by Kylie Logan
But then, the best of all possible worlds had lost a little of its luster the moment I stepped through the door and found the Button Box getting burglarized.
“The cops want me to inventory everything so I can tell them what’s missing,” I explained, my voice a little breathy because I was zooming into the back room with handful after handful of buttons, dropping them (carefully, of course) on the table in there, then coming back into the shop for more. This, obviously, should have been Brina’s second clue that it was time to move away from the doorway and get to work. I gave her a look that conveyed exactly that, picked up more buttons, and pointed out, “I can’t tell the police what was taken until I figure out exactly what’s left.”
She thought this over for a minute before her cheeks went pale beneath their coating of purplish blusher. “You mean we’re going to have to go through all the buttons?” she squeaked. “Again?”
I would have sympathized
1. if I saw the prospect of spending long hours with my collection as anything less than a blessing
and
2. if I had the time.
Instead, I kept scooping and piling. “Think of this as a chance to do a little continuing education,” I told Brina, resisting the urge to add enough sarcasm to make it clear that in Brina’s case, any education would be a real plus. “You’ll have another opportunity to go through the buttons so you can learn how to classify and store them correctly.”
“Yeah.” She slipped her oversize hobo bag off her shoulder and plopped it on the floor. “That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”
Maybe it was the shock of my early-morning encounter. Or the fault of the adrenaline still pouring through my body like vodka and Red Bull at a sorority party. Rather than comment on the way she rolled her eyes, I gave Brina a smile and assured her with words that would have certainly brightened my day back when I was her age. “You’ll get to learn more about buttons.”
Her eyes scrunched and her nose wrinkled; she thought this over and sniffed. No easy thing considering there was a silver stud sticking out of the left side of her nose.
“No way there can be that much to know about buttons,” she said, as sure of herself as only a twenty-year-old can be. “They’re just buttons, and I’ve worked here two whole weeks, so I gotta already know everything there is to know about buttons. Shit, Josie, it’s just like my grandma said when she told me about this job and made me apply for it. It’s not like you know anything about real life; buttons are the only thing you ever talk about!”
This time, Brina’s cheeks didn’t just get pale; they turned a sickly green. Who would have guessed the kid actually had a conscience? “Sorry,” she squeaked. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“And I’m not offended, so don’t worry about it.” It was a lie. I was the tiniest bit miffed; I just didn’t have the luxury of wallowing in my miffedness. “We’ve got to get moving, Brina. There’s a lot to clean up. And it’s nearly ten o’clock.”
“Oh my gosh!” Brina took a look at the clock on the wall, and her eyes lit like bottle rockets. “She’s going to be here soon!”
I didn’t need the reminder, but that didn’t stop a splurt of excitement from jumping around my insides. I doubled my pace, and finally, Brina joined in. Within fifteen minutes, things looked better. Not perfect. Just better. Another fifteen minutes and I would have been happy. Another thirty and I would have been thrilled. A couple days, a case of Pledge to remove the black dust left behind by the cops and their fingerprinting powder, a couple bottles of Windex to polish things up, and the luxury of having everything finally back in order . . . it wasn’t until then that I would be a happy camper.
“What about these . . .” I had just come out of the back room, and I found Brina standing at the table near the front door where I kept a basket of tasteful business cards, a bowl filled with those red-and-white striped mints, and a book for guests to sign. She looked even more confused than usual. “These . . .” She pointed. “These thingies.”
“Those thingies are buttonhooks,” I told her at the same time I thanked whatever lucky stars shone on antique button dealers. I’d just gotten the hooks in from a collector in St. Louis, and they were old, lovely, and valuable. I was grateful they’d gone unnoticed—and untouched—in the burglary. There were three hooks. The longest featured a silver handle modeled into a gorgeous swan’s head with garnet eyes. The other two were less spectacular and less pricey, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t be able to find buyers for them. One was made of mahogany, and the other was tortoiseshell with a gold-inlay monogram. “They were used back in Victorian times,” I told Brina. “That’s when there were lots of buttons on clothing and gloves and shoes. Buttonhooks made it easier and faster to do up all those buttons.”
Eventually, the buttonhooks, too, would need to be cataloged and put away. For now, the little table between the door and front display window was as good a place as any for them. I nudged them so they were straight and equally spaced and stooped to retrieve the couple dozen buttons that had rolled under the table.
“No way we’re going to be ready on time,” I groaned, and as if I needed the reminder, the phone on my desk rang. I was all set to haul myself to my feet and answer it when Brina charged past me. “I’m your assistant, remember. It’s my job to answer the phone.” And she did, with a cheery, “This is the Button Box. Brina, Ms. Giancola’s assistant, speaking.”
Big points for Brina. She sounded efficient and professional.
For exactly the space of three heartbeats.
Then her jaw dropped and her voice went breathy when she squeaked, “Hugh Weaver? The Hugh Weaver? The Hollywood producer who made For Whom the Trolls Troll? I just saw the movie last week! Again. I mean, like, I saw it again. I’ve seen it at least a dozen times. Maybe more. And, of course, I wear a costume like everybody else who goes to see it. I always go as Princess Paula and—what’s that? Oh. OK.” Her face as red as the stripe of hair above her right ear, she waved me over, handed me the phone, and said in a stage whisper, “It’s Hugh Weaver! Oh my God! I saw him on Entertainment Tonight last week! I can’t believe you actually know him, just like you said you did. When you said you did, I thought—”
I am self-aware enough to be certain I was better off not knowing exactly what Brina thought of me. Before she could elucidate, I took the phone. “Hey, Hugh.” I tried not to sound too anxious even though I was juggling a handful of buttons—and I knew what he was calling about. “What’s up?”
“The sun, the moon, and the stars! Like the ones in your eyes!” Hugh hadn’t changed from the fast-talking guy who sat next to me in every college theater class I’d ever taken. “Kate’s on her way,” he said, cutting to the chase.
I handed the buttons to Brina and with a shooing sort of wave, instructed her to pick up the pace and whatever other buttons she could find.
“We’ve finished shooting for the morning, and she’s not in any of the scenes we’re working on this afternoon. She just got in the limo. You ready for her, Josie?”
Yes, of course I could have told him about the burglary and admitted that this was a very bad time. Sure, I could have begged him to use his influence to get the appointment rescheduled. But I wasn’t willing to take the chance.
Not when the client who was headed in to see me was going to solidify my reputation as the country’s premier dealer in antique buttons.
Maybe I had learned something from Kaz, after all. I mean something more than just how I was never, ever again going to trust a single word that came out of a man’s mouth. I assured Hugh that all was well, lying like the pro Kaz was at the same time I fished the bits and pieces of a crushed glass calico button out from a tiny crack between two of the oak floorboards.
“You’re not going to let me down about this, are you, baby girl?”
I hated when Hugh called me that. “Hey, I did the costumes for Trolls, didn’t I? And you’ve come to me how many times since then for buttons for
the costumes in your other movies?” I asked him all this on my way over to the garbage can to get rid of the calico. On the way back, I reminded him, “And Kate Franciscus . . . Thanks to your recommendation, she’s already ordered buttons from me, too. Buttons to match those outlandish stainless-steel stilettoes of hers. And buttons to replace the ones that were missing on that vintage fur coat she found in Budapest and couldn’t live without. Even buttons that matched the exact color and markings on her dog. Come on, Hugh, you think I can’t handle this?”
On the other end of the phone, Hugh grunted. “Don’t get me wrong, honey. I know you’re reliable. Always have been, always will be. Good ol’ Josie Giancola, reliable, dependable, predictable.”
He made me sound like a cocker spaniel. I might have been offended if I didn’t realize the three trays of buttons I’d laid out over the weekend to show Kate first were upended on my desk. I flipped the trays over and hurried to retrieve each glorious antique button I’d chosen to show her just as Hugh was saying, “You’ve always dealt with Kate’s assistant, never with la grande dame herself. You don’t know what you’re getting into. Kate Franciscus in person is nothing like Kate Franciscus in the movies.”
I was pretty sure I realized that, and pretty sure Hugh should have realized I realized it. Before I could point it out, he went right on. “Margot will have the ’66 Dom with her in an ice bucket, and believe me, Kate is going to want a glass of that champagne the moment she steps into your store. Margot has the crystal flute, too, so don’t worry about that. Or the raspberries. Hell, I hope Margot remembered the raspberries! I don’t suppose you could just run out and—”
“No.” I couldn’t be any clearer, so I didn’t even try. “We’ll get by,” I assured Hugh.
“God, I hope so.” I imagined him with his hands folded in supplication and discarded the thought as soon as it formed. Hugh is not the praying type. “It’s hot out today. You’ve got air-conditioning, right? You said your shop was new, and—”
“Earth to Hugh!” I used the old catchphrase I’d had to pull out so many times in college when Hugh the artiste got carried away by whatever new ideas filled his head. “This is Josie you’re dealing with. And Josie is—”
“Reliable, dependable, predictable.”
I resisted the urge to bark. As for being predictable . . .
I was grateful he couldn’t see the chaos that was my workspace. “She’s coming to buy buttons from me, Hugh. Buttons, I can handle.”
“I know you can,” he said, but at this point, I was barely paying attention. A few of the buttons I’d selected for Kate had rolled under the glass display case behind my desk, and I bent to pluck them to safety.
“These aren’t just regular buttons, remember,” Hugh said, ignoring the grunt I made when I braced a hand against the display case and pulled myself to my feet again. “They’re buttons for Kate’s—”
“Wedding gown. Yes, I know. Everyone knows. Every time I turn on the TV or open a newspaper, I see stories about her and that king she’s marrying.”
“He’s a prince.” Hugh wasn’t impressed. “Prince Roland of Ruritania. Blowhard billionaire playboy. Kate is absolutely going bonkers planning this wedding. Why do you think she insists on choosing her own buttons? She doesn’t trust her designers to do it. Or her assistants. Or anybody else. There hasn’t been this much hype about a Hollywood wedding since Princess Grace sailed off to Monaco.”
“And had Princess Grace wanted antique buttons for her wedding gown and had I been around back in the fifties, I could have handled that, too.” I caught sight of more buttons under my desk, and there was no way I was going to let them stay there. “Relax, Hugh,” I told him by way of saying I had to go. “I’ve got everything under control.”
I actually might have believed the fib myself if at that moment I didn’t see a shadow outside the front window. Long, dark, sleek. Either Shamu had decided to make an appearance on the streets of Chicago or a limo had just pulled to a stop in front of the shop.
The blood drained out of my face. A rumba rhythm started up inside my ribs.
Kate Franciscus was here.
Sure, my day had started out as bad as any day can. But things were about to change. Thanks to a Hollywood starlet with a load of glamour, a bigger-than-life personality, and the chops to have the paparazzi following at her heels, my reputation as one of the country’s leading purveyors of antique buttons was about to morph into the stuff of legends.
Chapter Two
BUTTONS STILL LITTERED THE PLACE LIKE SNOWFLAKES.
The gorgeous antiques I’d selected to show Kate Franciscus were still in a jumble on my desk.
My chesnut brown curls were hanging in my eyes; my twinset was up around my hips.
And now, it was too late!
Gulping down a breath to calm myself, I brushed my hair and tugged my twinset. Tugged my hair and brushed my twinset.
In honor of the occasion, I’d worn Grandma Roba’s pearls, and what with all the lifting, bending, and retrieving I’d been up to—not to mention the escaping from bad guys—they were twisted as tight around my neck as Giant #2’s iron grip had been.
Rather than chance thinking about the burglary and risking a full-fledged case of the screaming meemies, I reminded myself that it was time to start acting like the totally together businesswoman I am.
Tell that to the cha-cha-cha going on inside my chest.
I held my breath, the better to quiet the crazy rhythm. While I was at it, I pulled back my shoulders and waited for the biggest star in Hollywood to walk into the Button Box.
But instead of Kate Franciscus, a young woman stuck her head into the shop.
“Are you Josie?” She looked at Brina when she said this, and I was pretty sure if Brina had said yes, the girl would have run screeching down the sidewalk, so I took pity on her and stepped forward. When I stomped on a button, I acted like it was no big deal, bent to pick it up, and said, “I’m Josie.”
“I’m Wynona. Wynona Redfern.” The girl took a tentative step inside, and if she noticed the chaos, she didn’t let on. But then, she was too busy looking terrified. She was about Brina’s age, a short, rectangular kid with strawberry-blonde hair, a square jaw, and a flat chest. Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. “I’m Blake’s assistant.”
Button in hand, I gave her a probing look. “And Blake is . . .”
Wynona’s face flushed with color. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” She clutched her hands together at the waist of a suit coat that didn’t quite match her black skirt. “It’s my first week on the job, and I’m trying so hard to keep everything straight, but there’s so much to remember, and Miss Franciscus, she isn’t all that easy to deal with like what I thought she’d be and . . .” Wynona gulped. So not a pretty sound, but then, Wynona wasn’t a pretty girl. “Blake is Sloan’s assistant,” she said. “And Sloan is Margot’s assistant.”
“And Margot is Kate Franciscus’s assistant.” Suddenly, it all made sense. In a weird, Hollywood sort of way.
Wynona was grateful I’d caught on so quickly. Her expression cleared, and her grin revealed teeth that didn’t fit her mouth. They were toppled against each other like tombstones in an abandoned graveyard. “I’m supposed to make sure that everything’s ready.” Most of Wynona’s pink lipstick had already been chewed off. She gnawed at the rest of it. “I’m new and all, but I already know, Miss Franciscus . . . She likes everything to be ready.”
“Oh, we’re ready, all right!” Brina scooted up from behind me, as hopped up as a Mexican jumping bean on a hot sidewalk. “You can tell Miss Franciscus that everything here at the Button Box is shipshape. A-one. Top-notch. Ready as ready can be!” Brina swept out an arm to demonstrate.
Too bad she didn’t look where she was waving. At the same time Wynona stuck her head outside to tell Blake (or was it Sloan?) that it was OK for Miss Franciscus to get out of the limo, Brina knocked against the buttons—those glorious, antique, expensive buttons—that I’d ju
st picked up off the floor.
They went flying.
So did I.
Eager to make a good first impression, I got right to work gathering up those beautiful buttons, and to give her her due, Brina was right there with me, though what with all the muttering and apologizing, she was more of a hindrance than a help. No matter. I was on a mission, and so intent, I hardly even noticed the commotion when it started up outside on the sidewalk.
That is, until my robin’s-egg-blue shop door popped open and Kate Franciscus arrived with a flourish and in a cloud of expensive perfume.
She found me on my hands and knees, searching for the buttons with my butt sticking out from under my desk.
Embarrassing?
It might have been.
If anyone was paying the least bit of attention to me.
The way it was, the world stopped spinning and time stood still. Kate Franciscus, even more gorgeous in person than she was on the silver screen, was suddenly the bright sun in a universe that included nothing more significant than the rest of us—dull, colorless planets whose very existence had no point except to orbit around her.
Yes, she was that impressive. And I was that obligated to stop acting less like a starstruck groupie and more like the recognized button expert I am. In fact, I’m pretty convinced I would have recovered sooner and gotten everything under control if I could see straight. The way it was, in the second between when the shop door opened and Kate swept in, a couple dozen camera flashes exploded from the phalanx of paparazzi out on the sidewalk, and I was blinded. I blinked against the fireworks that popped behind my eyes and, disoriented, sat up and banged my head into my desk.
Heedless of the sound of skull hitting wood, Kate kept smiling and waving to the photographers, who kept snapping picture after picture.
Kate’s assistants kept scurrying. Between shots, Margot set a silver ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it on my desk. Sloan adjusted the azure and amber silk scarf around Kate’s neck, which looked spectacular with her Tabasco-colored silk shantung suit. Blake plastered herself against the library card files to keep out of the pictures, and little Wynona wrung her hands and looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Brina, it should be noted, had been struck dumb (it wasn’t much of a stretch) the moment our guest of honor arrived. She pulled herself to her feet and stood there wide-eyed, openmouthed, and completely in awe at being in the presence of the woman the media didn’t need a surname to talk about. They simply called her Kate the Great.