A Taste of Fame

by Linda Evans Shepherd

  “Yes.” Lisa Leann stopped pacing long enough to answer. “Any ideas? Think of famous movies set in New York that might have a fashion show in it.”

  “How to Marry a Millionaire has a fashion show in it,” Vonnie said.

  “Good one, Von,” I said. Then added, “So does That Touch of Mink.”

  “Breakfast at Tiffany’s does, doesn’t it?” Lizzie said.

  “I think so,” Goldie answered.

  “Well, we can’t do them all,” Lisa Leann said.

  That’s when we all just kind of sighed and stared first at each other and then out the window and then around the room and then back to each other. Finally I said, “Why not?”

  “Why not what?” Lisa Leann asked.

  “Why can’t we do them all? Why can’t we have the designer make gowns from classic movies?”

  Lizzie was sitting in the chair next to Vonnie’s. She sat up straight and said, “Like the gown Marilyn Monroe wore in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.”

  “And Holly Golightly’s in Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I said.

  “How many dresses do we have to have?” Vonnie asked.

  Lisa Leann had brought the file from the show back from the studio and laid it on the dresser. She flipped through a few pages. “Six.”

  “Let’s each pick one and suggest it to the designer then,” I said.

  Donna bolted upright and off the bed. “I’ll be back,” she said.

  She darted out the door, and in no more than a second she was back in, carrying her laptop computer. “I knew this thing would come in handy,” she said. She already had it open, and from the sound of it, it was booting up.

  Booting up. Now there’s a word for you.

  “I’ve just about got this baby up and going,” she said, plopping back down on the bed. “We might be able to find copies of the gowns online and then maybe …” Her fingers flitted over the keys of her laptop, and then she said, “Okay, here we go. Who wants to be first?”

  Lisa Leann nearly skipped to where Donna was sitting. “Me.”

  “So, who do you pick?”

  I could see the expression on Lisa Leann’s face changing. That girl is totally in her element when it comes to stuff like this, no doubt about it. “Oh, goodness! Let me think … it should be someone with a great sense of style and flare. Like me.”

  “Oh, brother,” I said. Humph. It was going to be a long session.

  By the time lunch rolled around, our fellows (and Faye) had joined us amid a flurry of hugs and kisses. Well, not so much hugs and kisses between Donna and Faye, but that’s another story. Once the initial “so, this is New York” and “how are you girls doing” were over, Lisa Leann said we’d best get downstairs for a quick bite to eat.

  Wade excused himself initially because he was busy getting his mother—who, by the way, had her hair colored a soft shade of blonde before coming to New York—settled in her room. Her room, mind you. I don’t know where that woman gets enough money to stay in one of these rooms alone, but somehow she has managed. I could tell Donna was both fuming and itching to let Wade have a piece of her mind. She didn’t tell me so in as many words, but I know my stepdaughter pretty well at this point.

  At lunch, we all made an agreement that Henry (who was somewhat attentive to Lisa Leann and somewhat aloof) and Vernon would room together, at least in theory. The same went for Jack and Samuel. I felt badly for Vonnie from the financial end. She was moving out of Donna’s room and into Fred’s, but the show wasn’t going to compensate them for it. We all agreed to chip in a few dollars to make up the difference.

  Just as everyone was ordering some coffee to end the meal, Lisa Leann received a call from a Jacques Moreau, a French designer Lisa Leann was obviously familiar with. “Girls, girls! Do you know who he is?”

  We admitted we did not.

  But in one hour we would. Before we knew it, a cameraman was walking toward us, lugging his camera and saying, “Ready to meet your designer?”

  Whether we were or not, it was time to go. I pouted at having to leave Vernon behind so soon but promised him he’d be happy he’d arrived in New York by the end of the evening.

  As a proper lady from the Colorado High Country, that’s all I will say about that.

  Wednesday evening, after a full day of meeting Monsieur Moreau (who was very excited about our show idea), we grabbed a quick bite in a little eatery on 57th and Park (where I pigged out on sweet potato fries), then headed back to the hotel for a last-minute meeting in what was now my room, shared with Vernon, albeit for only a few nights. Faye Gage had joined us in the restaurant but now feigned a headache and went to her room, which I believe was a relief both for her son and for the woman he loves.

  But we didn’t talk about the love triangle of Summit View. We talked about the situation with Amy and Bubba.

  Vernon, being the superb law enforcement officer that he is, came alive with the information. “Let me think on this,” he said. “But right away I can tell you something is amuck here.”

  “What I want to know is this,” Donna said to her father from one of the room’s chairs. “How is it we can’t go to the ladies room without a camera following us, but somehow Amy and Bubba have managed to go undetected?”

  “Good point,” Vernon said.

  “Well,” Lizzie said, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips as she sat on one of the beds, “Amy is a production assistant. She may be able to keep the cameras at bay.”

  Samuel, who sat behind her, said, “Getting a headache?”

  Lizzie nodded.

  “I’ll go get something for you,” he said. He squeezed her shoulders lightly then excused himself and left the room.

  “So, how do we find out?” David asked Vernon. “How do we infiltrate the system?”

  Vernon sighed. “That’s what I need to think on.” He looked at Donna. “And I could use your help. Evie tells me Bubba is kind of sweet on you.”

  Wade groaned. I glanced over to where he stood against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders slumped. He looked for all the world like a tired-out cowboy. Poor Wade. I actually felt sorry for him, loving Donna like he has for so long. I then looked over to David, who didn’t appear too happy either. But at least his mother wasn’t Faye Gage not half a hallway down and three floors up.

  Donna nodded her head. “You could call it that,” she said. She kept her focus on her father, smart girl. “And I’d love a little undercover work.”

  “You be careful,” Wade said, but not before David made a move toward our little princess and lightly touched her arm. She looked from Wade and then up to David then back to Wade. I could see anger in her eyes, almost as if she figured Wade brought his mother to New York rather than having been equally as surprised by her arrival. But at the same time, you have to wonder, if she were so sure Wade was not the man for her, why would she be so ticked off? Why not run to David and declare her undying love? That’s what I wanted to know.

  It was then that Samuel came back in, a folded piece of paper in his hand. “Looks like trouble,” he said, handing it to Vernon.

  We all gathered around to read what appeared to be a note. The words were brief. To the point. The letters rounded, as though they’d been penned by a fifth-grade girl. It read:

  IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU,

  YOU’LL STAY QUIET

  Saturday evening was a beautiful affair, if I do say so myself. Our tuxed waitstaff (Nelson, David, and Wade) served ten viewers— who’d entered a contest we were only vaguely aware of—a delicious meal that began with a mixed baby green and smoked salmon salad served with ricotta cheese, pignoli nuts, fresh cubed beets, and tossed in a ginger honey Dijon vinaigrette, followed by bowls of piping hot minestrone. During the main course (grilled rack of lamb served with crème spinach and roasted potatoes) and dessert (raspberry soufflé for one), our models strolled down a prepared runway as Gianne explained each gown and the movie it represented.

  We girls stood on the sideli
nes dressed in red carpet gowns like nothing I’d ever seen much less worn before, each one designed by Monsieur Moreau. Monsieur Moreau had brought with him six waif-like models who were dead ringers for the actresses they were portraying. The first was a Marilyn Monroe copycat sporting a white billowy dress from The Seven Year Itch. The next model was “Julia Roberts” in a skintight replica of the red gown worn in Pretty Woman. She was followed by a Vivien Leigh look-alike from Gone with the Wind. That one made Goldie beam, Southern girl that she is. The fourth model presented herself as Grace Kelly in Rear Window (complete with dazzling bracelets like those worn by Miss Kelly for the movie) and the fifth was a sassy Mia Farrow in The Great Gatsby.

  The sixth and final model was “Audrey Hepburn” in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. When she had returned from the end of the catwalk, each of us girls took our places with our “creation” as Monsieur Moreau, standing alongside Gianne, announced to the wildly applauding crowd that each member of Team Potluck would now descend the walk with the model representing our idea for the show. I floated toward the end of the catwalk next to “Holly Golightly.” We were the last of the six sets of two, just behind Lizzie and “Grace Kelly.” We then returned center stage and waited for the applause to finally settle down.

  All in all, I thought it was a success and hopefully enough to get us ahead. The food was excellent, the guests seemed entertained, and even the judges appeared impressed we’d been able to stick to our movie theme, although Brant Richards did mutter something about being careful it didn’t become “old hat.”

  “And,” he clipped, “you can no doubt expect to hear me say this when the show airs.”

  I leaned over to Lizzie and whispered, “I’ll show him an old hat …” though I have no idea what I meant.

  Lizzie giggled. It was good to see her smile. She’d hardly said a word since we’d gotten the note three nights ago. Donna and Vernon were doing what they could with the little bit of information they had. I thought it would be best to tell Kat Sebastian, but Vernon said no. Not until he had a little more evidence to support our theory.

  In my way of thinking, Wild Cajun Cooks were a shoe-in to win. Question was: who initiated the romance between Bubba and Amy?

  And when.

  Whatever Vernon and Donna had figured out so far, they were staying mum about it, even to me. And I’m family.

  Lizzie

  23

  Tasting Trouble

  As a team, we had Sunday “off.”

  A free day to sleep in, explore a little bit of New York with our beloveds, and—for Team Potluck—attend church. On Saturday afternoon I had checked the hotel guest book in our room and found Saint Thomas Episcopal Church to be close by. None of us were or ever had been Episcopalian, but I figured a little diversity wouldn’t hurt us.

  Luckily everyone agreed with me.

  And so, on Sunday morning, the members of Team Potluck and their spouses plus Wade’s mother got all dressed up (or, as Goldie put it, “gussied up”) and strolled from the hotel to the church, sans cameras or cameramen.

  We entered the French high gothic styled church from the sidewalk on 5th Avenue, immediately stepping into the narthex. Our feet paused for a moment on the marble beneath them, and we observed a large mosaic of our earth’s globe split by a cross. I leaned over to read the words carved around it: Peace on earth to men of goodwill, it read. “Lovely,” I whispered to the person standing next to me, who just happened to be David.

  He, in turn, patted my shoulder, then craned his neck to look upward and around.

  Everywhere … every place within our field of vision … was pure architectural and artistic delight. Art and detailed design had come together to worship God and to encourage those who entered in to do the same. We moved to walk through the doors leading into the sanctuary with its incredibly high ceilings and medieval atmosphere and, in doing so, collectively inhaled in awe. Before us, stretching almost as though it would never reach its pinnacle, was a great reredos. I learned later that at eighty feet high, it held sixty intricately carved figures. The faithful, I thought. Those who had come before us and had persevered.

  We sat in the back. During the service I kept my focus on the structure. I thought about each and every one of the figures and who they represented. I wondered what some of them might have done if faced with a decision such as mine. A decision to make right what was most definitely wrong within the show. As the choir sang its last song, my mind wandered to the story of Esther. “For such a time as this,” her cousin Mordecai had said to her. Perhaps, I thought, I had met Robert and Sharon and had then gone with them to the restaurant for such a time as this.

  Granted, my plight and that of Queen Esther could not be compared. But still …

  After the church service we decided to go to Bryant Park Grill because Wade’s mother, Faye, had heard some good things about it and I suppose we were trying to appease her as best we could.

  I’ve known Faye Gage for a lot of years. We aren’t best friends or even good friends, but I’d never had anything against her. I felt for Donna, though. Faye Gage is not one to let her son “go” to or for just anyone. I’m sure Donna’s history of loving him and leaving him didn’t help any. I know how I felt when my sons had their hearts broken—as all sons surely will—but I’d learned to allow them to have their own lives. Faye seemed pretty set on keeping her son as her “little boy” as long as she could.

  Though I was still not sure why she’d come along with our men to New York, I knew this was no reason not to extended kindness toward her. “Faye, I believe that’s near the New York City Public Library,” I said after she’d made her suggestion. “And I must admit I’d like to take a look in there, since we have the day to ourselves.”

  With the ladies in heels, we all agreed to take cabs.

  The restaurant was long and narrow but seemed much bigger thanks to the large windows dominating one side. There was also a rooftop with umbrellaed tables and a café. After a delicious meal (I had the best grilled mahimahi I believe I’ve ever put in my mouth) filled with laughter and even a few requests for autographs (which still stuns me) from the patrons, we strolled over to the library. Samuel had brought our pocket-size digital camera and insisted on taking a photo of me standing next to one of the lion statues crouched out front so he could frame it for my desk back at the high school’s media center. “I wonder which lion this one is,” I called to him from my mark. “Patience or Fortitude?”

  “With you next to it,” he called back before he snapped the shot, “it could be either one.”

  Fortitude, I thought later, was something I definitely needed. Give me strength, Lord, give me strength, I prayed later that night. Because I know what I have to do. I just need the guts to do it.

  The next morning I got up and dressed and left the hotel before the rest of the team knew I was gone. Samuel knew, of course. He’d even said he’d come with me. But I told him no. “This is something I have to do myself,” I said.

  I walked to the studio at Rockefeller Center. I needed the time to think … to pray … Along the way I asked God to reveal all things kept hidden. To light the path my feet were traveling. To keep his Holy Spirit over my words and to let Kat Sebastian accept what I had to say, and then, hopefully, take the burden from my shoulders.

  Above all, I decided, I would not be threatened by notes that had been cowardly pushed under my door. And I would not let anything happen to the show, either. The last thing it needed was the scandal of being “fixed” by one of its associate producers. It would be the 1950s quiz show debacle all over again.

  I arrived at the studio and set my course purposefully toward Kat Sebastian’s office. As I walked the narrow hallway, my footsteps silenced by the Berber carpet underneath, I noticed her door slightly opened. A mixture of fluorescent lighting and sunlight spilled out from around its edges. Good, I thought, she was already at work.

  Hearing her voice, I slowed my pace. She might be on the phone or already wit
h someone, and I thought it unfitting for me to interrupt her. I paused, waiting for the right moment to tap on the door.

  The voice now speaking told me there was a man with her, clear spoken and direct. “And the ratings are down, Kat. And if you want to have your job this time next year, you might want to see what you can do to shoot them back up.”

  “Now, wait a minute, I’ve gone over the stats, and they’re not that far down, Jay. I think with the teams we have right now, we’ll see a landmine of creativity and even some fun and zany shenanigans. Both team against team and between their own members. That should bring the ratings soaring, even above last year’s. And last year’s were pretty spectacular, especially after we got down to our last four teams.”

  “Speaking of shenanigans, what’s the deal with the female deputy and the two men …” I heard a snap, then again, a thumb and index finger clicking against each other. “What are their names?”

  “David Harris and Wade Gage.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Donna Vesey.”

  “Vesey, that’s it.”

  “The two guys are pretty smitten with her. Should we focus a bit more on that angle? I also hear Gage’s mother has shown up and, from what we’ve overheard from Lisa Leann, there’s not a lot of love lost there.”

  “Sounds good … sounds good. See what you can drum up.” Pause. “Oh, and what’s the skinny on the deputy and that Creole guy?”

  “I don’t think it’s anything except a very good-looking guy who knows he’s very good-looking trying his hand and a cute little deputy who is just not all that interested.”

  Pause. Just long enough for me to realize I’d stopped breathing. Unless I wanted to be found lying face down and blue on the carpet, I decided I’d best start up again.

  “Tell your lead cameraman—”

  “Mike.”

  “Mike … tell him to stay on Deputy Blondie. And tell … what’s the little assistant’s name?”