Sweet Muse

by Ava Cummings

  He pulls back, still holding me in his arms. “Come with me, Anna,” he says, quietly, whispering in my ear, his voice full of pure devotion. “To Cannes, to the opening of my show at film festival.” He explains that, in addition to his show, the organizers have asked him to create a twenty-foot-high sugar-cube sculpture of the festival’s Palme d’Or symbol, which will be displayed in the front of the grand entrance.

  “Sugar, just like Sweet Muse,” he says. “It’s going to be big for me. And I want to share it with you.”

  My heart leaps into my throat.

  “We leave tomorrow night.”

  We still have issues to work out, but my intuition says go for it. It’s time to jump, and if I get hurt, then at least I know I tried—with the one person I’ve known was different from the second he caught me in his arms. I don’t want to be afraid of love anymore.

  He gives me a gentle squeeze.

  “All right, let’s do this,” he says, and starts booting up the laptop. “It’s time to put an end to the lies and destruction.”

  I look into Damien’s eyes and smile as I sidle up next to him.

  “By the way, where did you get those moves? I mean, with Goodall. You were amazing. Just took him down. He didn’t have a chance.”

  “Jujitsu. I did it growing up—used to compete. It’s come in handy on several occasions.”

  “Still so much more to know about you, Damien Wolfe.”

  “I could say the same for you, Anna Starr.”

  29

  Blow the Whistle, Baby

  I grip my blue, patent leather Kate Spade bag so tightly that my hand goes white, fingertips numb. For the hundredth time, I peek at the manila folder tucked inside, cradling printed pages and audio files from Goodall’s computer. Rushing into my office building, I give the handle another squeeze as I scoot into the elevator and press 47—the floor that houses Ty Oldenhouse’s office.

  As the elevator whisks me up, my ears pop, and I clench my jaw, discreetly grinding my teeth together behind closed lips. I think back to my conversation with Damien. I’m going to be the whistle-blower. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, drawing breath into the bottom of my lungs to give me strength. This is it. This is show time.

  “Ty Oldenhouse, please,” I say to the stern-looking older woman guarding his lair. “I’d like to grab just a moment with him. It’s rather an urgent matter.”

  “And you are?” she drawls in a monotone, not bothering to look up from her computer.

  Nerves and nervous energy course through me, and I press on, undaunted. “Excuse me,” I say, clearing my throat to gather her attention. “I hate to interrupt, but there’s something going on that could put Oldenhouse’s top-selling title in jeopardy. And the clock is ticking. The next issue is closing tomorrow, and if we don’t act fast, it will be too late. So, if you would be so kind as to show me into his office, I’d be most appreciative.”

  Visibly startled, the woman makes a hushed phone call, mumbling into the receiver. A few moments later, she escorts me into a space so grand and vast, I experience a moment of vertigo, as if I were back at Von Buren’s larger-than-life apartment.

  Once inside, I’m overcome by the hushed peacefulness of the space: No sounds of the bustling city below, no frenetic newsroom, no fluorescent lights beating down from every angle. Instead, a warm glow pervades the room; dark mahogany paneling gives it a stately feel, and oversized brown leather club chairs beckon. I run my eyes over the towering floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls—staring in awe as I realize they’re filled with lovingly bound back issues of all of Oldenhouse’s magazines, telling a story of publishing so rich and powerful.

  By contrast, the lights of Times Square gleam in through the massive windows and as dusk settles, they seem to get brighter and brighter, casting a neon glow over the stately room—a combination of high- and low-brow that seems a perfect setting for the man who created Celeb magazine.

  The diminutive man in his late seventies surprises me with a sweet smile and an attentive, caring demeanor, as he comes out from behind his desk. Quickly but graciously, he says hello and offers me a drink.

  “Just water, please.” He nods. But when he pours himself a Scotch, I decide to change my order and join him. Hell, it’s been a long day.

  His eyes crinkle up at the corners as he smiles and hands me an elegantly cut crystal lowball filled with the amber liquid.

  “From the beginning,” he says, pulling up one of the club chairs next to me.

  Choking down a first swig, I take a deep breath and begin, starting with Chelsea: how she’s been bringing in impossibly good stories; how she’s had odd charges on her expense report and receipts that didn’t match up; how I’d gotten kicked off the set of Charlie Grant’s new sitcom by a publicist grumbling about our “ace reporter.”

  I explain that I’d followed Chelsea one night and had seen her meet up with the blacklisted private investigator Glenn Goodall. Once I had that, I tell him, I was sure that this was something other than Chelsea just having a good source. Meanwhile, the scoops kept coming in—the attempted suicide of Jennifer Smallston being the biggest. That was so personal, and there was not a word on the street about it.

  Oldenhouse nods with each fresh revelation, taking small sips of his Scotch with each new development, as if to dull the pain of what he’s hearing.

  I pause for a moment before continuing with what happened at Goodall’s warehouse. “I found what appeared to be a set-up for phone tapping and eavesdropping with computers, headsets, and sound translators,” I explain.

  Finally, I get to my reason for bursting into his office. I tell him how I brought in the Mandy Malone cover story, which was to be the tale of her comeback. Hollywood’s most reclusive star agreed to talk to us, to speak for the first time in years, I say to Oldenhouse, because she is a friend and patron of my boyfriend, the artist Damien Wolfe.

  If it weren’t for Damien vouching for my integrity, I continue, she never would have agreed to do the interview. And then this morning, I’d overheard Bernie and Chelsea talking in Bernie’s office about Mandy’s purported boob job and how that would now be the focus of the story instead.

  “But the whole thing is a lie created by Sandy Stein because she suspects Chelsea of snooping,” I say, fingering my glass. “She knows there’s some hacking going on, so she planted the story to catch her in the act.

  “Here’s the bottom line as I see it, Mr. Oldenhouse. If we run a Mandy Malone plastic surgery story, Celeb will go down. You’ll get sued and lose your reputation. Not only that, Sandy Stein will make sure you never get access to anyone in this town again.”

  I reach into my Kate Spade bag and pull out the file, placing it on the table between us and edging it toward him.

  He picks it up and begins to look through it, remaining impassive, not a shred of emotion passing over his face. After an eternal moment of awkward silence, during which my palms are doused in sweat and my jaw is clamped shut, he finally speaks. “I owe you one.”

  Is that what Ty Oldenhouse just said to me? Me, Anna Starr, a lowly assistant at one of the magazines in this billionaire media mogul’s empire? Moments later, a team of lawyers comes rushing in. After taking a deep breath and a large slug of his Scotch, Oldenhouse thanks me, and I’m whisked out.

  When I re-enter his waiting area, the powerful Oldenhouse HR director is waiting for me. She takes me down to her office and tells me how it will go down the next day. I am to lay low, she says, and speak to no one about this matter.

  “And there’s one more thing,” she says. “For your commitment to Oldenhouse Publishing, we’d like to offer you a promotion to senior reporter and a $50,000 increase in salary.”

  My God, the money would be amazing—finally, a real salary. I could do more than scrape by, maybe even save a little. I wouldn’t have to cobble dinners together from cocktail party hors d’oeuvres trays any longer. But as I consider the offer, I realize I can’t accept it. It feels like hush m
oney. And besides, no amount of money could make this the job for me. I’m ready to move on—to something more soul nourishing. I don’t need the New Yorker, but there’s a lot between here and there that would be just fine. And, as it turns out, I’m a pretty good investigative journalist.

  The next morning, as I dutifully sit at my desk as instructed by the HR director, my fists are balled into knots, my breath comes in short, shallow bursts, and my foot silently taps the floor. Quietly, I shove a few belongings into the workout bag I grabbed from home this morning.

  Bernie’s in her office with the door closed. It’s oddly silent in the newsroom, considering we’re closing an issue today. The HR director had said that as soon as my files checked out, the plastic-surgery story would be killed. I see people scrambling to find new photos and figure my original piece is going to run.

  Just as I start to wonder how much Bernie really knows and how tied up she might have gotten in Chelsea’s scheme, I hear what sounds like voices booming into walkie-talkies and the jangling of metal.

  Two uniformed officers enter the newsroom, along with a few men in plainclothes. Everyone turns to stare at them. People start to chatter quietly. The group of officers splits into two, with one faction heading straight to Chelsea’s office. She’s on the phone, and one of the uniformed officers takes the receiver out of her hand, hangs it up, and begins to handcuff her. The plainclothesmen confiscate her computer and the file folders in her office. The second group walks straight past me into Bernie’s office. They stand in front of her desk, questioning her. The staff is agog, congregating in small groups, trying to figure out what’s going on, while I keep my head down.

  A few minutes later, the police escort Bernie out of her office. No yelling, no screaming, no eye rolls. She seems oddly compliant, almost resigned.

  I grab the bag holding the meager contents of my desk—several freebie lipsticks, advance book manuscripts, a pair of running shoes—sling it over my shoulder, and calmly walk out of the office for the last time.

  30

  Click

  Damien and I pull up to the Majestic Barrière hotel on the Boulevard de la Croisette, a beautiful white Art Deco behemoth gated with royal palms and boasting a large, circular driveway that bustles with staff servicing guests’ every need. Le Majestic, as Damien has explained, is the top hotel for film stars attending the Cannes Film Festival. It faces the Côte d’Azur and the Palais des Festivals—where the festival takes place—on the Croisette. In short, we are at the center of the action.

  We roll up in our chauffeur-driven Mercedes, which I thought was posh until I saw the collection of expensive cars in front of the hotel, all parked within inches of each other. I spot a Lamborghini, a Ferrari or two, Porsches, Bentleys, and even a few (yes, more than a couple) Rolls-Royces.

  As we enter the lobby, I’m overcome by its sheer grandness. The ceiling must be one hundred feet high, and the flower arrangement at the center of the expansive marble floor is the size of a small garden. Stunning jewels sparkle on the necks and hands and wrists of the beautiful women who prance about in elegant designer dresses and sky-high Manolos. With my Stuart Weitzman rope platforms, Aunt Sylvie hand-me-down Louis Vuitton tote, and white linen Prada-knockoff sundress purchased on the street in SoHo, I feel just barely confident enough to fit in.

  “Unbelievable.”

  It’s all I can manage to say, as Damien takes my arm and escorts me through the lobby. A few steps later, he abruptly stops in front of two ornate couches, where a group of guys clad in polo shirts and Ray-Ban sunglasses sips cocktails, speaking what sounds like Arabic. Damien grabs me, dips me to one side as if we’re Fred and Ginger, and plants a romantic-movie-style kiss on my lips. My insides light up. “I’m so happy you’re here, Anna,” he says, setting me back on two feet. “I wouldn’t want to do this without you.”

  I feel completely at ease. I’m more sure of myself and my decisions than ever before. I don’t know if that’s the result of being with Damien or an indication of how he’s changed me. Perhaps it’s the comfort of knowing that he is there for me, of knowing that I have someone I can trust and who has my back, someone who believes in me and sees what I can be. He didn’t just save me from Goodall. He saved me from being my own worst enemy—from my own self-imposed limitations, from keeping myself in a safe little box that likely would have landed me back at the farm in Clark.

  After we check in, an attendant steps out from behind the desk to escort us up to our room.

  “You have a very nice suite, Monsieur Wolfe. We hope you will find it very satisfactory.”

  “C’est bon,” says Damien. “Merci.”

  He speaks French with an almost perfect accent.

  “Your room is accessed through these private elevators,” the attendant says.

  He walks us out of the lobby, past Fouquet’s restaurant—“An outpost of the famous Paris eatery,” Damien notes—and down the hall to a pair of elevators tucked into a private corner of the hotel.

  Our suite is more apartment than hotel room—fitted with two bathrooms, a walk-in closet, a spacious living room with seating for at least ten, an oversized balcony, and a special room where my hair stylist and makeup artist would get me ready for my red-carpet events, if I were a celebrity, that is.

  “Monsieur Wolfe, we want to make sure you are comfortable during your stay. On behalf of Le Majestic, we have provided a light meal, a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and some gifts as tokens of our appreciation for being able to host you on your stay,” says the attendant. He indicates the living room area, where there are several beautiful trays of fresh fruit, bread, tapenades, cheeses, and chocolates.

  “Merci. Merci beaucoup,” Damien says.

  “De rien,” the man responds. “Maintenant, is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Just that in-room massage I had ordered for Anna before I left,” says Damien. “It’s been a long flight, and we have an event tonight.”

  A small gasp escapes as my eyebrows rise to the sky and my eyes pop wide as saucers.

  Damien turns to me, curling his lips up at the sides into a devilishly sweet smile. “It’s been a crazy few days, and I figured you could use it.”

  “I’ve never had anything like that before,” I say, “You’re spoiling me…”

  The attendant says to Damien, “Of course, Monsieur. We will send him right up.”

  “Merci.”

  “Au revoir.”

  Once we’re alone, Damien pops open the champagne and hands me a delicate flute filled with golden bubbly. We move out onto the balcony, which overlooks all of Cannes: the hotel pool, the Boulevard de la Croisette, the Côte d’Azur and the Palais des Festivals. The beauty—of not just the place but the moment—feels surreal. I take a deep breath, knowing that’s what my mom would counsel, and try to ground myself. But before I can get back down to earth, Damien strides up next to me, wraps his arm around my waist, and raises his glass in a toast.

  “To you, Anna, for being the bravest woman I know. I’m so proud of you for how you handled everything with Chelsea. How you followed your instincts. And how you made the right choices, even though it was the more difficult route. You could’ve ignored the whole mess and walked away at any point, and no one would’ve blamed you. But you didn’t. And that’s what makes you who you are.”

  I blush and look down. I’m still not used to getting compliments, and I’m not good at receiving them.

  “I’m trying to take in what you said and just accept it. It’s hard…but thank you, thank you so much for saying that. It means a lot—no, it means the world to me.”

  We clink our glasses, and as I take a sip, I take in the view.

  “My God, Damien—is that it?” I say, pointing toward the Palais. “Is that your sculpture? It looks unbelievable!”

  “I was wondering how long it would take for you to notice,” he says, laughing.

  The phone rings inside, and Damien jumps up.

  While he’s gone, I sit on
the balcony and take it all in—Cannes, the film festival, this amazing suite, my amazing man. And the fact that in the past twenty-four hours, I’ve escaped from a Jersey warehouse, turned down a huge salary increase, and quit my job at one of the world’s top magazines. I feel better than I ever have, though, even if I don’t know what’s in store for me.

  Damien slides open the door and comes back onto the balcony.

  “I’m not going anywhere without you again,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Especially to one of my openings.”

  I take another sip of the perfectly tart bubbly and look at him like he’s crazy.

  Damien grabs my hand in his.

  “You, Miss Anna Starr, are my good luck charm, and I’m not going anywhere without you ever again.”

  “Yeah, right. Good luck. You’re funny. Just because I almost ruined your career and nearly cost you your biggest collector…”

  “No, Anna, I’m serious. You are my good luck charm. That was my dealer on the phone. My show has sold already—every last piece—and it hasn’t even opened yet.”

  “Oh my God, Damien!”

  “The collectors are swarming. This is big, Anna. Really big. The museums are buying my pieces now.”

  “It’s official. You are a superstar, Damien Wolfe.” I jump into his lap and give him the biggest hug, and we fall into each other.

  “Not yet,” he says, pulling away. “You have your massage, and I have to meet my dealer in the bar to go over a few things. I’ll meet you back here in the room after your treatment.”

  He places me back in my chair and slowly leans toward me, until our faces are inches apart. He’s giving me that look again, all intensity and fire, like he’s seeing the real me, the deepest, more unguarded me. As he pauses for what feels like forever, I’m jarred but flying high, riding the flow of emotions this gorgeous man elicits in me. I feel more alive than ever. Finally, he plants a firm, languorous kiss on my lips. I start to breathe heavily, and just then, the doorbell rings.