She's All That (36 page)

“Are you ready for this?” I ask her, knowing that both our futures are on the line here.

“I am. Anxious, actually. Are you ready?” she asks, and I nod. “This is what I want you to say.” Morgan hands me a sheet of paper. “My father's in the back against the wall, and he's brought quite a few of his security guards for the diamonds.”

“I know. They frisked everyone entering tonight. The press will certainly know the jewels are real.”

“My father will be sure and let them know exactly where they came from, trust me on that.”

“Sara!” I say, seeing my former boss walking in a daze. “Did you need something?”

“Your agent is amazing, Miss Malliard,” Sara says to Morgan. “She brought her chiropractor table, and just put my spine in such peace. I have never felt so calm before a show. Can't you just feel the
energy
out there in the audience? Wait until they see you, Miss Malliard.” Then Sara looks at me and slips her glasses off. “Lilly, don't you have something to do? We're about to start.”

The televisions are on backstage in case we get any pre-show press, and I look at one of the monitors, and see Max Schwartz on the screen being interviewed in a tuxedo. I approach the set and turn up the monitor.

“This award means a lot to you, doesn't it Mr. Schwartz?” the announcer asks him.

“Yes, it does. It's always nice to be recognized for your work, but it's more important that the work continues.” He smiles. “If you'll excuse me, I'm late for another engagement.”

“There he is,” the announcer continues, clearly flustered by Max's sudden exit. “The recipient of this year's Citizen Award for charitable giving. He raised hundreds of thousands for San Francisco's homeless this year, and that won't be soon forgotten. Back to you in the studio, Katie.”

Morgan comes up behind me. “That's why he's late?”

I shrug, open-mouthed. “I guess so.
Hundreds of thousands
of dollars.
Did you hear that?”

“No wonder he can put up with your Nana. He probably has really expensive ear buds custom-fitted in there or something.”

Sara claps three times harshly. “Let's go, Lilly. Now!”

The lights dim lower in the ballroom, and the lights lining the stage brighten, while the music gets louder. My stomach is surging. “This is it.”

“It's going to be great, Lilly,” Morgan says.

First, I have to wait through the myriad of denim in Sara and Shane Wesley's collection. Even with the pounding music, the reception is eerily quiet. I can see Sara pacing the stage, yelling at the models to stand up straight. Sara is exceptionally cheap, and she's usually a model or two short for a show, so they are already not thrilled with the collection in the first place. Being seen in stilettos, black denim, and skeleton T-shirts is doing nothing for their mood. No one ever went on to übermodel status in skull-wear for anorexics.

I've found something worse than the silence. It's the negative mumbling roar that happens when an audience clearly doesn't like what they see. My heart begins to pound. The mood is not great out there, and I'm praying I won't be the beneficiary of a grumpy crowd. Worse yet, an absent crowd. I clutch Morgan's hand, and the music changes to the soft, flowing, dreamy
Rhapsody
by Rachmaninoff.

The first model steps forward in my canary yellow scooped-neck silk with a matching canary diamond tennis bracelet and huge canary pendant around her neck. Even though she must be all of seventeen, the brunette model appears sophisticated and assured.

“Remember, take it slow,” I say to her. “Float with the music.”

She pushes through the curtain confidently, and I feel her every step. The walk seems to last forever, and I look at my Nana's expression. She actually has her hand over her mouth. Is she astonished? Disgusted? What?

I see Nate, and he lets out a loud whistle, using his finger in his mouth. As the model makes her trek back up the runway, the crowd erupts in applause. The second model is in front of me, wearing the dress my tangerine headband matches. I tug at the waistline and straighten all the gathers as she steps onto the runway. Time is standing still. And this time, I mean it. Not like when I thought it stood still with Stuart Surrey, but truly, not moving forward and suspended in midair. With each model taking her place on the runway, my heart is in my throat, and I'm parched beyond measure. Every step is like a dagger held precariously at my jugular, as though I'm waiting for the model to fall, or the skirt to rip from the bodice. Impending doom is my M.O.

Finally, Morgan takes her place at the head of the runway, and the finale comes. We grab each other's hands, and what passes between us in the silence is a knowing comprehension and a quick, “Thank you, Lord.”
This is our moment.
And like everything else important in our lives since college, we're doing it together. Poppy is giving massages with her table in one of the back rooms, but she comes out at the moment Morgan steps to the curtain. Poppy points to the ceiling to let us know she's prayed. And we give one last telling look to each other.

The curtain opens, and Morgan just stands there until the audible gasps die down. Slowly, she glides down the runway like the most seasoned of models, carrying herself with impeccable grace, the simple diamond earrings and enormous cushion diamond engagement ring sparkling under the stage lights. The room is silent, every eye glued to her form as if they are seeing an angel. Then, without warning, Morgan pauses in the middle of the runway. The music suddenly stops.

“Sara,” I whisper. “What's up? Turn the music back on!”

It's then that I see Stuart Surrey at the end of the runway. He must have read the press release and known she was here. He's gazing longingly into Morgan's eyes but she's not even looking at him. She's staring at…“Oh my goodness!” I exclaim, clutching my chest.

“What is it?” Poppy asks, coming behind me.

“L-l-look,” I stammer. And I point. Andy Mattingly, the poem-writing,
American Idol
reject of Morgan's romantic past is standing at the end of the runway. The stage lights are highlighting
him
as though he's surrounded by some aura. His gaze is fixed firmly on the woman he loved, and her eyes haven't left him since she first noticed his presence.

“Go, Morgan!” I whisper, urging her down the runway. “Finish the walk! Finish the walk!”

The photographers are snapping at will, thinking it's Stuart Surrey who has her rapt attention, a trance that has suddenly made her forget to put one foot in front of the other. Stuart stands up proudly when Morgan starts to walk…and then…run!

“I can't believe she can run in those shoes,” Poppy says.

At the end of the runway, Morgan leaps off the edge, and the security guards surround her. Stuart struggles valiantly to save her. I'm just really glad I glued the gown on so nothing else is struggling to get free. Morgan wiggles and maneuvers until she's free from the wrong man, and she rushes into Andy's arms. She closes her eyes, and even from here, I can see the tears streaming down her face. Andy tilts her chin upward, and the two of them fall into a heated kiss that is straight out of a sizzling afternoon soap opera.

“That is hot!” I hear Poppy say. “I'm feeling
that
energy.”

“I think the whole room is feeling
that
energy.”

Cameras are clicking madly, and I have to give her credit. Morgan just did more for my fashion career by her own weakness for mediocre musicians than a thousand Stanford degrees could have ever done.

Her father is going ballistic, yelling and trying to get across the room. Of course, the security guards think it's about the jewelry, but Poppy and I smile at one another, knowing it's the poverty of the man with his lips locked firmly on the lips of the San Francisco Jeweler's daughter that is the problem.

“Should we make Morgan's announcement?” Poppy asks.

“I think she just made her own.”

I look at my Nana and her mouth is agape. She's just shaking her head at the whole scenario, which makes me giggle out loud. Poppy gives me a hug, and we start jumping around together. “We did it!”

Andy whisks Morgan up into his arms, while she simultaneously rips off the diamonds and hands them back to the security guards—who obviously have no clue who she is. Andy and Morgan are smiling at one another as though they've just pulled off the biggest crime spree in centuries. They rush out the door away from her father and toward—their future? My gown is with them, but I imagine that's good for
my
future.

“I told you that dress had power.”

“You did. Maybe you should have worn it, huh, Poppy?”

As the young couple leaves our view, I see Max coming in, straightening his tuxedo collar. He acts as though nothing is amiss with a woman rushing off a Fashion Week runway and out the doors in a wedding gown with an unidentified man, and walks towards my Nana. Then he sees me on stage, and the utter chaos in the ballroom.

He keeps his gaze fastened on me and hops up on a step and then the stage, his broken leg straight in front of him. He winces a bit with the movement, but once he's on the stage, he comes toward me with those incredible brown eyes, not caring if everyone in the place is watching him. I start to giggle and wonder what on earth he's up to. I look down at Stuart Surrey, who is doing battle with Morgan's father, and there's nothing. Not a single feeling left in my bones—not even in my stomach—for that man. But there are definitely feelings developing for a slightly older television reporter with a goatee and receding hairline.

“Miss Jacobs?” A hand is thrust toward me. “Helen Wong,
Women's Wear Daily
. Where do you get your inspiration for your gowns?”

I look at her for a brief second and without another thought, I say
exactly
where my inspiration comes from. “God. My friends. The spa—usually in that order.”

She nods. “And the colors? They're so unique.”

“Bright is good energy,” I say, smiling at Poppy. “Will you excuse me, please?”

I finish the walk towards Max, and we stop mere inches from one another. “Max Schwartz,
who
are you?”

He takes my hand, pulling it to his lips, and he brushes me with one of his gentle kisses. “I'm sorry I'm late.” He takes both of his hands and slides my headband off. “I have a broken leg. You have curly hair. No fair, cheating.”

I shake out my hair and let it explode to its natural girth. “It's a
lot
of curly hair, and it's
not
temporary,” I say, looking at his cast.

He takes my face in his hands. “Lilly Jacobs, sometimes I wonder if you pay any attention at all to life around you. I have wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you. Why do you think your Nana got such great rent in the Marina?”

I shrug. “I thought maybe you had an old lady fetish. Or maybe you were gay and didn't want to be tempted by some young guy, and then—”

Max puts a finger to my lips and starts cracking up with laughter. “Never mind, okay? I just have an ‘old lady fetish,' as you so aptly put it, for one particular old lady, because she has a hot granddaughter. I'm a very patient man, Lilly Jacobs, but I think I've been patient enough.”

I laugh and look down. Then he lifts my chin back up toward his. Max kisses me firmly on the lips, and I'll admit, if I had an objection I have no idea what it was.

I turn to see Sara loving the limelight of the fashion journalists, and I look at my Nana and see a mother.
Nana knew
exactly what she was doing inviting Valeria to Max's place.
Nana's smiling like a Cheshire cat! I look at Max, whose dark, expressive eyes make me feel like I'm the queen of the castle. Then, I think about Poppy and Morgan. In all of these people who love me unconditionally, I see a mirror of who I
really
am—who God created me to be. Bad hair and all. To sum up Psalm 139, I am all that and a bag of chips!

Two Months Later:

I did make
Women's Wear Daily
, and I did make a business out of the scraps Sara Lang left me. Money will continue to be an issue until I can get my gowns made a little more quickly, but bad hair has not completely ruined my life, after all. I know that now. In fact, life is good. Max Schwartz assured me he isn't living an heir's life, and that's good with me. (But you'd never know it by the diamond brooch of his grandmother's that he recently gave me.)

For the first time, I'm in love with a man who has seen my hair in full bloom and isn't scared of it! And we're taking it slowly. I hang out at his place in the evenings, enjoying the view and his company, while he takes notes on television shows. I sketch and think about how I'm going to meet my fabric costs that month. Every now and again, I'll look over at him and wonder,
How did I get here? Me. Lilly Jacobs—actual
designer and girlfriend.
What could be better than this? Oh wait, I can't go there. I may be all that…but I'm realistic too!

Nana seems to think I'm settled and has suddenly found a life of her own with a man she met—at bingo, no less. As for Morgan and Poppy—the best friends a girl could ever have—I'll let them tell their stories at the next Spa Girls weekend. This time, with pickles.