A Taste of Fame

by Linda Evans Shepherd

Peripherally I saw Lisa Leann turn her head toward me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Lisa Leann, since when do decent people wear their pajamas into a hotel lobby?”

  Lisa Leann waved her hand at me, then took a sip of her coffee before saying, “Oh, I know. It’s amazing, isn’t it? It’s like all of a sudden pajamas are a fashion statement.”

  “Well, I think it’s just awful.”

  Lisa Leann giggled but said nothing more about it.

  After a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, and toast and after I begged God not to let my arteries harden on the spot, we walked through Little Italy, toward Chinatown. Little by little the landscape changed. Signs printed in bold reds and bright yellows surrounded us as street vendors hawked their goods. The population grew thick until we were shoulder to shoulder with other pedestrians. I felt like the old sardine in the can cliché.

  “I’ve never seen so many people,” I said. “And on a Sunday morning when they all ought to be in church. Like us.”

  “But we’re not in church,” Lisa Leann said with a wink. She then slipped her arm into mine in the manner she seemed to have favored of late and said, “Did you know there are somewhere between 70 and 150,000 residents in Chinatown?”

  “Lisa Leann, what did you do before we left Summit View? Read everything you could get your hands on about New York City? It’s like you’re a walking encyclopedia since we got here.”

  Lisa Leann pinked. “Well, it kept my mind occupied and away from the home situation.”

  This time I squeezed her arm. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “About you and Henry.”

  We rounded a corner—Canal Street. Lisa Leann slipped her arm out of mine and, due to the immense crowd, stepped in front of me. I placed my hands on her shoulders so we wouldn’t get separated, and for a few moments, we waddled instead of walked. From my vantage point the walking population of Chinatown, at this moment, looked more like penguins heading for water than shoppers heading for the next cheap purchase. As we chugged along, Lisa Leann slipped to my right. This time it was I who slipped my arm into the loop of hers.

  We continued west on Canal Street, each step making me more and more aware of the whereabouts of my shoulder strap purse. I clutched it in front of me as though holding onto a life preserver in the middle of the Hudson. Lisa Leann stopped along the way, halting me with her. She purchased a knockoff Rolex watch for Henry, a knockoff Louis Vuitton for Nelson. I couldn’t help but notice Nelson’s watch cost twice what Henry’s cost.

  We both purchased silk wraps, one for each of us and then one for each of the girls, including Mandy, Lisa Leann’s daughter. We giggled as we chose the appropriate color and style for each of them. Lizzie, I knew, would be impressed with the “Burberry” I’d selected for her.

  We continued on. I spotted a short Chinese woman standing on the corner of some cross street and Canal. As we neared her, she spoke to Lisa Leann, who immediately slipped her arm out of mine. The lady—extending her palm and a small piece of paper within her palm—nodded at Lisa Leann, spoke again (though I couldn’t hear a word of it over the sound of the city), and then turned and walked north.

  Lisa Leann followed behind her. I stood without moving. What in the world was that little redhead up to now?

  Lisa Leann turned toward me. “Come on!” she called with a wave of her hand.

  By now the Chinese woman was a good half block ahead of Lisa Leann and Lisa Leann was a quarter block from me. Dutifully, I followed, never once reaching Lisa Leann, who kept a fairly good pace behind the Chinese lady.

  “Where are we going?” I called, but Lisa Leann didn’t hear. Either that or she just wasn’t responding.

  “Hello?” I called again. I caught sight of a small-framed Chinese man leaning against a building. He wore khaki pants that seemed a half size too big and a black leather belt squeezed around his waist. His shirt was cotton plaid. One sandaled foot was perched against the wall behind him, and a cigarette dangled from the fingertips of his right hand.

  “Lady, be quiet,” he said. “No yelling. No yelling.”

  What? In the din of this city’s streets, I am not supposed to yell?

  I gave him my best “who do you think you are” look, to which he replied, “Shhh. Be quiet.”

  I turned my face from him and toward the back of Lisa Leann’s head just in time to see the Asian lady opening a glass door near the corner of the next cross street. Next to the door was another Chinese man, dressed much like my adversary now a few yards away, who nodded at her and her at him. He held the door open as she disappeared into the recesses of the building, and Lisa Leann followed behind her.

  Lisa Leann, I might add, who never once looked back to make sure I was all right.

  When I reached the man next to the door, I mumbled, “I’m with the redhead.”

  He opened the door as though I’d not said a word to him, and I stepped over its threshold. I was now in a semi-dark, long and narrow hallway. Lisa Leann was at the end of it, turned toward the light from the street. She was grinning like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary. “Lisa Leann, what are we doing here?”

  “Shhh,” she said.

  “Why does everyone keep shushing me?”

  “Shhh,” she said again, then stepped through a doorway to the right.

  I shut up and followed, finding myself in another hallway, this one shorter but just as dark. Several steps and to the left and we were in a small room with a narrow door. This room was brightly lit, and empty other than Lisa Leann and the Asian woman who apparently had decided to wait for us. “In here,” she said, pointing to another door.

  I felt like a mouse in search of cheese strategically hidden at the end of a maze.

  We stepped through the door and into an L-shaped room, its walls covered in purses, the air permeating with the odor of new leather. There were three Chinese people sitting on chairs on the short side of the room. Two of them—women—were ripping plastic from purses. Between them was a large box filled with plasticcovered merchandise. The third—a man—sat with a calculator and a money bag in his lap. He sat closest to the door.

  Lisa Leann had slipped over to the long side of the room. Her neck was craned and her eyes danced like a kid’s at Christmas. I grabbed her arm and yanked. “Lisa Leann,” I hissed. “Where are we?”

  “Bootleg,” she whispered back.

  The lady we’d followed stepped over to us. “Coach, Burberry, Kate Spade, Prada, Coco Chanel …” she recited as she pointed. “Good stuff. Good stuff.” Then she stepped over to the man with the calculator, who smiled at her and began speaking to her in their native language.

  “Is this legal?” I whispered to Lisa Leann just as another group of women entered the “shop.”

  “Not for them,” she said.

  “And for us?”

  “Well, it’s not illegal.”

  Ah, another fine line. “So then why are we here?”

  Lisa Leann turned and placed her hands on her hips. “Because, Evangeline. This is part of the New York City experience. And … look around you. Is this not fun? Think of it as research and development for our time on the show.”

  I sighed. “Yes, Lisa Leann. As much fun as a prison sentence to Sing Sing.” Being a loyal viewer of Law and Order was finally coming in handy.

  Lisa Leann waved a hand at me. “Oh, posh. Now, come on. Let’s shop to our little hearts’ content!” She pointed to an oversized red leather bag. “I wonder how much that is? Excuse me,” she said to our “leader in crime,” “how much is this adorable bag?”

  “Seventy-five but, for you, sixty.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Sixty dollars plus five to ten with New York’s finest,” I mumbled behind her ear.

  “Lighten up, Evie,” she hissed back.

  Heaven help me. A half hour later I was one of them. One of the Canal Street Savvy. I now own a Prada purse, a Prada wallet, and some “smokin’ ” (at least according to Lisa Leann) oversized Coco Chanel sunglasses.<
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  Lizzie

  16

  Seasoned Traveler

  I had a laundry list of things that needed to be accomplished before I could even think about leaving Summit View, the least of which was to pack. I’d spent the better part of the weekend food shopping and then cooking and freezing dinners like chicken potpie for Samuel. “Enough to hold you over a few days,” I said. “Or until our daughters or our daughters-in-law ask you over.”

  “Or I arrive in New York myself.”

  I rolled my eyes. “If we survive long enough on the show. Don’t start thinking in terms of what you’ll pack. I really don’t think this is going very far.”

  I took time to go by Summit Center, where my mother is now residing under full-time care. A few months ago her Alzheimer’s became such that my brother and I were forced to make better arrangements for her. Until then, she’d spent several months living at the Good Shepherd Assisted Living facility. When Mom fell, broke an arm, and cracked two ribs, it became alarmingly evident she could no longer take care of herself. I was relieved of a good deal of stress knowing someone was caring for her 24/7, but I still managed to go by to see her at least three times a week.

  Not once had she recognized me as her daughter. A few times she’d called me Karen, a name I could not place to anyone in her lifetime. My brother stated he’d never heard the name either. At least, not spoken by Mom.

  On the Saturday before our departure to New York she once again called me Karen.

  “Mom, I’m Lizzie,” I said to her. She was sitting in the sunroom down the hall from her tiny room, where a bed, dresser, reclining chair, and television set made up her “home.” In the sunroom on that bright July afternoon, she watched television with some of the other residents, though her eyes remained blank and unregistering. Nothing was getting through to her brain at all, it seemed.

  I sat down next to her and took her hand in mine. “Hey, Mom.” I forced myself to sound cheery and optimistic.

  She looked at me then back to the television. “Hello, Karen.”

  “Lizzie, Mom. I’m Lizzie.” I don’t know why I bothered, really.

  She looked back at me, blinked several times, then again turned her eyes to the television.

  “Are you enjoying the show?” I asked her.

  She remained mute.

  I took a deep breath. “Speaking of television, did you know I’m going to be on television? I am. It’s a show called The Great Party Showdown and I’ll be … well … catering. Cooking, if you can imagine. On national TV. International, actually. I guess.” I took another deep breath and exhaled, then turned my attention to the television and, holding my mother’s frail and wrinkled hand, watched a half hour of a movie I could barely see through my veil of tears.

  My daughter Michelle and her husband Adam hosted a family cookout on Saturday evening. Sunday was, of course, church, and though I could have easily talked myself out of going (I still had not packed nor had I really bought anything to wear), I went. Our pastor, Kevin Moore, called the club up to the altar—sans Evangeline and Lisa Leann—as well as Wade and David. He prayed for us, for our families back home, and that we would be a witness for Jesus while cooking our way into the hearts of America.

  On the way home I said to Samuel, “Now I’m so glad I went.”

  “You still have to pack,” he reminded me.

  “I will,” I said. “Later.”

  Monday morning I went to the Outlets at Silverthorne, where I purchased several pantsuits and two dresses, one that was glittery on the outside and soft on the inside. I bought some sleepwear and lingerie and travel-size toiletries. As a last-minute decision I stopped at A Cut Above Beauty Salon and Day Spa, where I was treated to a trim, a brow waxing, a facial, manicure, pedicure, and a natural beauty makeover.

  By the time I got home Monday evening, I was nearly too tired to finish packing, but I had little choice. I was leaving too early the next morning to put the final touches off another minute.

  We met at the Frontier ticket counter, some of us more exuberant than others. All the local television stations had camera crews and reporters ready to film. We were asked for statements and, of course, we gave them.

  “Where is Lisa Leann Lambert?” a news reporter from Denver News 4 asked, stretching her neck to look among the faces of the catering club and our family members.

  “She and my wife, Evangeline Vesey, have already left for the city,” Vernon answered. Vernon had insisted upon accompanying his daughter to the airport, and I was glad he had. His years handling various newsworthy stories from Summit View on television had made him comfortable with both camera and microphone.

  “Sheriff Vesey,” the reporter continued, “what do you think your wife and daughter and the rest of the club’s chances are for winning the big prize?”

  Vernon blushed appropriately. “Well, we’re hoping for the best, but more than that, we’re trusting God to allow only what he wills.”

  Score one for Vernon, I thought, beaming.

  “Will you be joining Mrs. Vesey soon?” she asked.

  “Yes, I hope to.”

  “And what about Mr. Lambert?” another reporter asked. I turned to see a man holding a microphone with KDVR in bold red letters around it. He was tall and powerfully built, his dark skin a comfortable contrast to the red baseball KDVR-31 cap he wore low over his head.

  “No,” Vernon said with a wink, “I don’t expect he’ll be joining my wife.”

  Everyone laughed, and then Vernon added, “But I suppose you are asking if he’ll be joining his wife. Ah—Mr. Lambert had some pressing business this morning or I’m sure he would be here now.” He smiled. “Their son, however, will be meeting the rest of the gang in New York later this afternoon.”

  Another two points for Vernon.

  Another female reporter, this one from KUSA-9 News, turned her attentions to David, who stood as close to one side of Donna as Wade was on the other. “Mr. Harris, do you feel as though you are about to get on the bicycle you fell off? ”

  David’s eyes darkened. “Excuse me?”

  The reporter flashed a smile and batted her long, feathery lashes. “What I mean to say is, the cameras, the lights, the action. This should feel like second nature to you.”

  David nodded politely. “I see what you mean. Ah … no. It was my mother”—David shot a quick glance over to Vonnie, his birth mother—“Harmony Harris, who was most comfortable on the seat of that bicycle. I always just went along for the ride.”

  Wade shifted. “Well, if we’re going to make our plane …”

  We all turned then, saying our good-byes to the cameras and reporters with their fat microphones—not to mention the small gathered crowd—and shuffled toward the concourse, where a tubelike carriage for our adventure would soon whisk us through the friendly skies and toward the Big Apple.

  As soon as our plane touched down at Newark’s airport I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed Samuel’s cell number. He answered on the first ring.

  “The eagle has landed,” I said with a tease.

  “How was your flight?”

  “Uneventful from where I’m sitting. Of course, what do I know? I slept with my head wedged between the seat and the window most of the way.”

  “Sounds comfy.”

  “Ha.”

  “Call me when you get to the hotel.”

  “I will. I love you,” I reminded him.

  “I love you.”

  Vonnie’s luggage was the last to come out onto the conveyor in baggage claim, so while she waited in a panic, the rest of us took nearby seats and tried not to look too anxious. David called the show’s producer—take-charge kind of guy that he is—and asked about the limousine that was scheduled to pick us up. “Oh, I see …” I heard him say. “That’s right … I see … yes, if you will, please let him know we’ll be another few minutes. One of the club members has not gotten her luggage as of yet … yes … yes … thank you.”

  He flipped his p
hone shut with a flourish and then stepped over to Vonnie and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. Mother and son, I thought. What a blessing Vonnie had him here with her today.

  A half hour later we were all piled in the back of a stretch limo and sipping on colas. Our driver, a middle-aged man of Middle Eastern heritage, drove the car easily into the Lincoln Tunnel and then out to the other side. Manhattan, in all its glory, spanned the horizon as far as we could see. Not a one of us held back. We oooh’d and ahh’d and asked, “What’s that?” in rapid succession. Our driver kept the dividing window down and happily answered all our questions as he drove down streets and up streets, finally gliding to a stop in front of the New York Hilton on the Avenue of the Americas.

  With the exception of David, we all did a poor job of hiding our amazement at the beauty and wonder of this hotel. The lobby was opulent and bright, perfectly decorated with seasonal flowers and brightly lit fichus trees set high in planters dripping with ivy.

  We were escorted to the registration desk, where we were told that Evie and Lisa Leann had already checked in for the day and that we would be picked up by limousine at 6:00 and taken to the studio. We were then divided into groups: David and Wade would share a suite with Nelson, who had yet to arrive; Vonnie and Donna were set to room together, leaving Goldie and me to room together. Goldie and I exchanged grins like schoolgirls on an overnight field trip.

  “Well, hello, roomie,” she said as she stepped over to where I was standing.

  Minutes later we were given our keys and then escorted to our rooms.

  I nearly inhaled my tongue when the bellhop swung our door open wide and allowed us entry.

  “Would you look at this?” Goldie said.

  As the bellhop heaved our luggage off the rack and into the closet of the room he said, “First time to New York?”

  “For me, yes,” Goldie admitted.

  “I came here years ago,” I said. I then looked at Goldie. “But I can tell you we didn’t stay in a place as nice as this.”