“I choose Mikki,” said Christophe. Big surprise. Mikki flushed, then went over to stand next to Christophe. They looked like two grade school kids afraid to admit their crushes on each other.
“OK, let’s see,” said Andy. “I think I’ll go with Linda. We were an awesome team in the last challenge.”
“Damn right,” said Linda, hoisting herself up and striding over to stand beside Andy. She looked down on Jodi Sue and her cleavage with obvious disdain.
“Shari,” said Christophe. Of course, the two winners from the last challenge would go at the beginning, but I was having gym-class anxiety—would I be picked last?
“Nadine,” said Andy. I couldn’t believe he’d choose Queen Nadine over me. Not that I wanted to be on his team.
“Faith,” said Christophe. Shari winked at me. I was relieved. It might be fun to be on a team with Shari.
“Katie,” said Andy. Katie stood beside Nadine and they began to whisper.
“Monica,” said Christophe. Monica bounced over to us, looking excited.
“And that leaves Sadie,” said Andy. Farmer Sadie, looking embarrassed to be chosen last, went to stand with Katie, Nadine, Linda, Jodi Sue, and Andy. I looked around at our team—Shari, Mikki, and I already knew one another pretty well from sharing a room. Then we had Monica, the lifestyle coach, and eccentric Christophe, the concierge. All the really difficult personalities, it seemed to me, were on the other team—Andy, Katie, Linda, Nadine—and I could definitely do without any of them. This could work. I was already thinking of ideas for the most gorgeous holiday table Sybil had ever seen.
“Now, to tell you about the prize,” Sybil said. Everyone stopped whispering at once to hear. “The winning table will be featured in a photo spread for the holiday issue of Domestic Goddess Magazine, with do-it-yourself instructions for how our readers can replicate the look at home, so keep that in mind when planning your designs. But that’s not all. Your table and room design will also be featured at a very special event.” She paused dramatically. “My own family Thanksgiving dinner.”
We all gasped. Her family Thanksgiving was practically a national holiday in and of itself. Even if this was actually happening in July.
“As such, your design will also be photographed for the magazine and filmed for my show. And that brings me to your special treat,” Sybil said, smiling. She turned toward the door. “We have a very special guest judge, who is the perfect person to help decide which table will be featured at my family Thanksgiving. That’s because he’s a most cherished member of my very own family. I would like to introduce you all to my dear son, Harry.”
The famous and reclusive Harry Jansen? Everyone knew about Sybil’s only son from her first marriage to Reginald Jansen, the media tycoon who shot himself a decade ago. Harry Jansen had retreated from the press after that, and was known for refusing the trappings of his billionaire mother’s lifestyle. He was rarely seen—one of Sybil’s cookbooks had a picture of him as a child, but I remembered hearing from my old friend Jeannie Klein back in L.A. that he was an exceptionally handsome eligible bachelor with quite a reputation. We all looked at one another, amazed that we were actually going to see him. This was like getting to see JFK, Jr.!
The door opened, and in he walked. Harris.
I gasped. Harris! The man from Spring Seven. The man whose kiss was a lightning storm. He was Sybil Hunter’s son? He was Harry Jansen? I realized my mouth was hanging open. I closed it.
I looked at Shari and Mikki and grabbed both their arms. What was up with this show? It was like being on some bizarre, sadistic, roller-coaster version of This Is Your Life.
“What? What?” Shari whispered. I couldn’t speak. I just shook my head. Stay calm, Faith. Stay calm. Whatever you do, don’t act like you care. You don’t care. You barely remember him. He doesn’t matter. Don’t let this throw you. Don’t let her know. Don’t let Sybil know! Don’t let anyone know!
Suddenly, I realized that not only was I about to face Harris again but if Sybil found out I’d been making out with her son at a nightclub, that might be the final straw. I was amazed she hadn’t eliminated me already, but three strikes, and I was likely to be out, no matter what Chaz thought about Sybil being “just the talent.” Stay calm. Act cool. You’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine, I told myself, frantically.
Sybil was still talking, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “Thanksgiving is very important to my family, especially now that my son is engaged to be married.” Everyone smiled and clapped politely … except me. He’s getting married? To that bimbo in the microscopic skirt? The one he told me he’d just met that night? Oh yeah. All right. Game on. He really was a player. I fumed. I hated him. It was all I could do not to leap forward and throttle him. How could he have led me on like he did? Engaged? I cast him an evil glare, but he wasn’t looking at me. I didn’t think he’d even noticed me yet. He was watching his mother. I noticed that he didn’t look particularly happy. Then he spoke.
“I’m not engaged, Mother,” he said.
“Well… we’ll see about that,” Sybil replied curtly. “In any case, Harry will be a special guest judge during this challenge. He doesn’t normally like to be involved in my shows,” she said, putting a hand on his back, “but he’s agreed to fill in, just this once. He’ll help choose the winning table.”
All I could think was What did he mean by “Not engaged, Mother”? Was he or wasn’t he? In any case, clearly he couldn’t be trusted. Like mother, like son. He was probably as heartless and power hungry as she was. Calm down, Faith. You don’t hate anybody. Keep your eye on the prize… and the prize is not Harris. Or Harry Jansen. Or whatever his name really is.
“Harry, why don’t you tell the contestants what you would like to see in this challenge.”
“I think you or Aunt Alice will be better suited to do that, Mother,” he said, looking around at us. And then our eyes locked. I tried to look calm and cool, but I got that weak-in-the-knees feeling again. His eyes widened and his face turned red.
“But Harry, you agreed to offer your input.”
He just kept staring at me. Uh-oh. “What’s wrong, Harry? Cat got your tongue?” Sybil said, smiling. Then she looked at him, to see what he was looking at. In a low voice, she growled, “Don’t tell me you know her, too.”
I gave him a panicky look, a tiny shake of my head. Please don’t sell me out, I tried to tell him, telepathically. If I ever meant anything to you at all, even for five minutes, please don’t sell me out.
He turned to her, and smiled calmly, completely composing himself. “Who, Mother?”
She narrowed her eyes. I noticed that Alice was catching everything, a little smile on her face, like she was watching something very amusing.
“And yes, you’re right, I did agree to offer my input,” he said, suddenly the model son. He turned to us, not looking at me. “Our family likes a table that’s both traditional and original. My mother also prides herself on maintaining a beautiful home. So try to combine those three elements,” he said.
“Thank you, Harry,” Sybil said, looking satisfied. “And yes, my son is right. Tradition, originality, and beauty. That’s what we’ll be looking for. You have thirty minutes to plan. Then you’ll have the rest of the afternoon and evening and tomorrow morning to gather supplies elsewhere or to work in the craft room. You’ll each have a mock room to decorate, right here in the studio. Harry, Alice, and I will be here at noon tomorrow to judge your creations.”
Sybil turned to leave.
“Harry and I will stay here to monitor the progress and report back,” Alice told Sybil.
“Excellent,” said Sybil. She and Ian left the room. Harris shifted back and forth, watching his mother walk out. As soon as she was gone, he started to walk toward me.
“Just hold on,” Alice whispered and grabbed his arm.
He stepped back. I looked away, quickly. Stop watching him, I commanded myself.
Our team gathered around the table, and Shari started t
alking about who was going to do what. No matter that Christophe was the team leader, he was happy to let Shari take over. She already had a theme: “Authentic Holidays.” I tried to listen, but I was still reeling. My Harris was Sybil Hunter’s son? But he wasn’t my Harris. I had to get over it. I had to get in the mood. I had to pretend he wasn’t standing right over there.
Think, Faith. You can do this. You know how to do this.
I sat down at the table, as if I was a dinner guest—in part because I’d snuck another glance at Harris, and it had made me practically swoon. “Let’s all sit down for a minute,” I said to my team. “Let’s think about what would impress us the most if we were sitting at this table.” Everyone sat. I pushed Harris completely out of my mind and thought of nothing but that table. Holidays. Thanksgiving. What was I thankful for?
I realized how thankful I was to be right there, at that moment. To be on a television show. To have this amazing opportunity to work with Sybil Hunter. She was a difficult person, but that’s probably why she was so successful. And here I was, learning from the best. What kind of Thanksgiving table would be good enough for the best?
“Red,” I said. “Let’s start with red. We need a rich red brocade tablecloth set with sprays of evergreen under silver chargers with simple, snow-white plates, and a long, low, lavish centerpiece of natural materials—evergreen boughs, pinecones, and red roses with white candles. Extravagant, but not so tall that people can’t see each other across the table.”
“I love it,” said Shari. “Red, white, and silver, with natural greens. Gorgeous.”
“Let’s do place cards,” said Mikki. “We could paint pinecones with silver paint and put place cards in them, one at each place. Maybe put them on little wire stands so they stand up straight.”
“That’s a great idea,” Christophe said.
“And finger bowls with rose petals,” Shari added.
I could hear the other group arguing. Katie was yelling that they should have a fish theme, and Andy was telling her she was an idiot. I smiled, but tried not to get distracted. Stay in your own lane, Faith, I reminded myself.
“We need something else, too,” I said. “Something big, something that will make us stand out.” I looked at the table for a moment. Then it came to me. I lowered my voice and gestured for everyone to lean in. “How about a champagne fountain, on a sideboard that matches the table. That’s what I would want to see if I came to someone’s Thanksgiving dinner. That would make my day.”
“That would make my day, too,” said Monica.
Shari agreed. “We’ll put roses on the top.” With Shari around, we’d never be lacking in flowers.
“Faith, when we get to the store, you handle the fountain rental. Monica, can you and Faith also plan the menu and make the menu cards?” Shari said.
“Sure we can,” Monica said.
“I’ve got an idea for where to find the perfect white carpet for under the table, and let’s paint the walls a deep evergreen. Christophe and Mikki, can you handle the paint and constructing the sideboard?” Shari said.
“Of course,” said Christophe. “We’ll handle it. Good job everyone.” As if he hadn’t already ceded entire control to Shari.
Then I looked up, and there were Harris and Alice, standing right behind me.
“So, how is this team doing?” Harris said, nonchalantly, acting like he didn’t recognize me. But I knew better.
“Harry, it is such an honor to meet you,” Shari gushed, pumping his hand up and down. “You’re just as handsome as they say. If you’re not actually engaged, we should talk. I have a lot of gorgeous single friends!” she said. “In fact, here’s one now.” She nudged me. Shut up, Shari, I thought, Shut up right now! I tried to smile. Harris’s ears reddened just a bit, in an adorable way.
“Well … thanks,” he said.
“We’re pulling our ideas together pretty well, I’d say,” said Christophe, trying to act the part of the team leader in front of the judges.
“Does everyone know who is doing what?” Alice asked.
“Yes,” I said, looking directly at Harris. “In fact, we do. Some of us are going to stay here, and some of us are going to leave. I just hope the ones who leave are considerate enough to tell their team members before they just walk out.” I smiled sweetly.
“What?” said Shari. “What are you talking about?”
“Well,” said Harris, obviously catching my drift. “Maybe some of you should make sure you’re not in the bathroom when your teammates leave, so they have a chance to tell you where they’re going and why they’re going and who they’re going with. Because things aren’t always what they seem to be.”
“Why would we all be in the bathroom?” said Shari, totally confused. “What are you …”
“I think what Harris means,” said Alice, jumping in, “is that if you all know what everyone else is doing, you’ll be more efficient and minimize the chance for a communication breakdown.”
“That’s exactly what I meant,” said Harris.
“He’s not very articulate, is he?” Shari whispered to me.
“Up-front communication and honesty are very important to avoid misunderstandings,” I said to Alice. “People should make it clear where they’re going before they leave.”
The producers motioned to Alice. “We’ve got to go, but stay focused,” she said, giving me a look. “You want to win, right? So act like it.”
Harris gave me a little smile, and then he turned and walked out the door. I couldn’t help smiling back. I loved that he was clever.
“What the hell was that all about?” Shari said.
I watched him leave. “I’ll tell you later,” I said.
At Affair to Remember, everyone dashed around looking for the things on their list. I saw Katie grabbing painted wooden fish and a bolt of fishscale sequin fabric, and felt even more confident in our idea. While Shari and Monica found white votive candles and red velvet ribbons, I asked for the manager. The girl at the counter brought back an older woman with white hair and half glasses.
“Hello,” I said, extending my hand. “My name is Faith, and I’m hosting a very special event. I am in need of a beautiful champagne fountain. Can you show me what you have? What’s your price range?”
She looked at me, then looked at the camera. She’d obviously been fully debriefed.
“Our fountain rentals are typically between four and five hundred,” she said. I knew that would really squeeze us on budget for other items.
“Can you give us any sort of deal?” I asked, with my most charming smile. I knew that she knew what this kind of exposure could mean for her business.
“Of course!” she said. “I’m sure we can find something in your price range. Why don’t you come over and see what we have.”
We arranged to have the fountain delivered. “I can’t believe you got that for two hundred,” said Shari. I’d even convinced the store owner to throw in some champagne for the setup. Before we left, she handed me a case. “Give Sybil my regards,” she said.
“Gladly,” I said.
We still had to pay for the flowers and greenery and the menu printing, and have some money in reserve in case of emergencies. We’d have to be creative and use what we had in the workroom for the rest of it.
Shari went over to the Rulebook to see if she was allowed to call her husband’s flower shop. “I can’t do it,” she said. “It says right here, no help from family members.”
“What if you called one of your suppliers?” I suggested. “They all know who you are, right?”
Her face lit up. “Yes, they do!” she said. She picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello, Carl? This is Shari,” she said. “I need eight dozen red roses and a big box of the winter greenery, delivered to the Sybil Hunter Enterprises offices first thing in the morning.”
Late morning, woodworkers came by to build the two separate rooms we would be decorating. We each got three walls, a floor, and a ceiling, so our holiday tables
would be displayed like enormous shadow boxes. I cajoled two of the carpenters into building us a sideboard to match our table out of wood from Sybil’s lumber room.
Ditzy Monica had ditched her New Agey lifestyle coach persona for this challenge and taken on the part of artist with surprising competence. She designed beautiful menu cards that described the twelve-course meal I’d come up with: pumpkin bisque, goat cheese and walnut salad, shrimp cocktail, beef satay skewers, roasted Brussels sprouts, green beans with bacon, turkey, beef tenderloin, sweet potato cups, cloverleaf rolls, baked apples with ice cream and caramel sauce, and a cheese tray to finish. “I’m really, really glad we don’t actually have to cook all this by noon,” I said.
“I wish we could eat it now,” said Christophe. “I don’t remember the last time I had a decent meal.”
Monica and I took the mock-up to the printer, while Shari went out to find art for the walls, hardware, chair covers, and other room décor. She came back with an upholstered chair, a painting of a pretty winter scene, two antique framed photographs that looked like family portraits, and some antique glass vases for flowers.
When she got back, Shari launched into a micromanaging frenzy. “Monica, those snowflakes need to be smaller,” she lectured.
“I’m the creative one,” Monica whined. “I know how big they should be.”
“Christophe and Mikki, quit flirting and get back to painting!” Shari commanded.
“We’re just discussing what to do next,” Mikki said, defensively.
Shari even ordered the woodworkers around, claiming they were building our sideboard the wrong way.
We worked all day and into the night. When Christophe was staining our new sideboard, Andy noticed it. Before he was done, the other team was building one, too. The woodworkers had already left, so they were trying to do it themselves.
“They’re copying our idea!” said Monica. It was almost midnight, and we were all so bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived that productivity had virtually ceased.
Skinnydipping Page 24