girls weekend. You’re not working all weekend.”
I shake my head. “I won’t have time, Morgan. I really have to get to these gowns if we’re going to make your deadline. I usually spend more than a month on a specialty gown like your wedding dress, and you’re talking three in less time than that.” Then I look at her. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Of course I’m not!”
“That’s what everyone’s going to think with you getting married so quickly: shotgun wedding.”
“She’s right, Morgan,” Poppy says.
“Nine months later, they’ll know I wasn’t then.”
Ack. Foiled again. Nothing is getting through to her this time.
I lean back in the leather seat and close my eyes. Something has got to happen to stop this wedding.
chapter 20
There are women who have a hold over men, a magical essence that calls out to them like a swirling smoke signal over their heads. I am not one of those women. I am the kind of girl that men tell they just want to be friends. The “in-between” girl until they meet the one they want to marry.
First, it happened with Robert.
Then it happened, albeit briefly, with Nate. (I’m expecting his wedding announcement momentarily.)
But it will not happen with Stuart Surrey.
I was born to be the wife of a Brit—with my Italian heritage? Colin Firth’s wife is Italian. You see, it’s fate. Stuart and I will have to discuss adoption, as his full head of gorgeous locks will definitely be a problem I would not saddle our kids with. But maybe Poppy’s right. Maybe he has a bald mother, or some recessive gene, and our kids will turn out fine. We’ll just have to see. The point is, I will not be friends with him. I will tell Stuart point-blank: “If you’re looking for a friend, go find a pub. I am a woman to be taken seriously.” I am through being the “home for strays” everyone turns to when they’re forlorn and have nowhere to go—like Kim…or even Max, fresh on the rebound from Valeria, despite what he says. I am not Mother Teresa. I am a serious fashion designer, and if you can’t put up, then shut up—or something like that. Anyway, I’m done playing everyone’s mother.
“We’re here, Lilly.” Morgan stops the car in a circular driveway surrounded by vineyards and a golf course. It’s heavenly.
I blink several times while I take it all in. It’s magnificent! The drive leads to a gigantic building with stately rock and a bevy of dormers. Bellmen dressed in wine-colored uniforms with gold buttons circle our car like a NASCAR pit crew. One of them opens my door and reaches in to help me out. Wow! This kinda rocks. I feel myself smiling widely, thinking that there is no way Morgan can truly appreciate what this means to me. I may not have any strong desire to be rich, but being spoiled like this every once in a while? It’s not such a bad thing.
One of the bellmen reaches into the trunk to retrieve all our bags, and I have to say, Poppy’s tapestry number has nothing on my vintage, hard-shell Samsonite. Actually, vintage is too good a word. Goodwill reject is more appropriate. I slide over in front of the suitcase and play a sort of dance with the bellmen trying to keep it from him.
“I’ve got it, thank you. Very important stuff in here.” I pat the hard surface. Then I lean over and whisper to the bellman, cupping my hand, “You never want to put valuable things in a valuable case. It gives you away immediately.”
The bellman just nods, as though I’m speaking a foreign language. “It’s not a problem, really, ma’am.”
Ma’am? How old does he think I am? Granted, I’m going to be thirty soon, but that’s hardly an excuse to break out the ma’am, now is it? I slide over closer to the suitcase until I’m standing right in front of it, but Superboy tries to grab for it. I lunge for the case, but as I do I kick it over, and I watch as it tumbles in seemingly slow motion into a step-down fountain.
“Noooo!” I hear myself wail, but it’s too late. My clothes, and, much more importantly, Morgan’s wedding fabric are now bubbling from the bottom of the fountain. I stand over the Samsonite corpse trying to catch my breath. I already owe Morgan $7,000. What did that fabric cost?
A group of bellmen scurry over, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Morgan’s mouth drop open. I just allow my eyes to close. I’m devastated. My future was in that suitcase, and my stupid vanity just cost me a small fortune!
Morgan’s clicking heels approach, and she looks at me as though trying to discern if I did it on purpose. It’s no secret how I feel about her marrying AARP’s spokesman. But one look in my eyes, and she knows. She places her arm around me. “It’s all right, Lilly. We’ll get new fabric.”
We both just start to bawl and hug each other. The bellmen are mystified that anything in that worn-out suitcase could be worth this kind of blather. But looking at its dripping remnants as they pull it from the fountain, I think it pretty much sums up my life.
Poppy comes up behind us and stares at the suitcase. “Well, you won’t be working this weekend after all, I guess. Good thing we’ve got the papaya mask scheduled, don’t you think?”
We all three look at one another and just start to laugh. “It’s not funny,” I say through my laughter and tears.
Morgan shrugs. “It’s sort of funny.”
“It’s not a good sign, energy-wise,” Poppy says, shaking her head. “Maybe God is trying to tell you something, Morgan. At the very least, you shouldn’t be rushing this.”
“Come on, let’s get our rooms.” Morgan leads us into the travertine entry, and the great rock wall provides the focal point behind the massive granite countertop.
“Welcome to Laurwood, Miss Malliard. It’s an honor to have you with us.” Then the uniformed girl lowers her tone. “I’ve heard on the radio there was an incident in the parkway. If you’ll be so kind as to write your roommate’s size down, we’ll have a personal shopper attend to her needs right away. Will she be needing a new suitcase as well?”
“You’re a four?” Morgan twists around and asks.
“Two,” I say sheepishly. “You have to have hips to be a four.”
“She’s a two. She’ll need something for bed, and then just a couple of casual sweatsuits for the rest of the weekend.” Morgan looks me over and faces the clerk again. “She’s a winter. Don’t worry about the suitcase. I think we can replace that on our own.”
The clerk writes everything down, and I feel like a child having someone go shopping for me. Me, a fashion designer, with no clothes and no income. Just when I think I’ve hit bottom, the floor gives way and I sink to new depths.
“Oh, I nearly forgot!” Morgan announces, and it seems like the entire foyer turns to gaze at us, like Alan Greenspan himself is talking. “She’ll need something for a date on Sunday night. Not too sexy, but sexy enough. Maybe something in black.”
“Morgan!” I protest.
She leans in closer to the clerk. “It’s with Max Schwartz, the hotel chain heir.”
The clerk gives me the once-over, probably wondering what Max Schwartz could possib
ly see in me. I’m sure if she knew the dinner was to give my Nana peace so she’d leave Max alone and be convinced that there’s hope for me to avoid spinsterhood—or that Max is just the ploy for my surprise “I’m happy for you, Lilly” party—the clerk wouldn’t be nearly so impressed. I know I’m not.
“Let’s go.” I yank on Morgan’s arm, she gets the key, and we hike up to our cabin. The grounds are perfection. Green vegetation hangs sloppily over the pathway leading up to the Winecar Cabin.
“This is nice, Morgan. You outdid yourself,” Poppy says.
“It’s great, isn’t it? The owner lives in Nob Hill. He comes in to buy gifts for his wife once in a while. My dad gives them to him just above wholesale, and we stay here for nearly nothing. We have to pay for meals and our treatments. The lodging is on the house, so I try not to take advantage and use it too often.”
Poppy and I both nod, not wanting to mention how completely out of our element we are. Once the path ends, I see the Winecar Cabin is no more a cabin than my loft is luxurious San Francisco living!
The cabin is at the top of the trees and has a huge balcony. “Open the door!” I say excitedly.
The room is luxurious with a fluffy, white duvet on the magnificent bed and hardwood floors covered by a natural-weave rug. There’s white wainscoting around the perimeter of the living room and windows everywhere overlooking the luscious gardens. It feels like we’re actually living in the tree. I run into the bathroom and see a modernized, claw-foot tub with old-fashioned-looking Victorian plumbing. “Absolute perfection,” I say.
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Morgan asks. “Mrs. Kapsan has a lot of style, and I think it shows.”
“Mrs. Kapsan?” I question, swallowing hard at the familiar name.
“That’s right. You met their daughter Caitlyn. She’s the one dating Stuart, Lilly,” Morgan says, implying money-grubbing creep when she says his name.
Things just went from momentarily glorious to down the drain again, and all in the midst of such fine, luxury appointments. So wrong.
We all come out of the bathroom after sniffing the soaps and shower gels and see the message light is blinking. I plop down on the huge king-sized bed at the back of the room and rest my head on my hands. “The message light is on. I tell you,” I say, putting the back of my hand on my forehead, “my fans give me no rest.” Knowing full well that this call is no more for me than it is Johnny Depp calling.
I reach into the bedside table and grab a Bible. I open it to Acts and just start reading. It soothes my soul to think of the power of God, and it reminds me that though I tend to live day-to-day, He has a plan for me.
Morgan walks over, ever-so-elegantly, and calls down for messages with the touch of a button. “It’s probably your clothes, Lilly. Maybe there’s a problem. Who knows where they’ll find size two in this one-horse town.” She laughs her light, tinkling laugh.
Her words serve to remind me that I’ve not only ruined her wedding fabric but also my only paying design work. My heart falls as the reality of what I’ve done sinks in. Morgan would never say so, but this has to be hard on her. I know she searched long and hard for that fabric, and it’s not easily replaceable. At least not in this country. It will dry out, but it will never be the same.
A finance job is sounding more and more reasonable. Regardless of what happens, I vow, I’m going to design Morgan the most beautiful, lusted-after gown San Francisco has ever seen. Scratch that. That Paris has ever seen!
Morgan listens to the message, and her smile dissipates. I watch her eyelids flutter, then close slowly, and Poppy looks at me worriedly. Morgan lowers herself to the floor, leaning against the bed.
“Morgan?” Poppy says. But Morgan just waves at us to be quiet.
We wait for what seems an eternity, and Morgan finally drops the phone onto the floor with a clunk and lowers her face into her hands. Soft, muffled sobs emanate from behind the French-manicured fingers.
“Morgan? What is it?”
She lets out a deep breath and finally meets our agonized expressions. Then she straightens, and the businesslike Morgan, reserved for her father’s charity events, returns. “There’s no wedding,” she says, matter-of-factly. “You were right, Poppy. The suitcase was an omen.”
Morgan can’t keep up the appearance, though, and crumbles into more tears, burying her face into her hands again.
“I don’t believe in omens, really. That was a bad choice of words,” Poppy says. “What do you mean—there’s no wedding? Did your dad get to the groom? Because if he did—”
“No, nothing like that.” Morgan sniffles. Her face is moist and pink, with mascara outlining her eyes like a raccoon.
I’ve never seen Morgan’s makeup in disarray. It’s unsettling. Now I’m thinking I wish I’d been more supportive of her. She actually looks truly crushed. I thought she didn’t know what she was doing, but now, seeing her pain, I feel like a complete heel who didn’t listen when her best friend needed her.
Lord, forgive me for not supporting her, for judging her instead.
“I will make you the most beautiful gown, Morgan. There will be a wedding,” I say, determined. “Whatever it is, we can fix it.”
She shakes her head, and smiles sadly. “Bless you, Lilly, but there really is no wedding. Marcus passed away this morning.”
Both Poppy and I gasp. Right. We can’t fix that. I’m embarrassed. He was old, but he wasn’t that old. I’d only been joking.
Morgan grabs our hands. “Marcus had a bad liver, girls. He was awaiting a transplant. That’s why he was here. I thought with a quick wedding, we’d beat the deadline.”
“I’m sorry.” I hug her, and she just clutches Poppy and me for a good, long time.
“He was a great man. I’m just sorry you didn’t get to meet him. He wasn’t feeling well that night at the restaurant, Lilly, or I would have introduced you. I didn’t think he was up to it, and he would have pretended and made it worse.”
“I don’t understand,” Poppy says.
Morgan smiles. “Marcus thought he’d have a better chance on the transplant list if he was married to an American citizen. There’s always an uproar when foreigners get transplants, but we thought…anyway…I wanted to help him. We owed him, and he deserved it.”
“You were going to marry him to get him a liver?” Poppy asks incredulously.
“I thought you only had one liver.”
“Not my liver!” Morgan says, as though I’m stupid. “I was going to marry him because it would have given him peace to be on the donor list.” Morgan looks at me. “The list where the donor has to be dead to donate, Lilly. A partial liver wouldn’t have sufficed in his case. Marcus saved my dad from rotting in a Russian prison—or worse. If anyone deserved to have the favor returned, it was Marcus.”
“Back up,” I say. My head is now thoroughly swimming. I always knew that Morgan had a big heart. I didn’t know she was completely sacrificial.
Morgan’s jaw tightens. “My dad went to Russia, even though all his colleagues advised against it, and he bought some black market diamonds—diamonds that come from mines that are illegal because there are no safety checks in place. They basically come illegally from a war zone, and often people die to get them to market.”
“Did your dad know they were illegal?”
“No, but had he done his homework he would have known. He was only ignorant because he chose to be.”
“Did Marcus sell the diamonds to your dad?” I ask, knowing that Marcus was also in the business, according to the church group.
“Heavens, no. Marcus was a godly man. He found out that my dad had been suckered by some bad men in Russia, and he broke up the ring with the help of police and got my father released from prison.”
“Your dad was in prison?” Poppy gasps.
Morgan nods. “My dad was too proud to ever thank Marcus, to ever admit he deserved to be in that prison. But I know who saved my father from himself. It was Marcus Agav.” Morgan looks
down again and cries some more. “The very least I could have done for him is save his life. I really am sorry we didn’t make it.”
“I know you are, sweetie.” I put my arm around Morgan.
“Marcus wouldn’t let me announce the wedding in the end. I think he knew he was getting worse.”
There’s a knock at the door, and I jump up while Poppy continues to comfort Morgan. There’s a valet holding Morgan’s shantung silk, drenched and dripping. “Take it away,” I say quietly as I exit the cabin, shutting the door behind me. “Throw it away. Everything in that suitcase. Throw it out. We don’t want to see it again.”
“Right away,” the young man says and scampers away leaving a trail of water behind him.
“Oh, Morgan, I’m so very sorry,” I murmur as I watch the man disappear down the path. I’m the bad omen, Lord. Help me.
chapter 21
Morgan spends the entire afternoon crying, weeping that she should have done more for Marcus or married him sooner. I listen for as long as I can, and while I’m truly sorry for Marcus, I’m glad that Morgan will now have the opportunity to someday know true love in marriage. At least I hope she will. She has such a gentle heart, and I pray that the Lord will bring her someone to thoroughly adore her quiet spirit. Another artist—although this one might be employed. Not like Andy, who was more heart than ambition.
Outside, the sky darkens and dumps an uncharacteristic September downpour. The treehouse rooms feel more like a damp cave than an elegant Winecar Cabin, and I feel smothered by the anguish within these walls.
“I’m going for a walk,” I say suddenly. “Before the sun goes down.” The girls just nod, and Morgan gives a little hiccup.
“We’ll watch Benny and Joon when you get back.” Poppy takes a VHS tape out of her bag. “Or Don Juan DeMarco?”
Morgan starts to laugh and sniffle. “You didn’t bring those movies, did you? Haven’t we matured at all?”
“No, not really, and they will cheer you up, Morgan. Besides, Lilly loves them, and we’ll make popcorn and make her forget there’s no Lysol to inhale. Don’t you love Johnny Depp, Lilly?”
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