A Taste of Fame (18 page)
On the Saturday before our departure to New York she once again called me Karen.
“Mom, I’m Lizzie,” I said to her. She was sitting in the sunroom down the hall from her tiny room, where a bed, dresser, reclining chair, and television set made up her “home.” In the sunroom on that bright July afternoon, she watched television with some of the other residents, though her eyes remained blank and unregistering. Nothing was getting through to her brain at all, it seemed.
I sat down next to her and took her hand in mine. “Hey, Mom.” I forced myself to sound cheery and optimistic.
She looked at me then back to the television. “Hello, Karen.”
“Lizzie, Mom. I’m Lizzie.” I don’t know why I bothered, really.
She looked back at me, blinked several times, then again turned her eyes to the television.
“Are you enjoying the show?” I asked her.
She remained mute.
I took a deep breath. “Speaking of television, did you know I’m going to be on television? I am. It’s a show called
The Great Party Showdown
and I’ll be … well … catering. Cooking, if you can imagine. On national TV. International, actually. I guess.” I took another deep breath and exhaled, then turned my attention to the television and, holding my mother’s frail and wrinkled hand, watched a half hour of a movie I could barely see through my veil of tears.
My daughter Michelle and her husband Adam hosted a family cookout on Saturday evening. Sunday was, of course, church, and though I could have easily talked myself out of going (I still had not packed nor had I really bought anything to wear), I went. Our pastor, Kevin Moore, called the club up to the altar—sans Evangeline and Lisa Leann—as well as Wade and David. He prayed for us, for our families back home, and that we would be a witness for Jesus while cooking our way into the hearts of America.
On the way home I said to Samuel, “Now I’m so glad I went.”
“You still have to pack,” he reminded me.
“I will,” I said. “Later.”
Monday morning I went to the Outlets at Silverthorne, where I purchased several pantsuits and two dresses, one that was glittery on the outside and soft on the inside. I bought some sleepwear and lingerie and travel-size toiletries. As a last-minute decision I stopped at A Cut Above Beauty Salon and Day Spa, where I was treated to a trim, a brow waxing, a facial, manicure, pedicure, and a natural beauty makeover.
By the time I got home Monday evening, I was nearly too tired to finish packing, but I had little choice. I was leaving too early the next morning to put the final touches off another minute.
We met at the Frontier ticket counter, some of us more exuberant than others. All the local television stations had camera crews and reporters ready to film. We were asked for statements and, of course, we gave them.
“Where is Lisa Leann Lambert?” a news reporter from
Denver News 4
asked, stretching her neck to look among the faces of the catering club and our family members.
“She and my wife, Evangeline Vesey, have already left for the city,” Vernon answered. Vernon had insisted upon accompanying his daughter to the airport, and I was glad he had. His years handling various newsworthy stories from Summit View on television had made him comfortable with both camera and microphone.
“Sheriff Vesey,” the reporter continued, “what do you think your wife and daughter and the rest of the club’s chances are for winning the big prize?”
Vernon blushed appropriately. “Well, we’re hoping for the best, but more than that, we’re trusting God to allow only what he wills.”
Score one for Vernon
, I thought, beaming.
“Will you be joining Mrs. Vesey soon?” she asked.
“Yes, I hope to.”
“And what about Mr. Lambert?” another reporter asked. I turned to see a man holding a microphone with KDVR in bold red letters around it. He was tall and powerfully built, his dark skin a comfortable contrast to the red baseball KDVR-31 cap he wore low over his head.
“No,” Vernon said with a wink, “I don’t expect he’ll be joining my wife.”
Everyone laughed, and then Vernon added, “But I suppose you are asking if he’ll be joining his wife. Ah—Mr. Lambert had some pressing business this morning or I’m sure he would be here now.” He smiled. “Their son, however, will be meeting the rest of the gang in New York later this afternoon.”
Another two points for Vernon.
Another female reporter, this one from KUSA-9 News, turned her attentions to David, who stood as close to one side of Donna as Wade was on the other. “Mr. Harris, do you feel as though you are about to get on the bicycle you fell off? ”
David’s eyes darkened. “Excuse me?”
The reporter flashed a smile and batted her long, feathery lashes. “What I mean to say is, the cameras, the lights, the action. This should feel like second nature to you.”
David nodded politely. “I see what you mean. Ah … no. It was my mother”—David shot a quick glance over to Vonnie, his birth mother—“Harmony Harris, who was most comfortable on the
seat
of that bicycle. I always just went along for the ride.”
Wade shifted. “Well, if we’re going to make our plane …”
We all turned then, saying our good-byes to the cameras and reporters with their fat microphones—not to mention the small gathered crowd—and shuffled toward the concourse, where a tubelike carriage for our adventure would soon whisk us through the friendly skies and toward the Big Apple.
As soon as our plane touched down at Newark’s airport I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed Samuel’s cell number. He answered on the first ring.
“The eagle has landed,” I said with a tease.
“How was your flight?”
“Uneventful from where I’m sitting. Of course, what do I know? I slept with my head wedged between the seat and the window most of the way.”
“Sounds comfy.”
“Ha.”
“Call me when you get to the hotel.”
“I will. I love you,” I reminded him.
“I love you.”
Vonnie’s luggage was the last to come out onto the conveyor in baggage claim, so while she waited in a panic, the rest of us took nearby seats and tried not to look too anxious. David called the show’s producer—take-charge kind of guy that he is—and asked about the limousine that was scheduled to pick us up. “Oh, I see …” I heard him say. “That’s right … I see … yes, if you will, please let him know we’ll be another few minutes. One of the club members has not gotten her luggage as of yet … yes … yes … thank you.”
He flipped his phone shut with a flourish and then stepped over to Vonnie and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.
Mother and son
, I thought. What a blessing Vonnie had him here with her today.
A half hour later we were all piled in the back of a stretch limo and sipping on colas. Our driver, a middle-aged man of Middle Eastern heritage, drove the car easily into the Lincoln Tunnel and then out to the other side. Manhattan, in all its glory, spanned the horizon as far as we could see. Not a one of us held back. We oooh’d and ahh’d and asked, “What’s that?” in rapid succession. Our driver kept the dividing window down and happily answered all our questions as he drove down streets and up streets, finally gliding to a stop in front of the New York Hilton on the Avenue of the Americas.
With the exception of David, we all did a poor job of hiding our amazement at the beauty and wonder of this hotel. The lobby was opulent and bright, perfectly decorated with seasonal flowers and brightly lit fichus trees set high in planters dripping with ivy.
We were escorted to the registration desk, where we were told that Evie and Lisa Leann had already checked in for the day and that we would be picked up by limousine at 6:00 and taken to the studio. We were then divided into groups: David and Wade would share a suite with Nelson, who had yet to arrive; Vonnie and Donna were set to room together, leaving Goldie and me to room together. Goldie and I exchanged grins like schoolgirls on an overnight field trip.
“Well, hello, roomie,” she said as she stepped over to where I was standing.
Minutes later we were given our keys and then escorted to our rooms.
I nearly inhaled my tongue when the bellhop swung our door open wide and allowed us entry.
“Would you look at this?” Goldie said.
As the bellhop heaved our luggage off the rack and into the closet of the room he said, “First time to New York?”
“For me, yes,” Goldie admitted.
“I came here years ago,” I said. I then looked at Goldie. “But I can tell you we didn’t stay in a place as nice as this.”
The afternoon sun spilled through a wide window sheathed in white drapery sheers, bringing light to a room accented in bold gold, maroon, green, and white. The two beds were decked with thick mattresses, and I imagined myself leaping to get into bed at night. There were six pillows resting against the cherry headboard of both beds and a neck roll pillow that matched the thick comforter.
Next to the window, swathed in accent drapes, was a comfy chair and next to it a round table topped with a basket filled with fruit, chocolates, nuts, and bottles of water.
“Look at this,” I said to Goldie, pointing, then turned to find her peering into the bathroom.
“Crabtree and Evelyn bath products, Liz! I love that stuff.”
The bellhop gave his speech about the bed and bath collection being of the exclusive Hilton Serenity Collection, that he hoped we enjoyed our stay, and—
wink-wink
—he hoped we won the grand prize on
The Great Party Showdown
. I felt myself blush, said, “Thank you,” then slipped a tip into his gloved hand.
When the door closed behind him, I turned to Goldie and she to me. Then we smiled. Then we grinned. Then we grabbed hands and jumped up and down, whooping and hollering.
Giggling, we fell onto one of the beds then sobered. I stole a quick glance at my watch. “How much time do we have before they pick us up?” Then, answering my own question, said, “Two hours.”
“I get the bathroom first,” Goldie said, springing from the bed and bounding over to where her luggage was standing near the wall.
I propped myself up on my elbows. “Just think, Goldie. In two or so hours, we’ll be sitting near the first row in
The Great Party Showdown
audience.”
Goldie pressed her hand against her stomach. “Woo! Butterflies.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,” she said, then repeated it as she stepped into the bathroom.
I looked after her and said, “Amen.”
What had I been thinking when I’d agreed to work till two a.m.?
By the time I got home and finished packing everything I thought I’d need into a giant duffel bag, it was time to squeeze into Vonnie’s Taurus and speed down I-70 toward DIA.
You’d think my companions, Vonnie, Fred, and David, would have had enough compassion to let me grab a couple of winks, but between their excited chatter, all I could do was dream of a nap on the plane. But fat chance for that, since my seat assignment was smack between David and Wade.
Nice going, Lisa Leann. I owe you one
, I thought, knowing she’d helped Kat with the seat assignments.
With these two lovesick guys patting my arms and exclaiming, “Oh Donna, this” and “Hey Donna, that,” I finally snapped. “Guys, we’ve got at least a whole week to visit, can’t you just let me catch up on my beauty sleep for an hour or two?”
“Sorry, Donna,” Wade said.
David countered, “She asked us to be quiet.”
I responded by squeezing my eyes shut and counting to ten as their bickering continued.
Finally, I traded seats with Vonnie. “Sorry, guys, it’s been fun, but I’m going to have to take a break,” I said as I crossed the aisle. But to my chagrin, I discovered Vonnie had been busy blabbing our business to her seatmate, a gentleman in his seventies. This kind-looking chap was just too curious to leave me alone.
“So, you’re that deputy on
The Great Party Showdown
, I hear.”
“Mmmhmm,” I said, shutting my eyes, unhappy to discover that my blatant attempts to lose consciousness did nothing to dissuade this man from conversation. He continued to pepper me with questions about the reality program and my personal life until we finally parted at baggage claim in the JFK airport. “Good luck,” he called as he picked up his brown, battered suitcase and headed out the door to the stand of taxis.
I waved back, still feeling as grumpy as ever, though I managed to behave.
But now, even after a power nap at the hotel, I was still in a state of grump. And how could I not be, with Vonnie humming “Jesus Loves Me” the entire time she settled into our room, opening and closing suitcases, drawers, and the closet, and even steam ironing her clothes? When I yanked off the covers, she asked, “Was I disturbing you, dear?”
I tried to lie, but my voice showed my stress. “Of course not.”
“Sorry, dear,” she said as she patted my shoulder.
Moments later, I ducked into the elegant bathroom to grab a quick shower before I stepped into a pair of black slacks topped by an oversize tee that Lisa Leann had designed and ordered through an Internet site. The words “Go Team Potluck” blared in large, hot pink letters across my chest.
Wade, of course, had balked about wearing anything with a hint of pink, but Lisa Leann had been firm. “It shows everyone you’re on our side,” she said. “You are, are you not?”
A few minutes after I dressed and towel-dried my hair, a stretch limo whisked me and the entire team through the streets bordered with storefronts and sidewalks teeming with people, to the GE building at Rockefeller Center.
“How was your flight?” Lizzie asked Nelson, who was dressed in our team shirt and sitting next to his proud mom.
“Delayed,” he said as we sped through Manhattan. “I only just made it to the hotel a few minutes ago.”
Lisa Leann beamed. “Just in time for this next phase of our adventure. You ready?”
Nelson nodded, his green eyes flashing. “You better believe it.”
I only wished I could share his enthusiasm, but the truth was I hated being on TV just as much as I hated missing so much work. I had bills to pay, and rent. If I missed just one payment, that would be enough for old man Burnett to force me out of my mountain bungalow. He’d been itching to do that anyway, knowing he could get a lot more rent out of a new tenant.
