A Taste of Fame

by Linda Evans Shepherd

  The orchestra’s trumpet players played an enthusiastic squeal on their horns while everyone laughed.

  Anthony held up what appeared to be a glass of pink champagne. “Here’s to you, Mama and Papa!”

  The band cued up “You Make It Easy to Be True” as Wade and Nelson, looking svelte in their tuxes, brought over the cart with our heart-shaped cake. The rest of the team playing waitstaff scurried to refill the champagne glasses with our pink carbonated punch. (Well, we couldn’t afford the real stuff anyway.)

  The guests began to clap, and some of them began to tap their glasses with their knives. “Speech, speech!” they called as the guests of honor rose to their feet. Donna handed Mr. Marino the mic, and he said, “First, I want you all to know how much I love you.” He turned to his wife. “Especially you, Marian, you’ve been a good and faithful wife.”

  She kissed his cheek and leaned in to say, “You’ve been a good husband to me, Nicky, and a good papa too.”

  Mr. Marino put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. That’s when I noticed how much the man was sweating. Oh, my.

  He reached for his cloth napkin and dabbed his forehead and tried to catch his breath. “I’m not so good at speeches,” he said. “I’m better at love.”

  Mrs. Marino ducked her head bashfully. “Oh, stop being so sexy,” she said while the crowd giggled.

  “How can a man not be so sexy when he’s married to a beautiful woman like you,” he said as the family “awwwed” and chuckled again.

  “Oh stop, Nicky.”

  And he did stop. Suddenly, all the color drained from his face. His smile was replaced with a look of surprise as his legs began to buckle. David lunged to grab him by the arm but missed. In an instant, Mr. Marino lay at his wife’s feet.

  By the time his wife and family had stopped screaming, David and Donna, in all their finery, were working in tandem to save his life. First, Donna unbuttoned Mr. Marino’s top button and loosened his tie while David put his ear to his chest. “I don’t have a heartbeat,” he told Donna. Donna pushed Mr. Marino’s forehead back, arching his neck. She opened his mouth to make sure his tongue wasn’t blocking his airway while David began to administer CPR. Kneeling next to the downed man, David locked his elbows as he began to push rhythmically on Mr. Marino’s chest. David looked up at the stricken Mrs. Marino. “Don’t worry. In real life I’m a paramedic.”

  Donna stopped to take a breath, but before she continued her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation efforts, she gasped, “It’s okay. I’m a deputy.”

  Wade grabbed the microphone. “Everyone stay calm. We have two emergency workers right here. An ambulance has already been called. The only thing we can do now is pray. Do you mind if I pray now?”

  Shouts of, “Please do,” and “Yes, pray,” filled the room.

  Wade bowed his head as the cameramen rushed in for a closeup. “Dear Lord, please bring Mr. Marino back to his loving family. We ask this in the name of Jesus. Amen.”

  Days later, our beautiful banquet complete with our wonderful band, the little romantic intrigues between Donna and the men on the set, plus our life-saving drama, aired as millions of viewers watched Donna and David save this great-grandfather’s life. To top it off, even the judges were complimentary. Brant said, “To say the event was completely dead would be a lie. Hear, hear to the heroic efforts of Team Potluck,” while the audience cheered.

  Not to be morbid, but it didn’t hurt that our package included clips of Mr. Marino from his hospital bed, saying, “Those two lovebirds saved my life, you know. Not only have I survived a massive heart attack”—he chuckled till he coughed—“I’ve just survived a heart bypass.” His wife leaned in and kissed his cheek as he said, “Marian, you’re stuck with me for another fifty years!”

  Mrs. Marino smiled. “Thank you, Team Potluck. You’ve given us hope and a future.”

  There wasn’t a dry eye in Studio 8 H when our segment was over. After it aired, I could barely concentrate on the other teams’ anniversary parties. Not that I meant to daydream, but I didn’t really need to watch the competition to make my prediction as to tonight’s results. After a party like this, Team Potluck would surely be around to face another week, maybe even to go all the way to the top to receive that cool million dollars.

  I gave a sigh of relief. Now I was free to concentrate on what I was really concerned about: whether or not Henry would be at the airport tomorrow. I just couldn’t guess. I wanted to see him, of course. But then, he would expect me to have confided in Nelson about my shameful past. But how could I?

  Lizzie

  20

  Consuming Couple

  One thing I knew for sure: whatever good the next day would bring, it would also bring sadness and sorrow for some. Maybe even us ladies from Team Potluck.

  As soon as Goldie and I returned from the set, got undressed, and then redressed—me in a summer’s workout set and Goldie in a floral lounging gown, we set the room’s alarm clock for 5:00 in the morning. Goldie took the extra measure of dialing the front desk and asking for a wake-up call at 5:15. “Just in case,” she said. “As tired as we are, we might just sleep right through the alarm clock.”

  She was right, there.

  We then decided to call our husbands, first to find out if they were still coming to New York the following day, and second, to talk about how the show had been perceived by those watching in Summit View.

  “I’ll call Samuel from the lobby,” I told Goldie, waving my cell phone at her. “You can call Jack from in here.”

  Goldie looked something akin to horrified, I initially presumed because I felt I needed to go to another floor entirely in order to have privacy. “I’ll take my shower if you’d like,” she said. “I can wait to call Jack.”

  I glanced at my watch. “No, no. It’s getting later than late here, and even though it’s two hours earlier back home, I’m tired, you’re tired, and we need to just make our calls and go to bed.”

  Goldie raised her brows as though to protest, but then said, “Okay.”

  As I reached the door she said, “But be careful down there.”

  I laughed lightly. “Oh, Goldie. Surely you’re not scared for me to be in the lobby of this hotel, are you? I’m perfectly safe in spite of the hour.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not afraid of the boogeyman, Liz. I’m more concerned about the cameras that might be lurking behind every fichus tree and work of art down there.”

  She had a point. “Hmm. I see what you mean. Okay, I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  I opened the door, stuck my neck out into the hallway, glanced to the left, then the right, and then looked back at Goldie. With a wink I said, “Coast is clear.”

  “Don’t joke, Sherlock,” she said.

  I slipped out the door and allowed it to click shut behind me before heading toward the elevators down the hall. Between my Keds and the rich, thickly padded carpets, my footsteps were muffled. Even Donna wouldn’t hear my trek toward the lobby, I decided with a smile.

  I pushed the elevator’s down button, slipped my phone into the back pocket of my pants, and waited. Then I prayed, Let this thing be empty when it opens, Lord.

  God was good. When it opened I was met with an empty carrier, which brought a sigh of relief. I stepped in, pressed “L,” then watched the doors slide shut. The elevator jerked once then began its slow decent.

  It stopped. I looked at the floor buttons and saw that “9” was brightly lit. The doors slid open again. I looked at my feet, then stepped back a notch to allow a young man and woman to step in.

  I sensed rather than saw some movement between the two of them. Looking up, I realized they were signing to each other. The woman glanced at me once, then continued in her frantic hand movements. Something was most definitely wrong.

  “Hi,” I signed to them. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Are you deaf? ” the young man, a handsome lad who appeared to be no more than twenty-one or twenty-two yea
rs of age, signed back.

  “No,” I signed. “I have a deaf daughter. Is something wrong?”

  At this point the doors opened and the lobby was mere steps away. I pointed toward the opening and signed, “Let’s go out here and talk.”

  The young man allowed the woman and me to step out first and then followed. I glanced around the room as efficiently as I could to see if anyone from The Great Party Showdown might be about, but registered no one familiar. It appeared the theater crowd was returning and a good deal of life was still moving about near the lobby lounge. I turned back to the couple. “Tell me what is wrong,” I signed.

  “My wife lost her purse,” the young man signed. “Her cash … her credit cards … her passport.”

  I held up my hands for him to stop. “Let’s take this one step at a time.” I looked at the young woman. She had a round face, black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, and deep-set green eyes. Tear streaks made their lines from the red rims of her eyes to below her jaw line. “Where were you the last time you know you had it?”

  She pressed her lips together and looked beyond my shoulder as though in thought, then said, “Seppi’s.”

  “Seppi’s? What is that?”

  “A restaurant,” her husband supplied. “Not too far away. Fiftyseventh Street at Le Parker Meridian Hotel.”

  “My name is Lizzie.”

  The young man replied, “I’m Robert.” He pointed to the woman. “Sharon,” he said.

  I looked outside. The city was still vibrant and alive. “How close is the restaurant?” I asked.

  “A few blocks,” Robert said.

  “Too many to walk?”

  Robert looked out toward the front of the hotel, then nodded. “Let’s ask the concierge.”

  At the concierge’s desk I explained the situation. “Hold on,” the young man said. Robert, Sharon, and I waited as he dialed the number for Le Parker Meridian. When he spoke, I listened and signed.

  “They do have the purse,” he said, hanging up. “I can have someone get it for you.”

  As soon as I signed the good news, Sharon shook her head and signed back to me, “How long will that take?”

  I repeated the question to the concierge.

  He looked at his watch. “Could be up to an hour, unfortunately. We’re not as highly staffed during this shift.”

  I repeated the answer. Sharon quickly signed to Robert, “Can we go get it? Please? I’ll worry.”

  Robert nodded.

  I told the concierge, “They’ll take a cab to the hotel.”

  Robert and Sharon thanked me, and I wished them luck. I was just about to turn toward the lobby when a sudden and unexpected thought came to mind. “Would you like me to go with you?” I asked. “Just in case there’s a problem?”

  The young couple smiled. The next thing I knew, we were standing outside and then slipping into a cab.

  Minutes later we were heading—in a roundabout way—toward 57th, although it seemed to me the cab driver wasn’t taking any direct route to the hotel/restaurant. While we were en route, I called Goldie to tell her what was happening. She was, of course, beyond mortified. “You left the hotel without telling me?” she nearly screamed. “Lizzie, my gosh!”

  “It’s okay, Goldie. Really, it is. This is one of those moments, you know, when you realize God has you in a particular place at a particular time for a particular reason.”

  I heard her sigh. “Only you, Liz.”

  “Did you talk with Jack?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Practically all of Summit View was at the church tonight, cell phones in hand, ready to make those calls.”

  I laughed lightly. “Well, who knows? Maybe we’ll move one more rung up the ladder to the finale.”

  Goldie didn’t reply.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “No. Not really. Well, not for you or me.”

  “For who, then?”

  “Donna. Jack says Faye Gage is coming with them tomorrow. She told Jack tonight at the church.”

  “Faye Gage? Oh, dear.”

  The taxi slowed and stopped in front of the spiffy entrance of the hotel and quoted the price for the ride. “Goldie, I have to go. I’ll call you shortly.”

  I disconnected. As Robert paid the cab driver, I opened the back door and slid out of the car. Robert and Sharon followed behind me. We zigzagged between the pedestrians then pushed our way through the revolving doors and into the lobby.

  I allowed Robert and Sharon to lead the way to the restaurant, which turned out to be a French bistro that—with one look—I knew was way out of my pocketbook’s price range.

  We were met by a host who said, “Three?” but I quickly shook my head. “No. This young woman left her purse here.”

  The man frowned. “Ah, yes. Can she describe it for me?”

  I turned to Sharon and signed the question, and as she answered me, I translated. “Coach … Ergo … tote.” I turned fully to the host. “She says the color is called brass.”

  He smiled then, mostly at Sharon, and said, “I have it in the back. The young lady left it in the ladies lounge.”

  I smiled at Sharon and watched as she beamed. Robert showed nothing short of sheer relief and gratitude. “Thank you,” he signed.

  I waved away their appreciation. “The host will be back in a minute,” I said to them, then turned and gazed around the room, which was filled with small round and square tables, dark chairs, and booth seating in black trimmed in wide white strips of leather. The tables were draped in white linen and accented by red flowers in the centers. Even at just a little past midnight, there seemed to be quite a crowd. Just as at the Hilton, most seemed to have just returned from an evening at the theater and were either having late dinners or spoiling themselves with dessert.

  I caught a glimpse of the host returning with a purse in his hands. As I looked toward him my eyes shot past his left shoulder and to a corner booth. My lips parted, and I sucked in my breath. Bubba, the adorable Cajun chief chef of Wild Cajun Cooks, and Amy Snyder, Kat Sebastian’s assistant, were leaning toward each other, deep in conversation, with what appeared to be half-eaten crème brulée smothered in raspberry sauce between them. As the restaurant’s host neared the three of us, I stepped to one side for a better look. Amy was stroking Bubba’s face, kissing him lightly on the lips, then nuzzling his nose with hers. Adept as Michelle at reading lips, I watched to see if she would say anything to him. She did. “I promise … I promise …” she said, kissing him lightly again. “Believe me, my love. I have it all arranged.”

  Goldie

  21

  Fishy Business

  I was nearly frantic by the time Lizzie returned to our room.

  Frantic, but I’d showered, changed into my pajamas, and was propped up in bed trying to read Lauraine Snelling’s latest novel that I’d picked up from the church library before leaving Summit View. I couldn’t concentrate, though, and had started reading page 15 for the third time.

  Finally, I heard Lizzie slide the key across the lock on the other side of the door. I bolted upright as the door swung open. Slapping the book shut, I said, “Where have you been?”

  Lizzie looked wide eyed.

  “What?” I asked. I scurried from under the cover and sort of crawled to the far side of the bed closest to the door. “What happened? Were you mugged?”

  Lizzie placed her hands on either side of her face and shook her head.

  “Did you see a murder or something?”

  “Worse,” Lizzie finally said, panting.

  “Worse than a murder? What could be worse than a … Do we need to call Donna?”

  I was reaching for the phone now.

  “No!”

  I dropped the phone.

  Lizzie made her way across the room and sat on my bed. “Goldie. Oh, Goldie. I don’t know what to do.”

  “About what?” I scooted close to her, wrapped her hands in mine. “Oh, Lizzie. Y
ou’re positively pale.”

  She pulled her hands out from under mine and brought them back to her face again. “Am I?” She looked toward a mirror, then back at me. “You won’t believe what I saw tonight.”

  “Well, I will if you tell me!”

  She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Okay. Okay. I’m okay now.”

  I jutted my chin forward. “So?”

  “I told you I was going to this hotel’s restaurant—Seppi’s, it’s called—over on 57th Street.”

  “Yeah …”

  “You won’t believe who I saw in there. Sitting in the corner. In a booth. Kissing.”

  “Who?”

  “Amy Snyder and Bubba from Wild Cajuns.”

  I didn’t respond at first. I had to take it in. Amy? And Bubba?

  “They were kissing?” I asked Lizzie.

  Lizzie nodded. “And there’s more. Amy was speaking to Bubba—I read her lips—saying she had, and I quote, ‘it all arranged.’ ”

  “What all arranged?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “That was it.” Lizzie raked her hands through her salt and pepper hair. “I decided I’d better get out before I was seen.”

  “Did she say anything before that?”

  “Only ‘I promise, I promise.’ That was it. ‘I promise, I promise’ and ‘I have it all arranged.’ I don’t know what it means, but it can’t be good. Those two surely shouldn’t be seeing each other.”

  “Of course not.” I took a moment to allow the news to sink in a little before adding, “We have to tell the girls.”

  Lizzie glanced at her watch. “Not this late. My gosh, it’s nearly 1:30. I should shower and get ready for bed.” She stood from her place on my bed, then extended a hand toward me. I took it in mine. “We’ll call the girls together in the morning before breakfast. Most definitely before we go to the studio to find out who was eliminated.” Lizzie sucked in her breath. “That’s it. Amy has it all arranged that the Wild Cajuns will win.”