by Jan Moran
Johnny caught her eye and strode to the table, adjusting his fancy red polka-dot bow-tie, his fashion trademark. “Lance called, told me where you were. He didn’t want your friends to worry.”
Scarlett, Dahlia, and Fianna exchanged looks. Dahlia raised an eyebrow and said, “Only Verena ends the evening with a special dinner from the executive chef.”
“And one of the hottest ones around,” Fianna added. “I mean, one of the most accomplished. I read an article about him in the Los Angeles Times.”
Scarlett laughed. “No, you meant hottest.”
Johnny smoothed his glossy black hair. “I can assure you,” he said quietly, leaning on the table. “Verena was in very good hands.” He winked, and then excused himself.
Verena settled back in the cushy booth and took in the scene, anxious to change the subject. Lance was nice, but she was engaged to Derrick. “How long will you be here, Scarlett?” After graduation, Scarlett had sat for the California and New York bar exams, two of the toughest in the country, and passed them both on the first try. Law firms had competed to hire her, but a New York City firm had made her a generous—and well earned—offer.
“Actually, I have an open-ended ticket. One of our major clients here in L.A. has a series of licensing deals I’m working on for them. Looks like I’m here for the summer.”
“I’m so glad,” Verena said, hugging her. Scarlett was in demand, and she didn’t get to see her very often. If one of the top fragrance marketing houses was poised to ink a deal with a new fashion designer, or a retailer wanted to license a designer’s name, Scarlett and her team prepared and negotiated the deal, wherever the client might be.
A waiter appeared with a tray of cocktails. “Ladies, compliments of Lance Martel, our executive chef.” He placed another sparkling water in front of Scarlett, served Bordeaux wine to Dahlia and Verena, and slid a martini across the table to Fianna.
“How nice. Here’s to Verena, our Executive Visionary of the Year,” Fianna said, raising her glass in a toast.
“Santé,” Dahlia said. She swirled her wine in the glass, paused to sniff it with her dainty nose and consider, and finally, sipped the wine. “Très bon,” she murmured.
Verena smiled at her. Some people might think such actions pretentious, but she knew it was simply second nature to Dahlia, who came from an esteemed line of French perfumers. Her grandmother, Camille Dubois, had emigrated to the United Sates from France during World War II. Dahlia had grown up working in The House of Dubois and had recently ascended to the helm.
Camille and Verena’s grandmother Mia had met when they were starting their businesses, and had been close friends ever since.
Dahlia reminded everyone of her grandmother, not only in the way she looked—petite in stature with glossy black hair and vivid green eyes—but also in her manner. She was fiercely independent and highly intelligent, with a work ethic that scared most men away. She loved ballet and vintage fashion, and often said she’d been born a few decades too late.
“Dahlia, we’ve just received the red-lined documents back from the other counsel,” Scarlett said, referring to a legal agreement that Verena knew she was negotiating between Parfums Dubois and a major Hollywood celebrity for a new line of perfumes.
“Wonderful, let’s review it tomorrow. I just learned we need the final contract before we can renegotiate our bank loans.”
Verena drew her brows together. “But you’ve had that banking relationship for years.”
“The lenders are getting tough.” Dahlia shrugged. “My grandmother wants to read the agreement, too. There’s no stopping that woman.”
“Camille is out of the hospital?” Verena knew that Dahlia’s grandmother had been in Cedars Sinai for pneumonia treatments.
“Just this afternoon,” Dahlia said. “The doctor won’t allow her to return to work, so she’s bringing it all home. Her assistants have set up in her living room. She’ll have them working harder there than in the office.”
Fianna laughed. “Camille is still fabulous. I want to be just like her when I’m in my sixties.”
Dahlia raised a brow again. “Sixties? French women seldom discuss their age, but between us, she just turned eighty. Maybe it’s because she met Verena’s grandmother so many years ago, and had a lifetime of superb skincare. Camille and Mia don’t look their age.”
“Or act it,” Fianna added, widening her eyes. “Imagine what they must have been like when they were young.”
Scarlett tilted her water goblet toward Fianna in agreement. “Not hard to picture—I don’t think they’ve changed much. They’re both awfully sharp and completely self-trained. If there’s even a typo in the agreements we draft, Camille always catches it.”
Verena grinned at Fianna, the free-spirited artist of their group. Fianna Fitzgerald had been born in Ireland, and graduated from the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising in Los Angeles. The youngest in a large family, she’d put herself through school working for Verena, helping her with the twins after their parents died. “How’s the licensing program going?”
“Scarlett and I are working on it,” Fianna said, as Scarlett nodded in agreement.
Fianna’s fledging fashion line was exclusively sold in her boutique on trendy Robertson Boulevard in Los Angeles. Fianna had bootstrapped her company and was trying to expand her distribution to attract licensing opportunities for handbags, eyewear, and shoes. Verena knew she’d welcome the deals. “Fianna, did you follow up with that public relations person in New York?”
“I did, but I’m waiting on payment on my invoices before I retain her. She’s pricey.”
“But worth it,” Verena said. “I think that’s the push you need in the media for more recognition.” Fianna’s designs had garnered fashion awards, but she still had to build sales. Verena thought Fianna was a natural for media exposure. With her flaming red hair, one blue eye and one brown eye, and an exuberant personality, Verena knew the fashion editors would love to meet her friend.
Fianna and Scarlett nodded in agreement. After Verena had taken over the skincare company at such a young age, she began a media outreach program, inviting beauty editors and young actresses to the salon for free facials. It was a resounding success and helped to reposition the company.
Fianna sighed and looked up from her martini. “Honestly, I’m a little nervous speaking to the press.”
Dahlia and Scarlett both answered at once: “You?”
“I know, but I’m always afraid I’ll say something wrong. I’m too blunt.”
“You need media training,” Scarlett said.
“Well sure, but it’s expensive. Takes money to make money,” Fianna said, cupping her chin. She turned to Verena. “Do you think this bank problem is going to hurt your company? Greta sure seemed to think so.”
“I’ll figure something out. We’re resilient. But I feel awful about Marvin.” Verena cast her eyes down to hide the concern she harbored. Even Dahlia’s banker was asking to see contracts, and their company was larger than VSS. She sipped her wine, pausing to admire the vintage Lance had chosen. “Scarlett, let’s talk tomorrow morning.”
Scarlett agreed. After chatting a little longer, they left the Polo Lounge and walked to the front of the hotel, where they waited under the canopy while the valet attendants collected the cars.
Verena mulled over the events of the evening, her anxiety rising. Poor Marvin. She’d always liked him; he was a true friend and an honest businessman. If what Greta said was true, her business could be in real trouble.
Verena opened the door to her Spanish bungalow-styled home and slipped off her shoes so her heels wouldn’t click across the hardwood floors and wake her family. She stopped at the twins’ bedroom and looked in on them. They looked like little blond-haired angels asleep in their beds. She waited until she saw the covers lift and fall in silent rhythm. Quietly, she continued on to Mia’s bedroom and saw her door was open.
“Come in,” Mia said, “I’ve been dying to h
ear how the event went.” Mia was sitting up in bed, her pale blond hair wound into a bun, reading a book. She removed her reading glasses and patted the bed beside her.
“I’m glad you’re still awake.” Verena gathered her silvery evening dress around her and climbed onto the bed beside her grandmother. Mia looked rested, and Verena was relieved. She always worried about her health. “You were missed, you know. Scarlett is in town, and she asked after you. Many others did, too.” She hesitated, hating to have to share the bad news about Marvin’s suicide, but Mia had known him, too.
After Verena told her, Mia said, “Dear fellow, I never would have suspected that of him. Not at all like him, in fact. Something terrible must have driven him to such an act, something that compromised his values, or made his future seem hopeless. And he had such a lovely family.”
Verena nodded, but something didn’t seem right about his death. “I’ll call on them tomorrow to see if there’s anything we can do for them.”
“That’s a good idea.” Mia smoothed a wavy tendril from Verena’s face. “I wish I could have been there for you, but it takes so much to put myself together these days. I’m saving my strength for the long haul to Europe.”
“Why don’t you stop in New York for a couple of days? It might be easier on you.”
“In the old days, that was the only route we could take. But I like direct flights. A little wine, a nice dinner, and when we wake up, voilà, we’re in Europe.” Mia touched her hand and said, “I wish you would come with us. We’re going to have such a wonderful time, and your sisters will miss you.”
“I wish I could, but it’s not a good time at the salon.” Verena removed her diamond-studded earrings and rotated her neck. She cradled the earrings in her hand. These were the ones her mother had worn on her wedding day; she liked to wear them for luck. What had been lucky about tonight? she wondered. Strangely, a memory of Lance shot through her mind.
Mia peered at her. “Everything alright with the plan for Asia?”
Verena opened her mouth to confide in her, but she couldn’t bear to burden her. “Of course.”
“Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.” She rose from the bed, kissed her grandmother good night, and softly closed the door behind her.
But as she walked through their darkened home to her bedroom, Verena had the strange prescience that nothing in their lives was going to be quite like it had been before.
4
The next day, Lance changed into a clean white chef’s jacket and made his way through the kitchen, stopping to survey the busy lunch scene in the Polo Lounge. Celebrities dined with their agents and publicists, fundraisers pitched charity balls, and out-of-town guests relished the scene.
This was a regular day at the hotel, and it was his custom to stop by tables of their regular clients—and new ones as well—to ask how they were, and make sure they were enjoying their meal. He learned a lot, and this made their guests feel special, which was one of the reasons their business was always good.
As he was chatting with a group of filmmakers, he overheard a conversation behind him. A man mentioned Verena. Glancing over his shoulder, he was startled to recognize one of the men. It was Verena’s boyfriend, Derrick, dining with one of the most well-known power brokers in Los Angeles, the Donald Trump of the west coast, Thomas Roper.
Lance stepped behind a potted palm, continuing to listen and acting like he was watching the activity in the restaurant. He hated eavesdropping, but he couldn’t help himself; he was curious. Verena had been on his mind all night, and he woke up thinking about her.
“Verena is emotionally tied to the business,” Derrick said, his voice earnest. “She doesn’t want to sell. Told me so herself.”
“That was months ago. I’ve told you, we need to acquire Valent,” Thomas Roper said, tapping his age-spotted fingers on the linen-covered table.
Lance remembered catering a board meeting at Roper’s office when he’d first started. Everything in Roper’s office was designed to intimidate. The sleek sprawling office topped a towering Century City office building. His corner view encompassed the Pacific Ocean on one side, and on the other, the Los Angeles Country Club’s groomed golf course, where Lance had heard that Roper was a founding member. Roper always wore a black suit, starched white shirt, and red power tie. Today was no different.
“Did you hear me?” Roper frowned in annoyance. “She has her price, they all do. Make her an offer.”
Derrick drew a breath, adjusting a lapel on his own black suit. “Yes, sir. But maybe we should look at other companies.”
“No. You will do this deal.”
Or else, thought Lance. At least Derrick seemed to be defending Verena. But Lance knew Roper’s reputation. Word travelled fast in the hospitality business.
Roper went on, irritation evident in his voice. “Valent is a well-respected company with a marketable story.” He ticked off points on his fingers. “Legendary Swiss formulas, three generations, based in Beverly Hills, celebrity clientele, plus pure organic botanical products. The efficacy of her products is off the charts. She has no idea what that’s worth. You will get that company in our portfolio, one way or the other.” He creased his brow. “You didn’t tell her about the clinical tests, did you?”
“No, of course not. I told Verena I wanted to give her products to some VIP clients as gifts. I never told her about the tests or the results.”
“Good, don’t. We can use that later to boost sales. Look, Derrick, Verena Valent doesn’t have the experience to understand the future value of her company after she launches in Asia. The accounts she has are critical building blocks for the cosmetics empire we’re building. I want Valent, and you’re going to get it for me.”
“Don’t underestimate her, sir.”
Lance leaned in. As if the old man needed the money.
Roper narrowed his eyes and pointed a bony finger at Derrick. “There’s a reason I made you a minor partner. I’m not overestimating your skills, am I?”
“Let me do it my way.”
“Then do it. Valent is on track to make hundreds of millions of dollars, with proper management, of course. We’ll send Jimmy Don in. He can handle it.”
Derrick cleared his throat. “Verena definitely adds value to the business. She has good relationships with clients.”
“Clients don’t care. They’ll forget her tomorrow.” Roper studied him. “You plan to marry that girl?”
Derrick lifted a shoulder and let it drop.
“You’d have to have a prenuptial agreement. She’d want the same. If that’s what you’re thinking, you won’t get the company that way. So, why bother marrying her? Lots of fish in the sea, trust me.”
“I understand, sir.”
Roper waved a hand for the check, dispensing with pleasantries.
Lance experienced a strange seizing sensation in his chest. This isn’t right. As Roper signed the check for the meal, Lance hurried back to the kitchen.
He’d just met Verena. Should he tell her about this? Derrick seemed to be looking out for her, but the hairs on the back of Lance’s neck told him something was wrong about this conversation. If it were him, he’d want to know, but Verena might think he was butting in where he had no business. Maybe she already knew, maybe Derrick would share this conversation with her.
Lance paused at the door to his office. He had to find out more.
***
The next day, Verena dressed in a simple cream-colored suit with a matching silk blouse and left early for her office in the salon to make more calls.
When she arrived, Verena removed her jacket. Her office always smelled fresh and clean; the scent of their products permeated the air, and Verena loved it. The natural aroma always helped clear and focus her mind.
She picked up the telephone and spoke with Scarlett, who had already confirmed Marvin’s death. “Verena, my friend the coroner said it appeared Marvin shot himself.” Scarlett hesitated. “But he’s doing an autopsy, and the poli
ce took forensic samples. There’s an investigation.”
“Why? Isn’t it evident?” Her hands began to shake and she shifted the receiver. This was hard for her to hear.
“I’m not sure. He mentioned something about the angle of the bullet entry. Wait a minute, I took notes.”
Verena closed her eyes. “I can’t listen to this, Scarlett.”
“Okay,” her friend replied. “We’ll talk later. Let me know when you’re ready.”
After Verena hung up, she rose and paced the floor, wringing her hands and trying to calm her nerves.
She called the bank. After speaking with one of Marvin’s associates at National Western, she sat back, dumbfounded. Greta’s information had been accurate. The bank could not honor its loan commitment for their expansion into Asia.
Since the credit crisis had tightened lending, Verena knew she wouldn’t have much luck with other banks, especially since she wasn’t a customer. Still, the company was profitable. It had been in business for more than sixty years, and had signed agreements with retailers in Asia. Purchase orders had been received, product shipped, and invoices sent. She simply needed short-term working capital to cover expenses until they received payment. The product wouldn’t sell itself; she needed money for co-op advertising, payroll, training, and travel.
They had always had good credit. Could it really be that difficult to get a loan with another bank? The pressure in her chest grew. Whatever she did, she had to act fast.
She glanced at Mia’s portrait, an oil painting by artist Max Band of the Paris School of Artists; it had hung on the wall for decades in the elegant office suite. It was Mia in her prime, before the cancer had robbed her of her indomitable strength. Mia’s expression was fearless, proud, and determined. What would Mia do? She’d talk with her once Mia was feeling stronger, but today’s business climate was much more complex than it had been when Mia was running the business.