Her Winning Ways

by J. M. Bronston

  And Liz reminded her that this day was the climax of the whole trip—the interviews, the TV coverage—and the sweep! And the clothes! She had to be at maximum energy.

  By the time Mitzi arrived, they were dressed and ready to leave for the Galliard’s opening, the speeches, the cameras—and the shopping spree!

  Nine thirty a.m., and they were perched on folding chairs out in front of Galliard’s, just behind a podium that was banked with media mics. Annie squeezed Liz’s hand.

  “Just don’t let me make a fool of myself.”

  Annie was giddy with the realization that she was the center of all this fuss and she was doing her best to keep a lid on the excitement that kept bubbling up from her toes, totally unaware that the nervous energy that was bursting out of her made her an even more radiant and attractive target for the cameras. Liz, at her side, was practically crouched in her seat. She held on to Annie’s hand as if to keep herself from sailing uncontrollably up into the blue sky. Poor Liz, she was totally overwhelmed by the noisy commotion that surrounded them: busy traffic continued to shoot down Fifth Avenue, completely inattentive to the big event in front of Galliard’s; towering buildings, with their thousands of sun-flashing windows, marched up and down the avenue, shouldering up against each other like a horde of enormous egos, each trying to be the main one; and a vista of glittering storefronts, all brass and glass and high society, showed off their wares—diamonds at Harry Winston, crystal at Baccarat, emeralds and sapphires at Cartier, leather at Mark Cross.

  The morning was perfect for a ribbon-cutting. A light breeze was fluttering the flags outside Galliard’s; the sky was bright blue and totally cloudless. Mitzi, in a simple suit and her usual stiletto heels, her hair in a slick French braid, and wearing a chunky gold bracelet that must have weighed three pounds, was there to guide Annie through the day. Greta Pena, Lady Fair’s events director, was there. Mayor Gideon and assorted dignitaries had turned out to make speeches and get their pictures taken. Galliard’s president, Jean-Claude Aumont, had flown in from Paris to preside over the event. A crowd of passersby gathered on the sidewalk and camera crews from all the local TV stations were pressing around, getting in everyone’s way.

  And there were mounted police on hand to keep the event under control.

  She took a quick look and sure enough, there he was. Involuntarily, she brushed a stray buttercup-colored wisp out of her eyes, smoothing it into place.

  And Bart, who’d seen the gesture, caught her eye, tipped a quick little salute to her from the saddle, and put Lindy through his snappiest paces, making him look good for this special audience of one. Lindy, who always knew when he was being displayed, tossed his mane as though it were a flag in the breeze and flaunted his special, rakish charm.

  She felt a rush of reassurance. Not only were Bart and Lindy familiar faces, they also represented law and order. Their presence seemed to make the surrounding racket and commotion calm down a couple of notches, and she felt a little more secure that maybe she wouldn’t trip all over herself, after all. And as her usual self-confidence began to return, a song started to play in her head. That same song she’d whistled to Lindy last night. Her alma mater’s fight song. The melody of “Cowboy Joe” came to her now like an answer to her prayers.

  This is game day, Annie. This is what you came here for.

  She imagined she heard the roar of a crowd; the team was running out onto the field, and Pistol Pete, their mascot, was whipping up the spectators. She actually glanced down, expecting to see the yellow and brown of her cheerleading uniform.

  Don’t let these big-city people think you’re some scaredy-cat yokel who’s afraid of a bunch of skinny girls in little black dresses and a shop full of high-priced merchandise. Okay, so it’s not quite the Knothole back home. So what. You come from pioneer ancestors and big sky country. You’ve been up on bucking broncs and you’ve faced down angry bulls. You’ve hauled hundred-pound sacks of feed. You’ve mucked out stables and shoveled tons of snow. You’ve lived through weather that would flatten most cities. You can handle this, Annie. This is your special day. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. This is a day to enjoy—not to run away from.

  The butterflies in her stomach settled down a little. She could stop being nervous and just go ahead and focus on all the fun this once-ina-lifetime day was supposed to bring.

  Just be sure to pay attention. You’ll want to remember this always. To tell your children.

  She nodded a little smile at Bart. And for his part, with Annie smiling at him, he couldn’t help showing off a little, so he had Lindy do a couple of the sidestepping moves that always made them both look snazzy.

  And while they were being snazzy, they didn’t notice the three men who were standing off a little way from the crowd. Three men who were clumped together; three men who whispered to each other behind their hands, and who would, every now and then, point surreptitiously at Lindy, keeping their heads low and their hands as unobtrusive as they could manage. Three men—one skinny, one short and fat, the third tall and totally bald. All with thick mustaches. And the tallest and baldest one of the three was intently taking notes on a scruffy steno pad.

  Mayor Gideon was at the mic and was grandly proclaiming his own cleverness at bringing yet another major enterprise to the city. He acknowledged Monsieur Aumont, with thanks for bringing a major French label to New York, reminding everyone that when it comes to panache, New York and Paris are sister cities. He invited Monsieur Aumont to make a few additional remarks of welcome. And then, with a great flourish, he took up the ceremonial scissors, about three feet long, and invited Annie to say a few words and join in on cutting the broad blue ribbon that stretched across the front of Galliard’s gleaming door.

  She took one deep breath. Then, one more.

  Here I go!

  With a little toss of her hair—and a little nudge from Liz—Annie stepped up to the podium. Greta Pena now materialized and whispered into Annie’s ear.

  “Go ahead, dear. You look wonderful. Just say a quick thank you to the crowd. And smile!”

  Annie waved, a little timidly at first, with butterflies doing a couple of gentle flips inside her. Then, picking up steam, she was able to give it her full cheerleader all. The crowd waved back eagerly, enjoying the pretty scene. She took a deep breath.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mayor.” She nodded once at him and he glowed. “Thank you, Monsieur Aumont, and thank you for bringing Galliard’s to New York. And thank you to all the wonderful people at Lady Fair.” She turned and smiled at Mitzi and at Greta. “You’ve done so much to make us feel welcome. And by the way, I want to introduce my big sis. Liz, stand up, honey.” And Liz did a half-rise from her chair, managed a weak, self-conscious smile, made a half-wave of her hand, and gave Annie a look that said, I’ll get you for this! Liz sat down quickly, while Annie went on. “And thank you, thank you, New York!” She tossed a quick smile at Bart. “This really must be the most exciting day of my life. And when I get back to Laramie, I’m going to tell everyone, New York really is Fun City!” The spectators clapped enthusiastically.

  And Bart smiled, as though he was the one who’d won the prize.

  And Mitzi and Greta also beamed as though they had single-handedly given birth to a brilliant prodigy, especially because Lady Fair had gotten a proper plug.

  “Now,” Greta whispered, “keep smiling and put your hand on the scissors while the mayor does the cutting. Look at the camera.”

  Annie did as she was told, the mayor made the ceremonial cut, the crowd cheered happily. Liz applauded madly. All the dignitaries crowded around, pushing their faces into camera range. And then it was Greta’s turn. She planted herself in front of the bank of microphones and invited the gathered crowd to attend to her.

  She introduced herself, and then said, “Now listen up, folks. Galliard’s is inviting you all to watch us on national television while our lucky Sweeps-Spree winner from Laramie, Wyoming, Annie Cornell, sweeps fifty thousand dollars’ worth of
fabulous, fresh-from-France, fantastic furs—faux or real, as she prefers—shoes, evening dresses, whatever she chooses, all the latest Paris fashions, right here in Manhattan’s newest, brightest, glitziest, seven-most-wonderful fashion floors, the fashion floors of Galliard’s.”

  Applause, applause.

  “And we’re not putting any pressure on her,” here she turned and smiled at Annie, then back again, wickedly to the cameras, “are we, folks?”

  Laughter from the crowd.

  “We’re going to give Annie a full two hours to make her selections. And we’ll be checking every step of the way while she gets to live out the dream, a free prowl through all the fashion goodies a girl could want. So stay with us, America, as our cameras check in on Annie’s progress. We’ll be there every half-hour, just after the regular news breaks with our very own tally-man keeping score. And be sure to be tuned in to the runway show on Friday morning, when Annie will show her selections to everyone out there, all across the country. That’s fifty thousand dollars, folks. So be sure to be with us.”

  And she was done.

  The ribbon-cutting came to its end, the milling crowd broke up in all directions to continue on to their interrupted errands, camera crews organized their gear, and dignitaries pulled out their cell phones to check their messages, make their calls, and return to their heavily scheduled days.

  Bart moved Lindy through the confusion to lean close to her. He had to lift his voice as she was being delivered to Galliard’s front door.

  “Dinner tonight. I’ll call you.”

  She could do no more than stare, openmouthed, as he rode away.

  Talk about take-charge! Never have I ever—

  But her astonishment got no further, for Mitzi was chattering in her ear and practically prancing as she led Annie toward Galliard’s threshold, and she had to concentrate on the big event of this big day. For wasn’t it supposed to be, indeed, the biggest day of her life?

  And off to the edge of the crowd, the tall, bald man with the mustache watched them closely. He had already noted the interest Lindy’s rider was showing in the winner of the contest. And he saw the smile that passed between them.

  “Very interesting,” he murmured.

  He licked the tip of his pencil, stroked his mustache once, and made another note on his pad.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Spree . . . Wheee!

  Tuesday Mid-morning

  She stepped into a place of golden light and subtle scents—scents of bergamot and sandalwood, of ambergris and lavender and musk—perfume fragrances that carried with them subtle hints of leathers and fine furs and tobacco. It was the scent of money. It stopped her in her tracks.

  I’ve died and gone to heaven.

  Like Dorothy, stepping into the Land of Oz, Annie knew she wasn’t in Laramie anymore. This was a long way from her usual western-wear store back home on Grand Avenue. This was a fantasy turned real.

  As far as she could see, from inside the great glass doors where she was standing to the elevators along the back wall, there were rows upon rows of glass-topped vitrines displaying—most tastefully—jewelry and cosmetics and perfumes. Names she knew only from magazines. Lanvin and Patou and Lalique. Handbags and small accessories, gloves and scarves and belts by Chanel and Prada and Burberry, all enriched by that same seductive scent, all suffused with that same ethereal light.

  She approached a perfume counter. A slim, black-clad, perfectly coiffed woman smiled upon her, appearing to have been placed on earth specifically to serve. Annie picked a crystal flacon from a mirrored tray.

  “Would you like to try it?” The saleswoman’s voice was gracious, with a musical French lilt. “It is a lovely scent.”

  Annie held out her hand, palm up, and the saleswoman placed a drop from the glass stopper on Annie’s wrist.

  Annie sniffed at it. “Oh, that really is nice,” she said. “How much is it?”

  “Three hundred twenty-five dollars. For the half ounce. Of course, there is a larger size, if you prefer.”

  Annie gulped. It took a heartbeat or two to let that sink in. How easy it would be to rack up $50,000 worth of selections. But what a gloriously indulgent way to begin her spree. “Oh, yes. I’ll take it.” But, careful as always, she added, “The smaller size, of course.”

  And Galliard’s tally-man made a note.

  What next?

  “Bags,” Liz had said. Yes, bags!

  At the Chanel counter, she looked at bags. She picked up bags. She quickly scanned the interiors of a couple of bags. Back in Laramie, she and Liz had read about handbags that cost thousands, but couldn’t imagine such things really existed. Now, with a real specimen in her hand, she realized this was of a different species. The softness of the leather, the quality of the stitching, the beauty of the hardware, it began to make some sense. Not a lot of sense—but some.

  She fell in love with a Burberry alligator bag, but at $24,000 it would have taken too much of her spree budget, so she went with two less expensive Burberry totes—one in black and one in the signature Burberry tartan—and she and Liz could fight later on over who got which.

  And now, with her heart beginning to race, she realized that if she spent a lot of time on each item, she’d be turning this adventure into a leisurely shopping day, instead of a giddy “spree,” which is what this was supposed to be. The fun of it all would be to run and—sort of—grab. And later on, when it was all done, discover what she had.

  And in that spirit, she sprinted for the escalator, pausing only to grab a rope of crystals from a display of costume jewelry, a cashmere Hermès scarf from a stack in a Lucite tray, and a pair of burgundy suede gloves, lined in silk, from Italy. The TV people had to run; the staff people jogged along, with Mitzi bringing up the rear, herding them hectically along. There weren’t any escalators in Laramie, so Annie needed a moment to adjust her pace, but a girl who’s ridden broncs can figure out a staircase that does the climbing for you, and in a minute, she was racing up the moving stairs, eager for the rest of this great adventure.

  From there on it was a whirlwind of Louboutin and Jimmy Choo, of parkas lined with real fur, and skinny, gorgeous jeans, a Vera Wang dress in a soft fog-gray wool fabric so thin and fine it could have been silk, a long tweed coat from Finland, a short camel hair coat by Max Mara, a biker jacket lined with shearling by Alexander McQueen, and an absolutely-must-have black-and-white Chanel blazer. A spectacular sable coat brought her up short with its price tag of $80,000, so she gave it just a couple of obligatory reverent strokes and then moved on. In the kids’ section, she got a set of real drums for Liz’s Brandon and a brightly-colored go-kart for Buckley. Liz might not thank her, but the boys would love her forever, if they didn’t already. For Craig, she took a minute to choose between a brightly-colored Scandinavian-style heavy-knit sweater with images of reindeer and fir trees, and a plain but classic cable-stitched crew neck. She had a momentary vision of Liz’s husband’s dismay at the former and his genuine pleasure at the latter—and she chose the gray cable stitch.

  She was feeling breathless, as though the whole world had gone into slow motion and she’d lost track of time, lost the feeling of her feet under her, lost her usual sense of centeredness. She’d almost forgotten that there were people right there, following her, paying attention to her. People for whom she was the center of attention. This was really a weird experience.

  She turned to Mitzi, whose professional focus was looking a little frayed. A few strands of hair had slipped out of the French braid.

  “How am I doing?”

  “You still have a couple of thousand to go.”

  “Okay. I want the baby department.”

  “Baby?”

  “A couple of the women I work with have new babies. I’d like to bring back something for them. And then I want to look at lingerie.”

  “Lingerie is on this floor. Babies the next one down.”

  “Okay. Let’s hit the nightgowns first.”

 
Lingerie at Galliard’s was not like anything she’d known about, and it wasn’t just the prices. She’d never seen a garter belt before. She hadn’t known there were things like low-beam adhesives and cleavage cupcakes, and she needed a little instruction from Mitzi as to their function. She’d never seen such exquisite lace as she saw on one pair of skimpy panties. And she hadn’t known a pair of panties could cost $380. Neither, apparently, had the TV producer. She heard him whisper to his cameraman, “Hell, for three eighty, I could buy the whole girl!” Which was a bit of New York cynicism that would probably fly in Wyoming, too.

  But the nightgowns were beautiful, and she added an outrageously tiny teddy and a slinky, sexy, cleavage-to-the-navel bit of pale froth, both from La Perla, and a brilliantly red silk nightshirt from Donna Karan. In a moment of good sense, she added a totally sensible pair of flannel pajamas from Bedhead.

  “Now to the babies,” she said.

  Down one flight to the babies department, and there she selected a couple of silver baby mugs and a silver piggy bank.

  “And you’ve done it!” Mitzi said. “Only seven minutes left! And you’ve just hit fifty thousand dollars!”

  “Wait, Mitzi. I just want to take a couple of minutes here. Don’t say anything yet.”

  Mitzi’s expression was quizzical, but she was willing to indulge her, at least for the last minutes.

  Annie’s eye had been caught by the displays of tiny dresses for tiny little girls, and she needed to pause, if only for a few moments, to touch the sweet little frocks. Is there a woman on earth who doesn’t get drawn into the fun and fantasy of dressing a baby girl? Annie couldn’t just walk past all those precious little outfits. Even Mitzi recognized the dream that lay in that pause and she let Annie have her moment. “I know it’s silly—but I just love this little velvet party dress,” Annie said. “I’ll just pay for this one myself and put it away. Maybe someday—who knows—maybe—”