Heart of Glass (25 page)

“Mr. Levitan, give it a rest. You’re railroading my client!” Levitan gave Cammie a scathing glance. “Your client? What are you talking about? This isn’t one of your father’s shows, and you’re not some hotshot defense lawyer.” Cammie felt the bile rise in her throat. “I still represent her.” “For what, may I ask? Shoplifters’ Olympics?” “
Modeling.
I’m Champagne’s modeling agent.” “Sit down, Miss Sheppard.” “I don’t want to sit down.” Cammie was so pissed at that moment that she was ready to go to jail for Champagne if she had to.

“Miss Sheppard? Take three deep breaths. Then
sit down
.” Cammie saw Anna motion with her hand:
Sit. Don’t be stupid.

Fine. She wouldn’t be stupid. She turned around and started back to the catwalk, mostly because she was afraid of what she might say to Levitan. As she did, she saw Rittenhouse flash her a patronizing look. What a jerk. With that ridiculous overstuffed man-bag . . .

Hold on.

She stopped in her tracks and zeroed in on the man-bag. When she’d seen him with it before the show, the bag had been as thin and neat as an empty envelope. Now it was actually bulging. And no metrosexual worth his styling pomade would ever overstuff a slim leather bag unless . . . Could it possibly be . . . ?

“Mr. Levitan?” she asked sweetly.

The DA blew an exasperated breath between his lips. “
Yes?
I asked you to sit down.” “I’m going to. Right now.” Cammie returned to her place on the catwalk. Then she looked at the DA again. “Could you ask Mr. Rittenhouse to please open his bag. Please?” “Whatever for?” Levitan demanded.

Cammie fixed her eyes on the designer. She saw fear in them. “Because I think that’s where you’ll find the missing dress.” “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!” Rittten-house blustered. “I didn’t steal my own dress!” Levitan frowned. “Mr. Rittenhouse is one of our designers. I think it’s highly unlikely that—” Cammie got some help from an unexpected source. “I don’t see you making any other progress, Andrew,” Mrs. Vanderleer proclaimed. “And if Martin has nothing to hide, he has nothing to worry about.” The event organizer marched over to Rittenhouse. “Your satchel, Martin. Open it.” “Don’t humiliate me like this, please,” he begged.

“Now.” Her voice was steel.

Rittenhouse handed over the bag. Mrs. Vanderleer opened it. Inside, somewhat crumpled but still easily identified, was the missing black dress. “I can explain! I can explain!” he pleaded.

Cammie looked at him with murder in her eye.

“Explain what? You son of a bitch. You loser son of a bitch.” Levitan pointed at Rittenhouse. “You. You stay.” Then he pointed at Cammie. “You, stay too. All the rest of you?” His eyes swept over the New Visions girls. “You did a wonderful job tonight. You have a lot to be proud of. Champagne, I owe you one. Now go have fun. Mrs. Vanderleer, you should go join your own party, too. I know how to deal with scum like this guy.” Mrs. Vanderleer shook her head. “I want to hear Martin’s explanation. If he has one. And I want him to apologize to Champagne. Champagne, please stay.” Cammie watched as Anna and the New Visions girls stepped away. Now, only she and Champagne remained.

“I can explain!” Martin exclaimed, once most everyone was gone.

“You said that before,” Mrs. Vanderleer recalled. “So here’s your chance. Make it convincing.” For a moment, it seemed to Cammie like he was going to spin out some big excuse-filled yarn. Instead, the designer just seemed to crumple.

“Publicity,” he muttered, so softly that Cammie could barely hear.

“Publicity? Publicity!” Levitan thundered.

“Yeah. I thought I would get it when the dress disappeared at my workshop. When that didn’t happen, I thought if there was
another
robbery here, it’d be all over the
Times
in the morning.” Cammie seethed. What an asshole. What was he going to do, wait until they broke down the catwalk and then retrieve his gear and the dress? And still blame it on Champagne? What a lot of nerve. Champagne could have been arrested, but he obviously didn’t give a shit.

“You could have ruined one of these girls’ lives,” Cammie said through gritted teeth.

“But I wasn’t going to try to press charges!” he insisted, sputtering. “I was . . .” Cammie didn’t need to hear the rest of it. “Going to use your ‘generosity’ in not pressing charges to milk even
more
publicity out of this situation? Make yourself look like a real hero?” she finished for him.

Rittenhouse looked down, silent.

“Mr. Levitan? You could arrest this bottom feeder.” “I could.” “But I’ve got another idea,” Cammie went on. She did have another idea. An incredibly great idea, of which both her father and mother would have been proud.

She looked directly at Rittenhouse. “Tell me right now that you’ll use Champagne here as a model in all the showings that you’ll be doing over the next two years. Tell me right here, right now, in front of everyone.” “I can’t do that! She’s too short!” Rittenhouse exclaimed.

“Of course you can,” Cammie cajoled. “Because you’re also going to be featuring a new petite line called

Martinette. If you do, I’m going to recommend to the district attorney and to Champagne that we forget this sordid little incident. To Mrs. Vanderleer, too. And don’t worry, they’ll listen to me. As you’re witnessing now, I can be very persuasive.” Martin didn’t hesitate. “Done.” “I’ll hold you to it, too, Martin. Or you’ll never show clothes in this town again,” Mrs. Vanderleer told him. “Now, an apology to Champagne.” The designer apologized to Champagne. Champagne accepted the apology. Then she hugged Cammie in a way that Cammie remembered once hugging her own mother. It felt sincere. And real. It felt absolutely great.

As Mrs. Vanderleer put her arm around Champagne to lead her to the party, the district attorney asked Cammie to stick around for a minute.

“I need to thank you,” he told her.

She smiled sweetly. No need to rub it in. “Truth, justice, and the American way. Just don’t jump to conclusions again.” “This’ll help remind me not to,” Levitan admitted. “I’m just lucky you were around to figure it out. Maybe you’ve got a future in law enforcement.” Cammie guffawed. “I don’t think so. I don’t do blue uniforms. Not my color.” The DA offered her his hand. She shook it and smiled sweetly again. It never hurt to have a district attorney on your side. Never, ever.

Double Dating

C
ammie took in the reflection of her mother’s pale pink blouse and skirt in the backstage mirror before heading out to join the after party. She ran her fingers over the smooth, silky material and tried to remember. The feel of her mother’s well-manicured hands, her mom stroking her hair, reading her
Where the Wild Things Are, Winnie the Pooh, Charlotte’s Web,
until she fell asleep. The same mom who managed to hide a depression so severe that she finally couldn’t continue her way in the world.

Did anyone ever know anyone, really? Or was it that everyone had two sides, different faces seen by different people at different times?

Through the red velvet curtain, she heard the Supremes wailing, “Stop in the Name of Love,” and a DJ urging everyone to dance. She knew what was happening on the other side. People were eating. Drinking. Dancing. Flirting. Getting their tax-deductible money’s worth. Neither her father nor her self-involved step-mother had shown any interest in attending, but her friends were out there. Her new client, Champagne. And Ben.

She’d left him an oh-so-casual message, reminding him about the fashion show. Had he come for Anna, or because of the invitation she’d offered? What would Adam think when he heard that Ben was here? Or about their almost-encounter at Trieste?

Cammie knew just what she had to do.

She left the fashion show backstage area, but went in the other direction instead of joining the party, into an empty adjoining gallery that held half a dozen enormous abstract expressionist canvases by Clyfford Still. She took out her cell and pressed speed dial. He answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“I’m wearing my mother’s clothes.”

“I’ve been thinking about you. What did you say about your mother?” “Never mind. So, I haven’t heard from you in a while.” “I know. I miss you like crazy.” Adam sounded different somehow.

“That’s so sweet. Are you coming home this weekend? That was your plan, right? Before all that silly nonsense you told me, about loving the Midwest and thinking about the University of Michigan, and all that.” “I’m not sure when I’m coming home, exactly. I really still need to figure some things out.” “Maybe I can help you with that.” She shook out her Raymondized curls and moved the silver Razr closer to her lips. “It’s Wednesday night. If you’re not home by Sunday at midnight—Los Angeles time, that gives you a few extra hours—we’re over. Four days, Adam. Four days.” She waited while an elderly security guard in a gray uniform padded across the empty gallery, his footfalls echoing against the walls. All the while, Adam was silent. Then, he managed a single, strangled word.

“What?”

“Over and done and it’s been fun.”

“You can’t possibly mean that. Because I need some time to think . . . you’d
break up with me?”
Cammie shrugged, even though she knew he couldn’t see it. “I guess I needed less time to think than you did.” “That’s not love, Cam. Please. Try to look at it from my point of view. I love this place, Cammie. The way you love L.A.” She could feel herself soften, feel something turning inside her heart. No. She was as much her father as she was her mother. Yes, there was a time for kindness. But also, yes, there was a time to be an asshole.

“Adam, I am telling you this sincerely. Come back. I’m here and I miss you. I want you. But if being in Michigan is more important to you than being with me, then . . . oh well. So I hope to see you soon. I’ll be waiting for you. Don’t call me. Just make it happen. Sunday night. Midnight. ’Bye.” She snapped her phone shut before she could lose her nerve.

“I love the gown Pegasus wore.” The district attorney’s aggressively thin wife, with aggressively implanted breasts and a too-long nose, was gushing to Gisella. “Could I get your card?” Sam was happy for Gisella’s success. She seemed like a lovely woman, and there was no question about her talent quotient. But success wasn’t really what was on her radar as she stood with the Peruvian designer and Eduardo. Gisella wore a red-and-black embroidered gown of her own design, with a black off-the-shoulder sweater and long, dangling red earrings. The dress left no doubt: Gisella had the most spectacular behind in Southern California. Sam compared it to her own, in True Religion dark wash jeans and a pink Sweet Pea mesh T-shirt that crisscrossed under the bust. Gisella’s butt was by Michelangelo. Hers was by Land Rover.

Gisella had a better body. Gisella was artistically talented. Gisella spoke Eduardo’s language. Worse than that, after the DA’s wife moved off, Gisella kept finding reasons to touch Eduardo during conversation that flitted from Spanish to English and back again.

Gisella and Eduardo were
still
yammering in Spanish. Sam looked around. There was Parker, over by the bar. He motioned to her.

She excused herself. The DJ was playing the Beatles’ “Here, There and Everywhere.” She met Parker in the middle of the small, crowded parquet dance floor that had replaced the runway and gave him a warm hug.

“I owe you another one, Sam,” he murmured, and mussed her hair up in back.

She had to admit it felt great to be in his arms, knowing that he had to be the best-looking guy at the party. He wore dark black pressed trousers and a white button-down cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up—nothing special, but she felt the stares of other girls, and even of other guys. It happened no matter where Parker went.

“You owe me nothing.” She beamed at him.

“I do. For what you decided to do with those pics of me and Poppy.” “And then the gods of Hollywood intervened on my side.” “I guess they did. Your dad kicked her out, huh?” “He did. And the funny thing is, I’m glad she left the baby behind.” Parker wrinkled his forehead. “You hate that baby!” “Past tense. Hated. Not anymore. One day, Ruby Hummingbird is going to look at me as her savior. Of course, she and I are going to have to do something about that ridiculous name. What do you think of the name Summer?” “If you’re suggesting it, I like it.” Sam laughed. “Smart, Parker. Very smart.” The song ended; he thanked her again for giving a power boost to his budding career and for telling the PI to destroy the damning photographs. Then he went off to flirt with Daisy, whose eyes got huge when she saw him approach.

“Hey.” Sam felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around. The night improved drastically in that split second. It got better when Eduardo kissed her cheek. “I am going to take you back to my place and then buy you breakfast in the morning.” Sam got shivers down her spine. Then she shook her head ruefully. Her competition was zeroing in on them like some kind of perfect-butted humanoid cruise missile. “Oh Eduardo, you must come to lunch with me this week!” Sam was thrilled to feel Eduardo slip a proprietary arm around her shoulder. “My schedule is very busy this week. But if Sam and I are free, perhaps we could join you. And now . . . Sam, wasn’t there something else we were going to do tonight? The
thing
?” Sam nearly laughed aloud. Eduardo had just cracked an inside joke from one of the funniest old movies in history,
Annie Hall.

“Oh yes, the thing.” “Yes, the thing.” He winked.

“How could I have forgotten the thing?”

They said good night to a thoroughly baffled Gisella and soon were outside the museum in the cool night air, walking to the parking structure. The air smelled like orange blossoms.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Eduardo corrected.

Sam forgot about Gisella. This was what happiness was.

“You looked so hot in that bridal thingie!” Dee gushed to Anna, waving around a glassful of iced tea. “Was it fun to be up there knowing everyone wanted to ravish you?” Anna blushed the same color as the pale pink wraparound silk shirt she was wearing with her favorite faded jeans. “Gee, I didn’t exactly think of it like that. But it’s certainly good to know. Where’s Jack?” As Dee waved vaguely toward the rear of the gallery, her green Stella McCartney slip dress pulled tight against her petite, curvy body.