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Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Eye Candy: Chapter Twenty-Two
(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21.)
Q: What did the candle say to the fire?
A: I'm at wicks end.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #184
Elliot whisked us back to Milan and the hotel in no time—the guy sure got used to driving a quarter million dollars’ worth of speed in a hurry. As we changed for Ferrero's after party, I considered what he had said about me.
Was I really waiting to explode just beneath the surface? Or was I really just a plain and dull as I always imagined myself to be?
"Did you bring that slinky dress?"
"What dress?" I asked, turning away from my selection of clothes long enough to wonder what he meant.
"The one you wore at that first party. Gray. Shiny." He cocked his eyebrows for emphasis. "Slinky."
Oh, that dress. "Yes I brought it. Why?"
His eyebrows dropped, hooding his lids in a seductive, bedroom-come-hither look. "Wear that."
My cheeks burned and I felt a rush of tingling heat shoot through every vein and nerve in my body. I had thought it too cold to wear such a revealing dress, but I was overheating now.
One look and I was a puddle.
"Oh," I said, breathless, "okay. Good, um, choice."
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away. To search through my belongings to find the one dress I now had to wear. The thought of wearing anything else evaporated along with my willpower, inhibitions, and capacity for rational thought. It was bad enough he already looked good enough to eat, now I had developed a gnawing hunger.
Finding the dress hanging neatly and unwrinkled in the armoire, I slipped it off the hanger and darted into the bathroom to change.
Dubble Bubble Damn, I forgot to grab the nude, seamless panties I needed to wear under this dress. All others either showed in bulges beneath the clinging jersey or cut my flesh into hills and valleys. Neither resulted in a streamlined sexy look.
Thumbs hooked through the waistband, I shimmied out of the black lace bikini I had been wearing with the intention of grabbing the right pair and slipping them on before we left.
When I emerged from the bathroom, slinky dress donned and smoky make-up applied, I found Elliot leaning against the door in a casual-but-ready-to-go pose.
He still wore the tailored black tux, but had replaced the stark white shirt with an unstructured one in a light blue that accentuated his eyes. The first two buttons were undone, displaying a delightful triangle of smooth, tanned skin. His hair was still a windblown mess from the stretch of driving with the windows down, but the disheveled look worked oh-so-well on him.
"Hey hot stuff," he greeted. "Ready to go?"
"Yes, just let me grab my clutch."
As I transferred a few essentials from my day bag to my chic black sequined clutch, I knew I was forgetting something.
And it felt important.
"Come on. I don't want to miss all the good champagne."
Oh well. If it was really important, I would have remembered.
"I'm ready."
Arm in arm we left, heading for the Corona Reale ballroom on the mezzanine level.
It wasn't until the doors closed on the elevator that I remembered what I had forgotten.
"No, I don't run much," I heard myself telling an up-and-coming Italian designer who seemed to be trying every possible bad pick up line ever written.
"Well you've been running through my mind all day."
I sighed, which he took as a sign of relent, and glanced around the room for a friendly face.
"Was your father a thief?"
"No," I answered. Momentarily excited to find a streak of platinum blonde until I found it was only that blue-eyed model, Nadika. "He was in advertising."
"Because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes."
Not yet pushed to the edge of being entirely rude, I tried diverting the conversation. "I design jewelry."
"I design ladies undergarments." He moved in closer and whispered in my ear, "Want to see."
I gasped, even as all the blood in my body rushed to my face. My hand instinctively pulled back to slap him indignantly across the face. "No, I—"
"There you are, angel."
Gavin took my hand and pressed a soft kiss to the warm center of the palm. I positively melted into his side when he swung an arm around my shoulders in a possessive, this-girl-is-mine gesture.
My sleazy, would be seducer took the hint and slunk away.
My grin couldn't have been brighter.
"Thank you," I offered as soon as he was out of hearing. "I never knew Italians were so fluent in bad pick up lines."
"Your salvation is my greatest pleasure."
Gavin bowed chivalrously, looking quite pleasurable himself in a scrumptious suit just a little lighter in color than my dress with a slight green tint that made his eyes glow. Blonde hair neatly combed and not a lock out of place. Cheeks flushed with little boy excitement. He looked just like his GQ cover shot.
"What all goes on at these fashionable after parties?" he asked.
"Well..." I glanced around the room, at a sea of the fashionable and fawning. "Some mingling. Some networking—like over there," I indicated a pair in deep discussion in the near corner, "they might be closing a deal on a big order."
"Or they might be arranging the time and place for their romantic rendezvous."
"Or that," I laughed. "If you hadn't interrupted, I might be doing that myself right now."
We exchanged meaningful looks. I exploded in laughter. Different from the kind I had with Elliot—those laughs usually bubbled out of me despite my best efforts to keep them in. This was a mutual laugh.
"And what about that?" Gavin asked, motioning to the center of the room. "What's going on there?"
"That," I whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, "is the most important aspect of a party like this."
A circle of guests surrounded Ferrero, each vying to congratulate him on the successful show. Ferrero stood in the middle, pretending to be humble and waving off their compliments. But even those untrained in the art of social modesty could see he was enjoying every second of it.
I looked away, unable to stare into the light too long without risking blindness. "The fawning."
"Aaah..." Gavin nodded in understanding. "In business we call it brown-nosing."
"Hey you two!" Janice's voice called to us like the whine of an airplane. Or a Long Islander reverting to her native, nasal accent. "Hi there lovebirds!"
She appeared in front of us, platinum tresses loose and flowing to her waist. Dressed in muted gold palazzo pants and a matching cowl-neck sweater, she looked more elegant than I had ever seen her. If not for the unfocused glint in her eyes. The unsteady sway in her walk. The half-empty tumbler in her left hand.
After the week-and-a-half she'd had, I guessed she was due a little alcoholic respite.
"Is the wedding back on yet?" she asked.
My jaw clenched and I positively felt Gavin scowl. I knew that Gavin-and-me-and-Elliot was a prime topic of conversation between Janice and Kelly, but that didn't mean she had to bring it out in public. Drunk or not.
"Hello, Janice." I spoke a little louder than normal, making sure my voice penetrated. Hoping to successfully change the subject. "Isn't this fun?"
She beamed like a little girl, eyes closed and chin thrust forward. "It's wonderful." Hic. "Ferrero deserves such a celebration for his homecoming."
"His homecoming?" Gavin asked.
I rolled my eyes. Not once had I heard Ferrero himself say that he was Italian-born—probably because it wasn't true—but nearly everyone involved in fashion week believed him a native. I could pretty much handle the world at large thinking that, but Janice must have known the truth.
A woman couldn't work with him for nearly twenty years and not realize the accent faded in and out. That he ate more Coney dogs than cannoli.
"Don't you know?" Janice jabbed an accusatory finger at his chest, missing by several inches. "Ferrero is from Milan. Originally."
"Oh," Gavin acknowledged, "I didn't know that."
"Yep. Well, from a little village just to the north. He moved to New York in his twenties to pursue his passion, but at heart he's always an Italian."
Some of her words slurred together and while she spoke she turned her head to make goo-goo eyes at the subject of her little fantasy. Not only was this not healthy, it was darn annoying.
"No, he's not," I interjected.
Both pairs of eyes turned on me.
"What do you mean?" Janice stepped closer.
There was a tremor of threat in her voice. She dared me to explain. To finish my thought.
"You know that Ferrero isn't from Italy," I said quietly.
Janice blinked several times, as if that speeded up her comprehension. "Of course he is," she argued. "He's from Milan."
"No," I said a little louder, "he's not."
She looked blank. Then started laughing. “You are such a kidder,” she wailed. She turned to Gavin, “Always joking, this one.”
I didn’t know what was more appalling: her misconception about my personality or her drunken dogmatic insistence that Ferrero was Italian. “He is not Italian.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he—”
“Yes!” she shouted, sloshing her drink onto the carpet with a grand gesture. “He’s from Milan!”
“No he’s not!” I shouted back.
She shoved her glassed at Gavin and, as he caught it before it fell, stuck her fingers in her ears and starting humming. “La la la. I can’t hear you.”
My frustration and determination met in a combustible mixture. "Franco Ferrero is not Italian! He's from South Jersey!"
Oh no. That was louder than I’d intended.
An instant hush fell across the crowded ballroom. All eyes were on me. A quiet wave of whispered gossip began near me and spread from guest to guest in a building wave. I watched, helpless, as the wave circled and neared the center of the room.
My eyes locked on Ferrero, I saw the brief moment of disappointment in his face as he heard the news.
The center of sudden and unwanted attention, Ferrero did the only thing he could in a situation like that. He laughed. He laughed, and the laughter spread. Following the same path of the gossip wave, the laughter swept the room and finally reached me.
I, too, laughed, knowing it was the only way to save face. Both mine and Ferrero's.
Before his attention returned to the nearest fawning fan, I caught a trace of pain in his eyes.
The look in Janice's eyes was closer to fury. She looked ready to scalp me. Maybe if Kelly had been close by she could have used those acrylic nails to do the job.
I expected her to scream, maybe yell, definitely launch herself at me with claws flying. Instead, she turned her back on me and walked away. As if I was so beneath her notice that she didn't even bother telling me off. Like an M&M Mini squashed to the bottom of your shoe; not the most pleasant thing on the planet, but definitely not worth the hassle of taking off your shoe and cleaning it off.
Gavin, still at my side, looked confused. "What just happened?"
"Can we get out of here?" I needed to be far, far away.
"Sure," he agreed immediately. "But will you tell me what's going on?"
I let him take me by the elbow and lead me through the crowd. "I just ruined a career."
Breaking into the less populated hallway and making for the stairwell, Gavin asked, "Whose?"
Sighing, I click-clacked down the stairs in my heels.
"Everyone's."
"You're drunk," Gavin declared.
Lifting my head off the table in the hotel bar, I winced as the walnut and gold interior swirled unsteadily before my eyes.
"Yup." Letting my head drop back onto the table, I smiled as the images in my brain stopped moved. "Def'nily dunk."
"Come on." He took my arm, pulling me to my feet despite my protest. "You need to get to bed."
No, I needed to go back in time and undo, oh, the last six weeks. From the moment I invented the non-existent boyfriend and until I opened my big mouth about Ferrero's nation of origin.
"Hey, how'd we get on th'elevator?"
Come to think of it, how'd I end up cradled in Gavin's arms? That's what I get for drowning my sorrows in sweet-tasting brandy. Stick to vodka, Lyd. At least you feel it going down.
"Your room or mine?" Gavin asked.
As he strode into the hallway, carrying me like a baby, my stomach turned. "Ungh. Mine. Def'nily mine."
The porcelain was calling me. And I was listening.
"Fine," he grunted and dropped me unceremoniously on my feet.
"Wha? Why'd you do that?"
"Go on to your boy toy. I'm not carrying you into his arms."
"Boy t—" Did he mean Elliot? "Elliot's not my— He's— Nothing's happened between us."
"Sure." The venom in his voice penetrated my brandy fog. "Men and women share beds all the time purely platonic-y."
Platonic-y?
"You're drunk, too."
"Maybe, but I'm thinking clearer and clearer." By now he was practically shouting. "If you want to climb into bed for some nookie then you have to choose. His bed or mine."
I didn't understand. All I wanted was to get into the bathroom and hug the toilet. And maybe bed. Much, much later. If I didn't wind up on the marble bathroom floor.
I glanced longingly at my room door. "Gavin, I just—"
"Fine." He turned and marched towards the stairs. "I'm going back to the bar."
"Wait." The stairwell door clicked shut. "We're on the eleventh floor," I finished lamely.
My stomach lurched. Fishing the room key out of my clutch—miraculously still hanging from my wrist—I dipped it in and out of the card reader and ducked into the room.
"Welcome back," Elliot called out as the door closed behind me. "Where've you been?"
A quick search found him digging through his duffle bag.
"Are you leaving?" I asked.
"Nope. Ah, here they are." He pulled a small box out of the bag. "Just finding my business cards. Met an editor of Italian GQ who wants me to do a spread devoted to male muses."
I dropped my clutch on the floor. Everything that had happened that night built up right behind my eyes and suddenly it all poured out. Tears burst out.
"Honey," Elliot dropped the box and appeared at my side. "Honey, what's wrong?"
Looking into his concerned blue eyes my despair doubled. "Everything!" I wailed.
Taking me in his arms, he rubbed soothing circles on my back and whispered calming words in my ear. "It's okay. Everything will be fine. Tell me about it."
In garbled and sob-wracked words I explained all about the party and getting drunk and the argument with Gavin and my confusion about just about everything in my life.
"You're fine," he assured me. "What you need is sleep and plenty of it. Let's get you into bed."
He swung me up in his muscular arms with little effort and carried me to the bed. Securing me with one arm, he grabbed the covers and flung them across the bed. As he lowered me to the sateen sheets, I clung to his neck.
When he chuckled and tried to unwrap my arms, I pleaded.
"Stay."
He froze.
For about ten seconds he stood motionless.
His answer was unequivocal. "No."
"Please," I begged.
Releasing him, I ran one palm over his chest. His pecs tensed beneath my touch. I needed to touch him, to feel him all over. I needed to be close to someone. To him. To forget all about my horrible night.
"Please stay." I cupped his jaw in my hand and lifted my mouth, seeking his.
"No." He pulled back, leaving me reaching for air.
"Stay," I persisted, smoothing my hands over my body and wishing they were his hands exploring me. "I want you. I need you. Make love to me."
"You're drunk and you're upset." He grabbed the box off the floor and headed for the door. "You don't know what you want."
As my hand skimmed my hip, a memory surfaced.
"I'm not wearing any underwear."
He stopped, hand on the doorknob, back to the room.
"Goodnight, Lydia."
Angry and frustrated, and hurt by his rejection, I shouted out the one thing guaranteed to earn me a reaction. "I'll pay you extra."
"What did you say?" He still didn't turn around, but I could hear the dangerous warning in his voice.
Sitting up in bed, I pushed further. "What was your fee again? $200 an hour? I'll double it."
I watched the muscles in his back tense and release several times, but he didn't speak again.
"Four-hundred an hour,” I offered. “Five if you satisfy me."
The silence rang in my ears.
"You're drunk, so I'll forgive you in the morning." He jerked the door open and looked back over his shoulder. "But you'd better think about what you just said. Right now I can’t stand the sight of you."
He disappeared into the hall and the door swung shut behind him. Realization hit with a resounding smack.
I bolted out of the bed and rushed to the door. On the way, the halter tie on my dress unknotted and the top of the dress fluttered to my waist. Haphazardly holding the bodice up over my chest, I pulled the door open and stepped into the hall.
"Elliot, wait!" I shouted, looking both ways down the hallway and finding him approaching the elevator.
Without hesitation, he kept walking.
The elevator arrived at the same time he reached it.
When the doors slid open, Gavin stepped off, running directly into Elliot. As he apologized he caught sight of me, nearly topless and calling for Elliot. His eyes narrowed and he turned and stepped back onto the elevator, taking his place as far from Elliot as possible.
Nausea hit me full force. Turning back to sprint for the toilet, I ran into the locked door.
"Damn!" I shouted to no one but myself.
Deep breathing and a steady refrain of I Will Not Puke kept my stomach contents in place. But nothing could dampen the realization that everything in my life that could go wrong, had.
My despair was complete.
Mental Post-It: next time you tell yourself that nothing worse could happen, punch self in gut before the world has a chance.
When I finally managed the physical and mental capacity to re-tie my dress and travel to the lobby to get a new key, I found Gavin and Elliot sitting in the hotel bar like old drinking buddies. Huddled together at a small table in the corner and gesticulating wildly. An empty bottle of whiskey between them.
Not wanting to add very public scene-making to my expanding resume of social faux-pas, I moved as stealthily as possible through the lobby to the front desk. And tried to retreat just as unseen to the elevator after receiving my key.
"There she is." Elliot's voice echoed across the marble space.
"Yup," Gavin concurred, "the lady in—lady in—uh—question."
Their voices grew louder with every word.
"Speak of the devil," Elliot shouted to anyone within hearing, "and she appears before your eyes."
I jabbed at the call button, willing the elevator to arrive and take me away before things got worse.
A tap on the shoulder told me it was too late.
Dubble Bubble Damn, why hadn't I erased the word worse from my vocabulary. It always made things, well, worse.
Elliot and Gavin had left the bar—but not their bottle—and staggered to the elevator. Gavin, who had been drinking longer and was ten times worse than when he left me in the hall, glared at me through hooded, bloodshot eyes. By his side, hand on his shoulder for support, Elliot was fast behind. Sober when he left the room, he was now as drunk as Gavin appeared to be.
Stifling a groan of distress, I schooled my face into a look of neutral curiosity.
"Yes?" I asked, my heart racing even as I maintained my nonchalance. "Did you need something?"
"You," Elliot barked, swaying with the momentum of jabbing a finger at me, "are a tease."
"And," Gavin added, "a two-timer."
Eyes closed, I wished them both away. Not forever. Just for the night. For the next two minutes, even. Long enough for the elevator to show and whisk me away.
"We be'n talkin' an' we thunk—" Gavin, the usually faint traces of his West Virginia upbringing coloring his speech, shook his head at the misspoken word. "We think you stink."
Elliot laughed out loud. "We think you stink." Ha ha ha. "You rhymed."
"I'm a poet and I—"
"I'm leaving," I interjected.
Surprising enough, considering the day I'd had, the elevator chose that moment to ding it's arrival. I turned and marched inside the moment the doors opened, spinning to face my accusers in triumph as the doors shut on them.
Only the doors didn't shut.
I stood there, blankly waiting for the shiny gold panels to glide together, closing out Gavin and Elliot's equally confused faces. Nothing. Not even a warning bell or an apologetic ding.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Clearly, the elevator had no plans to leave.
Opportunity presented itself and the rhyming twins stepped on board, grinning drunkenly at their good fortune.
"We gotcha now," Gavin gloated.
Elliot nodded his approval. "You have to listen."
They stood on either side of me, sandwiching me between them so I had nowhere to turn. Deep breath. Dee-eep breath.
"Fine. Say what you have to say."
I did a quick mental evaluation. My nausea was gone, at least for the moment, and nothing they said could possibly make me feel worse than I already did. Of the two men I cared about, I had treated one like a cast-off and the other like a whore. Let them do their worse. At least it would soon be over and they would probably feel better for berating me.
"We know," Elliot explained, leaning close and speaking softly, "that you care about us both."
"We don't blame you for that," Gavin added from the other side. "We know you can't choose who you love. Of all people, we know that best."
"We certainly didn't choose to love you."
"But we do."
My eyes shot from Gavin to Elliot and back again.
"It's true." Elliot tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, pressing a kiss to my temple when I looked shocked. "I love you."
My heart raced. Elliot loved me? This was—I mean—I knew he—Holy Hot Tamales, love?
"And," Gavin whispered in my other ear before my brain had fully processed Elliot's confession, "I love you, too. Still."
Gavin loved me, too? Still? Our eyes met and I knew he had never stopped loving me. Not when I disappeared from his life without explanation. Not when I reappeared with a male model on my arm. Not when I came to Italy with said model and wanted to date them both. He loved me.
They both loved me.
I looked back and forth at the two of them. Each looked happy and expectant. Genuine.
In the end, I couldn't keep darting looks between the two eager faces like a courtside spectator at Wimbledon. I stared straight ahead, not seeing the ornate gold and marble lobby, the front desk, the bar, or the pair of guests waiting for us to decide whether we were coming or going from the elevator.
"The thing is," Elliot stepped out into the lobby as he spoke, "neither of us wants half of you."
Gavin joined him, leaving me alone in the elevator car. "We would rather have none of you than that." His green eyes met mine, imploring. "It hurts too much."
My heart broke.
In four short words, I could see how much my indecision was hurting the two men I loved. Because I knew that I loved them both, each in their own way. And it killed me that I had caused them both pain.
But what could I do?
"We've come to an agreement."
Gavin nodded. "Whichever man you choose, the other will walk away uncontested."
I frowned. What did that—
"But the crux of the thing is, Lyd—" Elliot smiled weakly.
"—the bottom line, Lydia—"
"—you have to make the choice."
"And neither of us will see you until you do," Gavin declared with inarguable finality.
The couple in the lobby, deciding not to wait any longer, stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for their floor. Instantly, the doors slid shut.
At a loss, I watched Gavin and Elliot disappear behind a wall of shiny gold and I silently cursed the word worse out of existence.
Happy Birthday to me.
Q: What did the candle say to the fire?
A: I'm at wicks end.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #184
Elliot whisked us back to Milan and the hotel in no time—the guy sure got used to driving a quarter million dollars’ worth of speed in a hurry. As we changed for Ferrero's after party, I considered what he had said about me.
Was I really waiting to explode just beneath the surface? Or was I really just a plain and dull as I always imagined myself to be?
"Did you bring that slinky dress?"
"What dress?" I asked, turning away from my selection of clothes long enough to wonder what he meant.
"The one you wore at that first party. Gray. Shiny." He cocked his eyebrows for emphasis. "Slinky."
Oh, that dress. "Yes I brought it. Why?"
His eyebrows dropped, hooding his lids in a seductive, bedroom-come-hither look. "Wear that."
My cheeks burned and I felt a rush of tingling heat shoot through every vein and nerve in my body. I had thought it too cold to wear such a revealing dress, but I was overheating now.
One look and I was a puddle.
"Oh," I said, breathless, "okay. Good, um, choice."
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away. To search through my belongings to find the one dress I now had to wear. The thought of wearing anything else evaporated along with my willpower, inhibitions, and capacity for rational thought. It was bad enough he already looked good enough to eat, now I had developed a gnawing hunger.
Finding the dress hanging neatly and unwrinkled in the armoire, I slipped it off the hanger and darted into the bathroom to change.
Dubble Bubble Damn, I forgot to grab the nude, seamless panties I needed to wear under this dress. All others either showed in bulges beneath the clinging jersey or cut my flesh into hills and valleys. Neither resulted in a streamlined sexy look.
Thumbs hooked through the waistband, I shimmied out of the black lace bikini I had been wearing with the intention of grabbing the right pair and slipping them on before we left.
When I emerged from the bathroom, slinky dress donned and smoky make-up applied, I found Elliot leaning against the door in a casual-but-ready-to-go pose.
He still wore the tailored black tux, but had replaced the stark white shirt with an unstructured one in a light blue that accentuated his eyes. The first two buttons were undone, displaying a delightful triangle of smooth, tanned skin. His hair was still a windblown mess from the stretch of driving with the windows down, but the disheveled look worked oh-so-well on him.
"Hey hot stuff," he greeted. "Ready to go?"
"Yes, just let me grab my clutch."
As I transferred a few essentials from my day bag to my chic black sequined clutch, I knew I was forgetting something.
And it felt important.
"Come on. I don't want to miss all the good champagne."
Oh well. If it was really important, I would have remembered.
"I'm ready."
Arm in arm we left, heading for the Corona Reale ballroom on the mezzanine level.
It wasn't until the doors closed on the elevator that I remembered what I had forgotten.
"No, I don't run much," I heard myself telling an up-and-coming Italian designer who seemed to be trying every possible bad pick up line ever written.
"Well you've been running through my mind all day."
I sighed, which he took as a sign of relent, and glanced around the room for a friendly face.
"Was your father a thief?"
"No," I answered. Momentarily excited to find a streak of platinum blonde until I found it was only that blue-eyed model, Nadika. "He was in advertising."
"Because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes."
Not yet pushed to the edge of being entirely rude, I tried diverting the conversation. "I design jewelry."
"I design ladies undergarments." He moved in closer and whispered in my ear, "Want to see."
I gasped, even as all the blood in my body rushed to my face. My hand instinctively pulled back to slap him indignantly across the face. "No, I—"
"There you are, angel."
Gavin took my hand and pressed a soft kiss to the warm center of the palm. I positively melted into his side when he swung an arm around my shoulders in a possessive, this-girl-is-mine gesture.
My sleazy, would be seducer took the hint and slunk away.
My grin couldn't have been brighter.
"Thank you," I offered as soon as he was out of hearing. "I never knew Italians were so fluent in bad pick up lines."
"Your salvation is my greatest pleasure."
Gavin bowed chivalrously, looking quite pleasurable himself in a scrumptious suit just a little lighter in color than my dress with a slight green tint that made his eyes glow. Blonde hair neatly combed and not a lock out of place. Cheeks flushed with little boy excitement. He looked just like his GQ cover shot.
"What all goes on at these fashionable after parties?" he asked.
"Well..." I glanced around the room, at a sea of the fashionable and fawning. "Some mingling. Some networking—like over there," I indicated a pair in deep discussion in the near corner, "they might be closing a deal on a big order."
"Or they might be arranging the time and place for their romantic rendezvous."
"Or that," I laughed. "If you hadn't interrupted, I might be doing that myself right now."
We exchanged meaningful looks. I exploded in laughter. Different from the kind I had with Elliot—those laughs usually bubbled out of me despite my best efforts to keep them in. This was a mutual laugh.
"And what about that?" Gavin asked, motioning to the center of the room. "What's going on there?"
"That," I whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, "is the most important aspect of a party like this."
A circle of guests surrounded Ferrero, each vying to congratulate him on the successful show. Ferrero stood in the middle, pretending to be humble and waving off their compliments. But even those untrained in the art of social modesty could see he was enjoying every second of it.
I looked away, unable to stare into the light too long without risking blindness. "The fawning."
"Aaah..." Gavin nodded in understanding. "In business we call it brown-nosing."
"Hey you two!" Janice's voice called to us like the whine of an airplane. Or a Long Islander reverting to her native, nasal accent. "Hi there lovebirds!"
She appeared in front of us, platinum tresses loose and flowing to her waist. Dressed in muted gold palazzo pants and a matching cowl-neck sweater, she looked more elegant than I had ever seen her. If not for the unfocused glint in her eyes. The unsteady sway in her walk. The half-empty tumbler in her left hand.
After the week-and-a-half she'd had, I guessed she was due a little alcoholic respite.
"Is the wedding back on yet?" she asked.
My jaw clenched and I positively felt Gavin scowl. I knew that Gavin-and-me-and-Elliot was a prime topic of conversation between Janice and Kelly, but that didn't mean she had to bring it out in public. Drunk or not.
"Hello, Janice." I spoke a little louder than normal, making sure my voice penetrated. Hoping to successfully change the subject. "Isn't this fun?"
She beamed like a little girl, eyes closed and chin thrust forward. "It's wonderful." Hic. "Ferrero deserves such a celebration for his homecoming."
"His homecoming?" Gavin asked.
I rolled my eyes. Not once had I heard Ferrero himself say that he was Italian-born—probably because it wasn't true—but nearly everyone involved in fashion week believed him a native. I could pretty much handle the world at large thinking that, but Janice must have known the truth.
A woman couldn't work with him for nearly twenty years and not realize the accent faded in and out. That he ate more Coney dogs than cannoli.
"Don't you know?" Janice jabbed an accusatory finger at his chest, missing by several inches. "Ferrero is from Milan. Originally."
"Oh," Gavin acknowledged, "I didn't know that."
"Yep. Well, from a little village just to the north. He moved to New York in his twenties to pursue his passion, but at heart he's always an Italian."
Some of her words slurred together and while she spoke she turned her head to make goo-goo eyes at the subject of her little fantasy. Not only was this not healthy, it was darn annoying.
"No, he's not," I interjected.
Both pairs of eyes turned on me.
"What do you mean?" Janice stepped closer.
There was a tremor of threat in her voice. She dared me to explain. To finish my thought.
"You know that Ferrero isn't from Italy," I said quietly.
Janice blinked several times, as if that speeded up her comprehension. "Of course he is," she argued. "He's from Milan."
"No," I said a little louder, "he's not."
She looked blank. Then started laughing. “You are such a kidder,” she wailed. She turned to Gavin, “Always joking, this one.”
I didn’t know what was more appalling: her misconception about my personality or her drunken dogmatic insistence that Ferrero was Italian. “He is not Italian.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he—”
“Yes!” she shouted, sloshing her drink onto the carpet with a grand gesture. “He’s from Milan!”
“No he’s not!” I shouted back.
She shoved her glassed at Gavin and, as he caught it before it fell, stuck her fingers in her ears and starting humming. “La la la. I can’t hear you.”
My frustration and determination met in a combustible mixture. "Franco Ferrero is not Italian! He's from South Jersey!"
Oh no. That was louder than I’d intended.
An instant hush fell across the crowded ballroom. All eyes were on me. A quiet wave of whispered gossip began near me and spread from guest to guest in a building wave. I watched, helpless, as the wave circled and neared the center of the room.
My eyes locked on Ferrero, I saw the brief moment of disappointment in his face as he heard the news.
The center of sudden and unwanted attention, Ferrero did the only thing he could in a situation like that. He laughed. He laughed, and the laughter spread. Following the same path of the gossip wave, the laughter swept the room and finally reached me.
I, too, laughed, knowing it was the only way to save face. Both mine and Ferrero's.
Before his attention returned to the nearest fawning fan, I caught a trace of pain in his eyes.
The look in Janice's eyes was closer to fury. She looked ready to scalp me. Maybe if Kelly had been close by she could have used those acrylic nails to do the job.
I expected her to scream, maybe yell, definitely launch herself at me with claws flying. Instead, she turned her back on me and walked away. As if I was so beneath her notice that she didn't even bother telling me off. Like an M&M Mini squashed to the bottom of your shoe; not the most pleasant thing on the planet, but definitely not worth the hassle of taking off your shoe and cleaning it off.
Gavin, still at my side, looked confused. "What just happened?"
"Can we get out of here?" I needed to be far, far away.
"Sure," he agreed immediately. "But will you tell me what's going on?"
I let him take me by the elbow and lead me through the crowd. "I just ruined a career."
Breaking into the less populated hallway and making for the stairwell, Gavin asked, "Whose?"
Sighing, I click-clacked down the stairs in my heels.
"Everyone's."
"You're drunk," Gavin declared.
Lifting my head off the table in the hotel bar, I winced as the walnut and gold interior swirled unsteadily before my eyes.
"Yup." Letting my head drop back onto the table, I smiled as the images in my brain stopped moved. "Def'nily dunk."
"Come on." He took my arm, pulling me to my feet despite my protest. "You need to get to bed."
No, I needed to go back in time and undo, oh, the last six weeks. From the moment I invented the non-existent boyfriend and until I opened my big mouth about Ferrero's nation of origin.
"Hey, how'd we get on th'elevator?"
Come to think of it, how'd I end up cradled in Gavin's arms? That's what I get for drowning my sorrows in sweet-tasting brandy. Stick to vodka, Lyd. At least you feel it going down.
"Your room or mine?" Gavin asked.
As he strode into the hallway, carrying me like a baby, my stomach turned. "Ungh. Mine. Def'nily mine."
The porcelain was calling me. And I was listening.
"Fine," he grunted and dropped me unceremoniously on my feet.
"Wha? Why'd you do that?"
"Go on to your boy toy. I'm not carrying you into his arms."
"Boy t—" Did he mean Elliot? "Elliot's not my— He's— Nothing's happened between us."
"Sure." The venom in his voice penetrated my brandy fog. "Men and women share beds all the time purely platonic-y."
Platonic-y?
"You're drunk, too."
"Maybe, but I'm thinking clearer and clearer." By now he was practically shouting. "If you want to climb into bed for some nookie then you have to choose. His bed or mine."
I didn't understand. All I wanted was to get into the bathroom and hug the toilet. And maybe bed. Much, much later. If I didn't wind up on the marble bathroom floor.
I glanced longingly at my room door. "Gavin, I just—"
"Fine." He turned and marched towards the stairs. "I'm going back to the bar."
"Wait." The stairwell door clicked shut. "We're on the eleventh floor," I finished lamely.
My stomach lurched. Fishing the room key out of my clutch—miraculously still hanging from my wrist—I dipped it in and out of the card reader and ducked into the room.
"Welcome back," Elliot called out as the door closed behind me. "Where've you been?"
A quick search found him digging through his duffle bag.
"Are you leaving?" I asked.
"Nope. Ah, here they are." He pulled a small box out of the bag. "Just finding my business cards. Met an editor of Italian GQ who wants me to do a spread devoted to male muses."
I dropped my clutch on the floor. Everything that had happened that night built up right behind my eyes and suddenly it all poured out. Tears burst out.
"Honey," Elliot dropped the box and appeared at my side. "Honey, what's wrong?"
Looking into his concerned blue eyes my despair doubled. "Everything!" I wailed.
Taking me in his arms, he rubbed soothing circles on my back and whispered calming words in my ear. "It's okay. Everything will be fine. Tell me about it."
In garbled and sob-wracked words I explained all about the party and getting drunk and the argument with Gavin and my confusion about just about everything in my life.
"You're fine," he assured me. "What you need is sleep and plenty of it. Let's get you into bed."
He swung me up in his muscular arms with little effort and carried me to the bed. Securing me with one arm, he grabbed the covers and flung them across the bed. As he lowered me to the sateen sheets, I clung to his neck.
When he chuckled and tried to unwrap my arms, I pleaded.
"Stay."
He froze.
For about ten seconds he stood motionless.
His answer was unequivocal. "No."
"Please," I begged.
Releasing him, I ran one palm over his chest. His pecs tensed beneath my touch. I needed to touch him, to feel him all over. I needed to be close to someone. To him. To forget all about my horrible night.
"Please stay." I cupped his jaw in my hand and lifted my mouth, seeking his.
"No." He pulled back, leaving me reaching for air.
"Stay," I persisted, smoothing my hands over my body and wishing they were his hands exploring me. "I want you. I need you. Make love to me."
"You're drunk and you're upset." He grabbed the box off the floor and headed for the door. "You don't know what you want."
As my hand skimmed my hip, a memory surfaced.
"I'm not wearing any underwear."
He stopped, hand on the doorknob, back to the room.
"Goodnight, Lydia."
Angry and frustrated, and hurt by his rejection, I shouted out the one thing guaranteed to earn me a reaction. "I'll pay you extra."
"What did you say?" He still didn't turn around, but I could hear the dangerous warning in his voice.
Sitting up in bed, I pushed further. "What was your fee again? $200 an hour? I'll double it."
I watched the muscles in his back tense and release several times, but he didn't speak again.
"Four-hundred an hour,” I offered. “Five if you satisfy me."
The silence rang in my ears.
"You're drunk, so I'll forgive you in the morning." He jerked the door open and looked back over his shoulder. "But you'd better think about what you just said. Right now I can’t stand the sight of you."
He disappeared into the hall and the door swung shut behind him. Realization hit with a resounding smack.
I bolted out of the bed and rushed to the door. On the way, the halter tie on my dress unknotted and the top of the dress fluttered to my waist. Haphazardly holding the bodice up over my chest, I pulled the door open and stepped into the hall.
"Elliot, wait!" I shouted, looking both ways down the hallway and finding him approaching the elevator.
Without hesitation, he kept walking.
The elevator arrived at the same time he reached it.
When the doors slid open, Gavin stepped off, running directly into Elliot. As he apologized he caught sight of me, nearly topless and calling for Elliot. His eyes narrowed and he turned and stepped back onto the elevator, taking his place as far from Elliot as possible.
Nausea hit me full force. Turning back to sprint for the toilet, I ran into the locked door.
"Damn!" I shouted to no one but myself.
Deep breathing and a steady refrain of I Will Not Puke kept my stomach contents in place. But nothing could dampen the realization that everything in my life that could go wrong, had.
My despair was complete.
Mental Post-It: next time you tell yourself that nothing worse could happen, punch self in gut before the world has a chance.
When I finally managed the physical and mental capacity to re-tie my dress and travel to the lobby to get a new key, I found Gavin and Elliot sitting in the hotel bar like old drinking buddies. Huddled together at a small table in the corner and gesticulating wildly. An empty bottle of whiskey between them.
Not wanting to add very public scene-making to my expanding resume of social faux-pas, I moved as stealthily as possible through the lobby to the front desk. And tried to retreat just as unseen to the elevator after receiving my key.
"There she is." Elliot's voice echoed across the marble space.
"Yup," Gavin concurred, "the lady in—lady in—uh—question."
Their voices grew louder with every word.
"Speak of the devil," Elliot shouted to anyone within hearing, "and she appears before your eyes."
I jabbed at the call button, willing the elevator to arrive and take me away before things got worse.
A tap on the shoulder told me it was too late.
Dubble Bubble Damn, why hadn't I erased the word worse from my vocabulary. It always made things, well, worse.
Elliot and Gavin had left the bar—but not their bottle—and staggered to the elevator. Gavin, who had been drinking longer and was ten times worse than when he left me in the hall, glared at me through hooded, bloodshot eyes. By his side, hand on his shoulder for support, Elliot was fast behind. Sober when he left the room, he was now as drunk as Gavin appeared to be.
Stifling a groan of distress, I schooled my face into a look of neutral curiosity.
"Yes?" I asked, my heart racing even as I maintained my nonchalance. "Did you need something?"
"You," Elliot barked, swaying with the momentum of jabbing a finger at me, "are a tease."
"And," Gavin added, "a two-timer."
Eyes closed, I wished them both away. Not forever. Just for the night. For the next two minutes, even. Long enough for the elevator to show and whisk me away.
"We be'n talkin' an' we thunk—" Gavin, the usually faint traces of his West Virginia upbringing coloring his speech, shook his head at the misspoken word. "We think you stink."
Elliot laughed out loud. "We think you stink." Ha ha ha. "You rhymed."
"I'm a poet and I—"
"I'm leaving," I interjected.
Surprising enough, considering the day I'd had, the elevator chose that moment to ding it's arrival. I turned and marched inside the moment the doors opened, spinning to face my accusers in triumph as the doors shut on them.
Only the doors didn't shut.
I stood there, blankly waiting for the shiny gold panels to glide together, closing out Gavin and Elliot's equally confused faces. Nothing. Not even a warning bell or an apologetic ding.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Clearly, the elevator had no plans to leave.
Opportunity presented itself and the rhyming twins stepped on board, grinning drunkenly at their good fortune.
"We gotcha now," Gavin gloated.
Elliot nodded his approval. "You have to listen."
They stood on either side of me, sandwiching me between them so I had nowhere to turn. Deep breath. Dee-eep breath.
"Fine. Say what you have to say."
I did a quick mental evaluation. My nausea was gone, at least for the moment, and nothing they said could possibly make me feel worse than I already did. Of the two men I cared about, I had treated one like a cast-off and the other like a whore. Let them do their worse. At least it would soon be over and they would probably feel better for berating me.
"We know," Elliot explained, leaning close and speaking softly, "that you care about us both."
"We don't blame you for that," Gavin added from the other side. "We know you can't choose who you love. Of all people, we know that best."
"We certainly didn't choose to love you."
"But we do."
My eyes shot from Gavin to Elliot and back again.
"It's true." Elliot tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, pressing a kiss to my temple when I looked shocked. "I love you."
My heart raced. Elliot loved me? This was—I mean—I knew he—Holy Hot Tamales, love?
"And," Gavin whispered in my other ear before my brain had fully processed Elliot's confession, "I love you, too. Still."
Gavin loved me, too? Still? Our eyes met and I knew he had never stopped loving me. Not when I disappeared from his life without explanation. Not when I reappeared with a male model on my arm. Not when I came to Italy with said model and wanted to date them both. He loved me.
They both loved me.
I looked back and forth at the two of them. Each looked happy and expectant. Genuine.
In the end, I couldn't keep darting looks between the two eager faces like a courtside spectator at Wimbledon. I stared straight ahead, not seeing the ornate gold and marble lobby, the front desk, the bar, or the pair of guests waiting for us to decide whether we were coming or going from the elevator.
"The thing is," Elliot stepped out into the lobby as he spoke, "neither of us wants half of you."
Gavin joined him, leaving me alone in the elevator car. "We would rather have none of you than that." His green eyes met mine, imploring. "It hurts too much."
My heart broke.
In four short words, I could see how much my indecision was hurting the two men I loved. Because I knew that I loved them both, each in their own way. And it killed me that I had caused them both pain.
But what could I do?
"We've come to an agreement."
Gavin nodded. "Whichever man you choose, the other will walk away uncontested."
I frowned. What did that—
"But the crux of the thing is, Lyd—" Elliot smiled weakly.
"—the bottom line, Lydia—"
"—you have to make the choice."
"And neither of us will see you until you do," Gavin declared with inarguable finality.
The couple in the lobby, deciding not to wait any longer, stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for their floor. Instantly, the doors slid shut.
At a loss, I watched Gavin and Elliot disappear behind a wall of shiny gold and I silently cursed the word worse out of existence.
Happy Birthday to me.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Final Title Hunt Hints
It's crunch time on the Medusa Girls Title Hunt and there are only FIVE days left to solve the clues and enter the contest. Only FIVE days left for your chance to win a Nook and an array of gift cards and books.
I know the hunt is super hard (psst, even my editor couldn't solve them all without help!) so I'm going to give you one last set of hints.
I'll even give out some bonus hints if you just ask. Post questions in the comments below and I will answer anything that isn't specifically "What's the answer?" Be sure to read through my answers to other people's questions, too. Good luck!
Hugs,
TLC
I know the hunt is super hard (psst, even my editor couldn't solve them all without help!) so I'm going to give you one last set of hints.
- In no particular order, the clues lead to: Twitter, Facebook, Flickr, YouTube, GoodReads, MySpace and my forum.
- There may be more than one clue within a given site.
- Clues may be tricky to find, so explore all the pages.
I'll even give out some bonus hints if you just ask. Post questions in the comments below and I will answer anything that isn't specifically "What's the answer?" Be sure to read through my answers to other people's questions, too. Good luck!
Hugs,
TLC
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Buzzing About... Learning By Doing
'Tis my day over at Books, Boys, Buzz... and I'm talking about being self-taught. Feel free to comment.
Hugs,
TLC
Hugs,
TLC
Monday, January 24, 2011
The Joy of Writing
A funny thing happened yesterday when I was working on my short story for the faerie anthology... I actually enjoyed writing.
This may sound strange, coming from a professional writer, but I have a love/hate relationship with the actual physical act of writing down words. There are many things I love about the writing process: brainstorming, collaging, revising, copyediting, even galley proofing. But mostly I view the task of writing the first draft as the laborious price I must pay to get to the rest of the fun stuff.
In other words: I don't like writing so much as I like having written.
Which makes it even more surprising how much I enjoyed writing my short story yesterday. Fingers crossed that this doesn't mean the writing is mostly garbage, but time will tell.
How about you? Do you love writing, putting words on a page? Or do you love the other parts of writing more?
Hugs,
TLC
![Red writer[Day208]*](http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3162/2704703408_bbc775e9a5.jpg) |
| Flickr photo by Chapendra |
This may sound strange, coming from a professional writer, but I have a love/hate relationship with the actual physical act of writing down words. There are many things I love about the writing process: brainstorming, collaging, revising, copyediting, even galley proofing. But mostly I view the task of writing the first draft as the laborious price I must pay to get to the rest of the fun stuff.
In other words: I don't like writing so much as I like having written.
Which makes it even more surprising how much I enjoyed writing my short story yesterday. Fingers crossed that this doesn't mean the writing is mostly garbage, but time will tell.
How about you? Do you love writing, putting words on a page? Or do you love the other parts of writing more?
Hugs,
TLC
Friday, January 21, 2011
Eye Candy: Chapter Twenty-One
(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.)
Q: Three people were standing under an umbrella with a hole in it. Who got wet?
A: Nobody. It wasn't raining.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #97
"Happy birthday, beautiful."
Gavin stood in the hallway, a fragrant bouquet of pure white roses in his hand and a beaming grin on his face.
"Thank you," I said, taking the flowers and inhaling their heavy scent. "They're gorgeous. But where will I—"
"Already taken care of." From behind his back, Gavin produced a gilded vase covered in floating cherubs and swirling ivy. "This hotel has everything."
Stepping past me, Gavin set the vase on the dresser and took the bouquet from me to set the flowers in a simple arrangement that coordinated perfectly with the room. If luxury was in the details, Hotel della Regina defined the term.
I took one last moment while Gavin's attention was on the flowers to check my appearance. For this very special day, one that would run nonstop from a morning outdoors to a fashion show to a night out, I had selected a very special outfit.
A strapless, A-line dress in a dreamy shade of cream that made my fair complexion look like fine porcelain, decorated at the hem and neckline by black embroidered flowers, and pulled together by a narrow black belt. Add a black cashmere cardigan to ward off the chill, a pair of black Dolce & Gabbana peep-toe heels, and a Kate Spade Sam bag toting a pair of black Chanel ballet flats for emergency foot relief, and I felt like Audrey Hepburn in "Roman Holiday."
"Ready for you big day, Cinderella?" Gavin asked as he moved to stand behind me at the mirror.
I tucked one wayward strand of light brown hair back into the neat ponytail sitting low against my neck. "Absolutely," I said, turning. "You ready, Prince Charming?"
Gavin offered his arm and I slipped my fingers into the crook of his elbow. Our eyes met, and I caught a glimpse of intense emotion.
His voice low and intent, he answered, "For anything."
Oh my. And the day hadn't even begun yet.
"Mom?" The voice on the phone echoed and crackled. "Mom, is that you? Is everything alright?"
"Yes ... every ... fine."
The connection must have been failing. I only heard every other word. Maybe ship-to-shore communications hadn't caught up with modern technology. Or maybe Mom and Dad hadn't felt the need to upgrade their "classic" sailboat.
"Where are you?" I shouted into my cell, trying to ignore the stares of the patrons at the sidewalk café where Gavin had chosen to eat a late lunch.
"Half ... Miami ... Cuba ... bean."
"Cuba!? What are you doing in Cuba?"
"Not ..." The line went silent for a few seconds before, suddenly, Mom's voice came through perfectly clear. "We're not in Cuba, dear. We're passing Cuba. On our way to the Caribbean."
"Oh. That's a relief."
"I just wanted to call to wish you a Happy Birthday." Mom's voice sounded tired. Very tired. "Didn't want you to think you were forgotten."
Something was not right about this conversation. Not just that Mom sounded worn out, but something I couldn't quite—
"Did you hear me, Lydia?" she shouted, as if fearing the connection had been lost. "I said Happy Birthday!"
"Yes, thank you." I chewed at my lower lip, trying to pinpoint what wasn't right. "I'm having a great time."
"Oh, are you out with your friends?" she asked. "Tell Bethany and Fiona hello for me."
I frowned. Mom knew I wasn't home. Didn't she?
"Mom, I'm not in New York. I'm in—"
"What, David? No, I'm talking to Lydia on the phone. Our daughter. It's her birthday, you know."
I listened intently to the muffled conversation in the background.
"Fine!" Mom said, then returned her attention to me. "Lydia, your father wants to speak with you. Apparently this call costs five dollars per minute, so I'll call you tomorrow when we reach land. Goodbye."
"But Mom, tomorrow I'll be—"
"Hello, gumdrop." Dad's cheerful voice rang across the line. "Happy Birthday."
"Thanks, Dad. Is something wro—"
"I have to go before this call bankrupts me. We'll call tomorrow. Goodbye."
"But Dad, tomorrow I'll be—" The drone of dial tone buzzed in my ear. "—flying back to New York."
I looked from the phone to Gavin and back again.
"My parents hung up on me. Again." I returned the phone to my purse and found the napkin that had fallen to the ground. "Something is definitely wrong there."
"Do you think it's serious?" Gavin asked sincerely.
"No. Yes. Maybe. I don't know." I looked up, confused and concerned. "I just don't know."
"We'll be home tomorrow night." He laid a hand reassuringly on mine. "Then you can call them back and find out exactly what's going on."
Gavin was right. He always knew exactly what to say. How to make everything seem, if not alright, then at least doable. His no nonsense approach might become tedious in some areas of life, but when the chips were down, he was a solid, steady rock.
That was one of the reasons I loved him so much.
I gasped.
"What?" he asked, immediately concerned. "Is something else wrong?"
"No," I blurted out. "No, nothing's wrong."
He didn't look satisfied, but he went back to quietly eating his pasta and watching me intently.
My mind raced.
Did I love Gavin? Or did I love him before? And if I loved him before, didn't that mean that I loved him still? And if I loved him now, before or not, did I love him love him? Or did I just love him? Like a person loves a dog. Or a pretty dress. Or a subscription to the Toffee of the Month Club.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't get enough oxygen. My lungs felt on fire and my brain started to dim.
Grabbing the arms of my chair firmly, I lowered my head and tried to take deep, even breaths. Slowly the darkness faded and my brain and lungs rejoiced at my steady breathing.
Gavin, however, did not rejoice.
"Lydia, my God," he demanded, shoving his chair back from the table and crouching by my side in an instant, "what's the matter?"
"Nothing really." My assurances were as much for myself as for him. "I'm fine. Promise."
"Fine," he snorted. "You look pale as milk."
"It's the dress. It makes my skin tone light."
"It is not the dress. No dress makes you look green around the edges."
"A green dress might."
From the scowl that earned, I didn't think that was the right response. But really, a near fainting spell when a person realizes they love, loved, or might be in love with someone is nothing to make a fuss over.
"I'm fine." And just to prove my point, I pushed out of my chair and stood. "See."
My legs threatened to go wobbly and send me to the ground—or into Gavin's arms, which might have been their motivation—but I remained on my feet and reasonably stable. Still in my heels, even.
Though he looked doubtful, Gavin stood and pulled his jacket off the chair back with a flourish and signaled the waiter for the bill.
When we were out of the café, walking down the street, Gavin's arm wrapped securely around my waist, he asked, "What's next on the list?"
As if on cue, a bell tower pealed out three loud gongs followed by two smaller chimes. Three thirty.
"Actually," I sighed, though I wasn't sure if I was reluctant or not, "it's time for me to head to the runway."
"Oh."
Without further comment, Gavin hailed a taxi and asked him to take us to the Fiera Pavillion. As the tiny car wove through heavy, Saturday afternoon traffic, we remained silent.
My thoughts darted between my concern for my parents and my feelings for Gavin. How was I ever going to be able to survive backstage at Ferrero's show?
"You know," he finally said as we neared our destination, "we could just pick up where we're leaving off after the show."
He said it softly. Quietly. And I knew what he asked.
He was asking me to make my decision now. To choose him over Elliot and spend the rest of the day and night with him.
If I were certain of my feelings, I might have done just that. But deep inside I knew I wasn't ready. To protect my heart, and his as well, I had to say no. Even when a part of me deep down inside wanted desperately to say yes.
"I—"
Gavin waved off my explanation. "That was unfair of me to ask."
The taxi screeched to a halt and Gavin leapt out of the car to open my door. He asked the cab to wait, promising a bigger tip.
"Listen," he said, taking my hands in his, "I know this is a difficult decision for you to make, and I am willing to wait. For a while. But I'm not Job, Lydia. I can't wait forever."
He pressed a soft kiss to my lips, and I pressed back. A warm feeling started at the contact, flowing gradually down my spine and out my limbs to the tips of my fingers and toes. A feeling like coming home.
But was that feeling strong enough on which to wager an entire lifetime?
As Gavin ducked back into the cab and sped away, I knew that was only half the question I needed to ask. And answers were a long time coming.
"Caro," Ferrero's voice cried across the zoo of people bustling around the backstage area, "you have arrived. And just in time. Come. Help me pull delight from disaster."
Models taller than the basketball player in my Art Humanities class were everywhere. Several sat in front of a long bank of vanity mirrors, mindlessly enduring the ministrations of the make-up artists. A cluster stood near the pair of garment racks that held the remainder of the collection, chain smoking and speaking in some obscure eastern European language. Another bunch paraded around Ferrero as he fussed over this detail and that.
He looked calm and pulled together on the surface. But his accent, which had grown more heavily Italian with each day of the trip, wavered and died by the end of his speech. This, I knew, was a sign of a frazzled Ferrero.
Tucking my purse into a cubby with several others, I asked, "What can I do?"
"Oh!" he cried as he saw the models smoking near the racks. "Someone get those cigarettes away from the clothes. Sequins are extremely flammable. You there! Smoke somewhere else!"
At his shouting, the offending models looked at him without moving a muscle, dismissed him, and returned to their conversation.
"Oh my," Ferrero breathed, fanning himself with his hands. "I can see it now; the whole collection up in smoke. All because that anorexic Slav, Nadika, has to have her way wi—"
"I'll take care of it," I soothed. A distracted designer was not a great asset at a fashion show. "You finish with the inspections."
He smiled in gratitude before turning back to the impatient Pixie Sticks awaiting his approval, muttering something about lung cancer and karma.
"Nadika?" I approached the models, careful to sound deferential to their exalted status.
In return, I got a scathing glare.
At least I had their attention.
Maybe a little white chocolate lie was better than an all out confrontation.
"I'm very sorry to disturb you," I mewed, choking on every honeyed word, "but the stage manager said there was a call for you from—" I raced through a series of high fashion locales before taking a guess on something that might hit closer to home. "—Budapest."
For a moment she, the tallest one with a white platinum bob and ice blue eyes, just looked at me. Weighing my worthiness, I imagined.
Then, in a sudden and startling transformation that sent me back a step, her face softened. She smiled, and sighed, "Gregor."
Without another word she took off in the direction I had vaguely waved to as the location of the phone, running across the concrete floor in four-inch stilettos, the pale blue ruffle of the cocktail dress fluttering behind her.
With the queen bee gone the other models dispersed, stomping out their cigarettes and returning to their assigned stations.
Satisfied, I returned to Ferrero's side.
"Everyone," he called, "everyone please gather around."
Most of the bodies in the backstage area, with the exception of the stage managers—stern looking women dressed all in black and shouting into headsets—moved into a close circle around Ferrero.
"Before the show begins, I want to thank everyone involved. This is the best collection yet, and it would not be possible without the help of each of you."
Everyone applauded, including Ferrero, who inclined his head at the group as a whole.
He raised a hand to quiet them. "The time approaches. Let the madness begin. And I expect to see every last one of you at the after party tonight."
A huge cheer erupted. The crowd dispersed to their pre-show positions, leaving me alone with Ferrero.
"Thank you, Lydia," he said, his voice heavy with sincerely and without a hint of accent. "For being my inspiration and my sanity."
He waved me off when I started to protest. "Are you ready to experience the reason I became a fashion designer?" When I nodded, he smiled like a guilty little boy. "Brace yourself for the adrenaline rush of a lifetime."
On cue, the stage manager's voice announced over the speaker system, "Places please."
Models lined up on the steel stairway leading to the catwalk. Make-up artists, make-up kits in hand, walked the line of models, touching up porcelain pale skin and cherry red lips. Ferrero moved to the curtained doorway that marked the last step before models emerged on stage.
From beyond the curtain, the announcer's voice welcomed the guests attending the show and gave a brief history of the fashion house. The music started. The stage manager counted down, slapping her hand against her thigh in time to the beat.
"... three ... two ... one ... go!"
The first model stepped through the curtain. Ferrero fussed with the collar on the second.
"Go," the stage manager ordered.
The second model went.
Ferrero aligned the hem on the third.
"Go."
The third model went.
The first model emerged seconds later on the opposite side of the stage, climbing down the steps and heading to the garment racks for her wardrobe change.
Without pause, this procession continued. Ferrero perfected the clothes on one model, she walked the catwalk, she changed her outfit, she lined up to do it all over again.
My head spun.
The entire year I'd worked with him, I had counted Ferrero as a bit of a flake. A gifted and talented designer, without doubt, but I doubted his reliability. Watching him work every model, assuring perfection time after time for the hour-long duration of the show, erased my doubts.
By the time the stunning shantung and organza wedding gown closed out the show and Ferrero took his walk with the models smiling and the crowd cheering, I was in awe. My mind began imagining what it would be like to have a show of my own. To go through that kind of insanity with my own line of jewelry. Sure, jewelry shows were not nearly as big and overwhelming, but any show would come with a certain amount of pressure and excitement.
The trouble was... I didn't know if I wanted that or not.
Why did it seem like the decisions I had to make got harder every day?
My heart was still racing with the thrill of the show when I walked out front to meet Elliot. After standing for over an hour in my heels I had changed into the flats, both to save my aching feet and in anticipation of tooting around Milan on a moped again.
But when I got to the sidewalk, all I saw was a row of cars waiting to rush the fashion show guests to their next event. A parade of black sedans led by a white Ferrari. Must be a celeb. They loved to drive those flashy cars.
When the door to the Ferrari opened, I turned back to the entrance to see which celeb the car belonged to.
"Lydia."
Spinning to the sound of my name, I found Elliot standing next to the white Ferrari, an unsuppressed grin on his face and an ivory orchid corsage in his hand.
He was dressed for an evening of elegance. The black tuxedo—one of Ferrero's own, if I had to guess—fit his frame perfectly. Not a single pucker or stretch. Like it had been tailored to him.
By a tailor with an appreciation of the male body.
"What the—"
"Ferrari 612 Scaglietti. Like it?" he asked as he moved around the car, dragging his fingertips across the gleaming hood, and chivalrously opened the passenger door for me.
"It's, um, wow." And I wasn't just talking about the car.
"Yeah," he agreed as he lowered me into the soft leather seat, "that's kinda how I felt, too."
He knelt on the sidewalk, the knee of his two-grand tux scraping against the concrete, took my right hand in his, and slipped the corsage onto my wrist. The ivory flower matched my dress perfectly.
"Wha—whe—we—wo—" I struggled to find an actual word from my vocabulary, finally coming up with, "Why?"
"Why?" he repeated, rising and not bothering to dust off his knee. "Because it's your birthday. Because I wanted our last night in Italy to be special. Because you're special."
I sighed as he shut the door. I didn't think my poor heart could take any more unexpected tugs without giving up on me completely. But, as Elliot slid into the driver's seat and at least a few hundred horses purred to life, I had a feeling I was in for a few more.
"I hope you don't mind," he explained as he navigated the narrow streets, turning at a sign for the A9 motorway, "but I thought we might get out of the city for a while."
He would turn the car around if I wished. Thankfully, I didn't wish. "Sounds great. Where are we going?"
"That," he said, grinning enigmatically, "is a surprise."
If there was one thing I had learned to count on with Elliot, it was surprise.
Sinking back into the plush seat, I watched out the window as the city faded into countryside. The flat expanse of Milan gave way to lush green hills. In the distance I could make out the snow-capped peaks of the Italian Alps in the moonlight.
"How has your birthday been so far?"
"Wonderful," I sighed. Then, when I feared he might think I was speaking only of my time with Gavin, I hastily added, "Especially the fashion show. I don't know if I can go through that on my own."
"Are you thinking of going it alone?" He asked, apparently picking up on the undertones.
"I was," I explained. "Starting my own jewelry line and striking out on my own. But then Ferrero offered me a creative position within the house. Designing my own line under the umbrella of his name."
"Then it wouldn't really be yours?"
"It would." Mostly. "But more like Fererro by Lydia Vanderwalk or Lydia Vanderwalk for Fererro."
I looked at Elliot, gauging his reaction. His eyes never left the road, but he squinted like he was concentrating on bending a spoon or something.
"Doesn't sound like a good deal to me." He glanced at me, his eyes full of sympathetic concern. "Seems like Ferrero gets all your talent and you get nothing."
"I get security. And the use of his name. A lot of designers start out under the name of an established house. It gives them instant name recognition." At least until their own name becomes recognizable on its own. "Alleviates some of the risk."
"Why would you want that?"
"What? To reduce the risk?" I asked.
"Risk is what makes life worth living."
Elliot pulled the car to a stop. I looked out the window, pondering his philosophy on risk, to find we had arrived in a small, Medieval village. The buildings, weathered limestone with red tile roofs, stacked around us like children's blocks.
When Elliot opened his door, a rush of cold wind chilled the inside of the car and goosebumps popped up all over my body. I tightened my cardigan around me, struggling to keep my teeth from chattering as he opened my door and I climbed out.
"Welcome," he pushed my door shut and clicked the locks with the remote, "to Bellagio."
"Bellagio? You mean it's a real place. I thought they just made that up for Vegas."
"Nope, it's real. And you're in it." He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and I sank into his body heat. "This way, Madame."
I let Elliot lead the way, across the narrow, cobblestone street and through the pair of doors beneath a sign proclaiming, Trattoria del Lago. The host, a friendly man with a knowing smile, led us down a hall hung with elegant landscapes depicting a beautiful lake surrounded by tree-covered hills.
"How did you find this place?" I asked.
"The concierge at the Regina was happy to assist." He leaned close as we emerged in a large room full of guests dining at cozy tables. "Especially when I told him a birthday was involved."
"Oh Elliot," I exclaimed. "It's breathtaking."
The entire far wall of the room consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake depicted in the landscapes. A gorgeous view from every corner of the room, but the host led us to the central window. The best in the house.
"Just wait until you see what I have planned for dessert."
Sweet Saltwater Taffy. I didn't think things could get better than this.
It was nearly seven when we finished the last bite of tiramisu. Though I didn't think that was the dessert Elliot had in mind, I was pretty sure a person couldn't leave Italy without having native tiramisu at least once.
"Are you ready?" Elliot asked as he held up my cardigan.
"That depends. Does it involve more food?"
"Definitely not."
I shrugged into the sweater and buttoned up for the chill night outside. Prepared to return to the car, Elliot surprised me by heading the opposite direction. Toward the lake.
"This," he stated as we descended a length of uneven steps, "is my birthday present to you."
A man bundled up in layers of warm clothes met us at the base of the steps and led us along the lakeside walkway to a small boat dock. He climbed aboard a small tour boat, complete with several rows of seats and a small captain's cabin. Turning, he indicated we should follow him on board.
"Oh no," I argued, already imagining the frigid temperatures that must sweep across the lake itself and shivering harder at the thought. "I'm not going on that. I'll freeze."
"No. No frio, signorina. " The little man ducked into the cabin and returned with an armful of blankets. He handed them to Elliot and waved me onto the boat.
"Here, here," he said in nearly indecipherable accented English, heading to the front of the boat and pointing to a bench seat situated against the front wall of the cabin.
Elliot climbed on board behind me and urged me forward, not letting up until I lowered onto the bench. He set the blankets down next to me and thanked the captain.
"Grazie."
"Sit. See." The captain pointed at Elliot and then the bench. And then waved his hand in a sweep of the lake. He grinned as Elliot moved the pile of blankets and sat by my side. "Amore. "
Then the captain disappeared, leaving us alone on a bench on a freezing lake on a freezing night. I was about to complain, but when Elliot hooked one arm around my shoulders and began wrapping us in woolen blankets my body and my heart warmed. I could definitely see the possibilities in this adventure.
"We go." The captain's voice crackled over a tiny speaker above our heads, followed by the romantic strains of a Verdi composition.
"That's your problem," Elliot said as he tucked the last blanket behind my hip, "you need more risk in your life. You're a Marilyn trying to be a Norma Jean."
"What? What does that mean, I'm a Marilyn?"
"You think you're this nice, reserved, tame woman who dresses safe, takes the safe job, and keeps her heart safe and locked away. But you're not. You're a firecracker, Lydia Vanderwalk." He leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "You're an Atomic Fireball trying to be a Tic Tac. You just don't know it yet."
It might have been the night air or the brush of his breath against the ear, but when my entire body erupted in shivers I had a feeling it had everything to do with the challenge of his words.
Q: Three people were standing under an umbrella with a hole in it. Who got wet?
A: Nobody. It wasn't raining.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #97
"Happy birthday, beautiful."
Gavin stood in the hallway, a fragrant bouquet of pure white roses in his hand and a beaming grin on his face.
"Thank you," I said, taking the flowers and inhaling their heavy scent. "They're gorgeous. But where will I—"
"Already taken care of." From behind his back, Gavin produced a gilded vase covered in floating cherubs and swirling ivy. "This hotel has everything."
Stepping past me, Gavin set the vase on the dresser and took the bouquet from me to set the flowers in a simple arrangement that coordinated perfectly with the room. If luxury was in the details, Hotel della Regina defined the term.
I took one last moment while Gavin's attention was on the flowers to check my appearance. For this very special day, one that would run nonstop from a morning outdoors to a fashion show to a night out, I had selected a very special outfit.
A strapless, A-line dress in a dreamy shade of cream that made my fair complexion look like fine porcelain, decorated at the hem and neckline by black embroidered flowers, and pulled together by a narrow black belt. Add a black cashmere cardigan to ward off the chill, a pair of black Dolce & Gabbana peep-toe heels, and a Kate Spade Sam bag toting a pair of black Chanel ballet flats for emergency foot relief, and I felt like Audrey Hepburn in "Roman Holiday."
"Ready for you big day, Cinderella?" Gavin asked as he moved to stand behind me at the mirror.
I tucked one wayward strand of light brown hair back into the neat ponytail sitting low against my neck. "Absolutely," I said, turning. "You ready, Prince Charming?"
Gavin offered his arm and I slipped my fingers into the crook of his elbow. Our eyes met, and I caught a glimpse of intense emotion.
His voice low and intent, he answered, "For anything."
Oh my. And the day hadn't even begun yet.
"Mom?" The voice on the phone echoed and crackled. "Mom, is that you? Is everything alright?"
"Yes ... every ... fine."
The connection must have been failing. I only heard every other word. Maybe ship-to-shore communications hadn't caught up with modern technology. Or maybe Mom and Dad hadn't felt the need to upgrade their "classic" sailboat.
"Where are you?" I shouted into my cell, trying to ignore the stares of the patrons at the sidewalk café where Gavin had chosen to eat a late lunch.
"Half ... Miami ... Cuba ... bean."
"Cuba!? What are you doing in Cuba?"
"Not ..." The line went silent for a few seconds before, suddenly, Mom's voice came through perfectly clear. "We're not in Cuba, dear. We're passing Cuba. On our way to the Caribbean."
"Oh. That's a relief."
"I just wanted to call to wish you a Happy Birthday." Mom's voice sounded tired. Very tired. "Didn't want you to think you were forgotten."
Something was not right about this conversation. Not just that Mom sounded worn out, but something I couldn't quite—
"Did you hear me, Lydia?" she shouted, as if fearing the connection had been lost. "I said Happy Birthday!"
"Yes, thank you." I chewed at my lower lip, trying to pinpoint what wasn't right. "I'm having a great time."
"Oh, are you out with your friends?" she asked. "Tell Bethany and Fiona hello for me."
I frowned. Mom knew I wasn't home. Didn't she?
"Mom, I'm not in New York. I'm in—"
"What, David? No, I'm talking to Lydia on the phone. Our daughter. It's her birthday, you know."
I listened intently to the muffled conversation in the background.
"Fine!" Mom said, then returned her attention to me. "Lydia, your father wants to speak with you. Apparently this call costs five dollars per minute, so I'll call you tomorrow when we reach land. Goodbye."
"But Mom, tomorrow I'll be—"
"Hello, gumdrop." Dad's cheerful voice rang across the line. "Happy Birthday."
"Thanks, Dad. Is something wro—"
"I have to go before this call bankrupts me. We'll call tomorrow. Goodbye."
"But Dad, tomorrow I'll be—" The drone of dial tone buzzed in my ear. "—flying back to New York."
I looked from the phone to Gavin and back again.
"My parents hung up on me. Again." I returned the phone to my purse and found the napkin that had fallen to the ground. "Something is definitely wrong there."
"Do you think it's serious?" Gavin asked sincerely.
"No. Yes. Maybe. I don't know." I looked up, confused and concerned. "I just don't know."
"We'll be home tomorrow night." He laid a hand reassuringly on mine. "Then you can call them back and find out exactly what's going on."
Gavin was right. He always knew exactly what to say. How to make everything seem, if not alright, then at least doable. His no nonsense approach might become tedious in some areas of life, but when the chips were down, he was a solid, steady rock.
That was one of the reasons I loved him so much.
I gasped.
"What?" he asked, immediately concerned. "Is something else wrong?"
"No," I blurted out. "No, nothing's wrong."
He didn't look satisfied, but he went back to quietly eating his pasta and watching me intently.
My mind raced.
Did I love Gavin? Or did I love him before? And if I loved him before, didn't that mean that I loved him still? And if I loved him now, before or not, did I love him love him? Or did I just love him? Like a person loves a dog. Or a pretty dress. Or a subscription to the Toffee of the Month Club.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't get enough oxygen. My lungs felt on fire and my brain started to dim.
Grabbing the arms of my chair firmly, I lowered my head and tried to take deep, even breaths. Slowly the darkness faded and my brain and lungs rejoiced at my steady breathing.
Gavin, however, did not rejoice.
"Lydia, my God," he demanded, shoving his chair back from the table and crouching by my side in an instant, "what's the matter?"
"Nothing really." My assurances were as much for myself as for him. "I'm fine. Promise."
"Fine," he snorted. "You look pale as milk."
"It's the dress. It makes my skin tone light."
"It is not the dress. No dress makes you look green around the edges."
"A green dress might."
From the scowl that earned, I didn't think that was the right response. But really, a near fainting spell when a person realizes they love, loved, or might be in love with someone is nothing to make a fuss over.
"I'm fine." And just to prove my point, I pushed out of my chair and stood. "See."
My legs threatened to go wobbly and send me to the ground—or into Gavin's arms, which might have been their motivation—but I remained on my feet and reasonably stable. Still in my heels, even.
Though he looked doubtful, Gavin stood and pulled his jacket off the chair back with a flourish and signaled the waiter for the bill.
When we were out of the café, walking down the street, Gavin's arm wrapped securely around my waist, he asked, "What's next on the list?"
As if on cue, a bell tower pealed out three loud gongs followed by two smaller chimes. Three thirty.
"Actually," I sighed, though I wasn't sure if I was reluctant or not, "it's time for me to head to the runway."
"Oh."
Without further comment, Gavin hailed a taxi and asked him to take us to the Fiera Pavillion. As the tiny car wove through heavy, Saturday afternoon traffic, we remained silent.
My thoughts darted between my concern for my parents and my feelings for Gavin. How was I ever going to be able to survive backstage at Ferrero's show?
"You know," he finally said as we neared our destination, "we could just pick up where we're leaving off after the show."
He said it softly. Quietly. And I knew what he asked.
He was asking me to make my decision now. To choose him over Elliot and spend the rest of the day and night with him.
If I were certain of my feelings, I might have done just that. But deep inside I knew I wasn't ready. To protect my heart, and his as well, I had to say no. Even when a part of me deep down inside wanted desperately to say yes.
"I—"
Gavin waved off my explanation. "That was unfair of me to ask."
The taxi screeched to a halt and Gavin leapt out of the car to open my door. He asked the cab to wait, promising a bigger tip.
"Listen," he said, taking my hands in his, "I know this is a difficult decision for you to make, and I am willing to wait. For a while. But I'm not Job, Lydia. I can't wait forever."
He pressed a soft kiss to my lips, and I pressed back. A warm feeling started at the contact, flowing gradually down my spine and out my limbs to the tips of my fingers and toes. A feeling like coming home.
But was that feeling strong enough on which to wager an entire lifetime?
As Gavin ducked back into the cab and sped away, I knew that was only half the question I needed to ask. And answers were a long time coming.
"Caro," Ferrero's voice cried across the zoo of people bustling around the backstage area, "you have arrived. And just in time. Come. Help me pull delight from disaster."
Models taller than the basketball player in my Art Humanities class were everywhere. Several sat in front of a long bank of vanity mirrors, mindlessly enduring the ministrations of the make-up artists. A cluster stood near the pair of garment racks that held the remainder of the collection, chain smoking and speaking in some obscure eastern European language. Another bunch paraded around Ferrero as he fussed over this detail and that.
He looked calm and pulled together on the surface. But his accent, which had grown more heavily Italian with each day of the trip, wavered and died by the end of his speech. This, I knew, was a sign of a frazzled Ferrero.
Tucking my purse into a cubby with several others, I asked, "What can I do?"
"Oh!" he cried as he saw the models smoking near the racks. "Someone get those cigarettes away from the clothes. Sequins are extremely flammable. You there! Smoke somewhere else!"
At his shouting, the offending models looked at him without moving a muscle, dismissed him, and returned to their conversation.
"Oh my," Ferrero breathed, fanning himself with his hands. "I can see it now; the whole collection up in smoke. All because that anorexic Slav, Nadika, has to have her way wi—"
"I'll take care of it," I soothed. A distracted designer was not a great asset at a fashion show. "You finish with the inspections."
He smiled in gratitude before turning back to the impatient Pixie Sticks awaiting his approval, muttering something about lung cancer and karma.
"Nadika?" I approached the models, careful to sound deferential to their exalted status.
In return, I got a scathing glare.
At least I had their attention.
Maybe a little white chocolate lie was better than an all out confrontation.
"I'm very sorry to disturb you," I mewed, choking on every honeyed word, "but the stage manager said there was a call for you from—" I raced through a series of high fashion locales before taking a guess on something that might hit closer to home. "—Budapest."
For a moment she, the tallest one with a white platinum bob and ice blue eyes, just looked at me. Weighing my worthiness, I imagined.
Then, in a sudden and startling transformation that sent me back a step, her face softened. She smiled, and sighed, "Gregor."
Without another word she took off in the direction I had vaguely waved to as the location of the phone, running across the concrete floor in four-inch stilettos, the pale blue ruffle of the cocktail dress fluttering behind her.
With the queen bee gone the other models dispersed, stomping out their cigarettes and returning to their assigned stations.
Satisfied, I returned to Ferrero's side.
"Everyone," he called, "everyone please gather around."
Most of the bodies in the backstage area, with the exception of the stage managers—stern looking women dressed all in black and shouting into headsets—moved into a close circle around Ferrero.
"Before the show begins, I want to thank everyone involved. This is the best collection yet, and it would not be possible without the help of each of you."
Everyone applauded, including Ferrero, who inclined his head at the group as a whole.
He raised a hand to quiet them. "The time approaches. Let the madness begin. And I expect to see every last one of you at the after party tonight."
A huge cheer erupted. The crowd dispersed to their pre-show positions, leaving me alone with Ferrero.
"Thank you, Lydia," he said, his voice heavy with sincerely and without a hint of accent. "For being my inspiration and my sanity."
He waved me off when I started to protest. "Are you ready to experience the reason I became a fashion designer?" When I nodded, he smiled like a guilty little boy. "Brace yourself for the adrenaline rush of a lifetime."
On cue, the stage manager's voice announced over the speaker system, "Places please."
Models lined up on the steel stairway leading to the catwalk. Make-up artists, make-up kits in hand, walked the line of models, touching up porcelain pale skin and cherry red lips. Ferrero moved to the curtained doorway that marked the last step before models emerged on stage.
From beyond the curtain, the announcer's voice welcomed the guests attending the show and gave a brief history of the fashion house. The music started. The stage manager counted down, slapping her hand against her thigh in time to the beat.
"... three ... two ... one ... go!"
The first model stepped through the curtain. Ferrero fussed with the collar on the second.
"Go," the stage manager ordered.
The second model went.
Ferrero aligned the hem on the third.
"Go."
The third model went.
The first model emerged seconds later on the opposite side of the stage, climbing down the steps and heading to the garment racks for her wardrobe change.
Without pause, this procession continued. Ferrero perfected the clothes on one model, she walked the catwalk, she changed her outfit, she lined up to do it all over again.
My head spun.
The entire year I'd worked with him, I had counted Ferrero as a bit of a flake. A gifted and talented designer, without doubt, but I doubted his reliability. Watching him work every model, assuring perfection time after time for the hour-long duration of the show, erased my doubts.
By the time the stunning shantung and organza wedding gown closed out the show and Ferrero took his walk with the models smiling and the crowd cheering, I was in awe. My mind began imagining what it would be like to have a show of my own. To go through that kind of insanity with my own line of jewelry. Sure, jewelry shows were not nearly as big and overwhelming, but any show would come with a certain amount of pressure and excitement.
The trouble was... I didn't know if I wanted that or not.
Why did it seem like the decisions I had to make got harder every day?
My heart was still racing with the thrill of the show when I walked out front to meet Elliot. After standing for over an hour in my heels I had changed into the flats, both to save my aching feet and in anticipation of tooting around Milan on a moped again.
But when I got to the sidewalk, all I saw was a row of cars waiting to rush the fashion show guests to their next event. A parade of black sedans led by a white Ferrari. Must be a celeb. They loved to drive those flashy cars.
When the door to the Ferrari opened, I turned back to the entrance to see which celeb the car belonged to.
"Lydia."
Spinning to the sound of my name, I found Elliot standing next to the white Ferrari, an unsuppressed grin on his face and an ivory orchid corsage in his hand.
He was dressed for an evening of elegance. The black tuxedo—one of Ferrero's own, if I had to guess—fit his frame perfectly. Not a single pucker or stretch. Like it had been tailored to him.
By a tailor with an appreciation of the male body.
"What the—"
"Ferrari 612 Scaglietti. Like it?" he asked as he moved around the car, dragging his fingertips across the gleaming hood, and chivalrously opened the passenger door for me.
"It's, um, wow." And I wasn't just talking about the car.
"Yeah," he agreed as he lowered me into the soft leather seat, "that's kinda how I felt, too."
He knelt on the sidewalk, the knee of his two-grand tux scraping against the concrete, took my right hand in his, and slipped the corsage onto my wrist. The ivory flower matched my dress perfectly.
"Wha—whe—we—wo—" I struggled to find an actual word from my vocabulary, finally coming up with, "Why?"
"Why?" he repeated, rising and not bothering to dust off his knee. "Because it's your birthday. Because I wanted our last night in Italy to be special. Because you're special."
I sighed as he shut the door. I didn't think my poor heart could take any more unexpected tugs without giving up on me completely. But, as Elliot slid into the driver's seat and at least a few hundred horses purred to life, I had a feeling I was in for a few more.
"I hope you don't mind," he explained as he navigated the narrow streets, turning at a sign for the A9 motorway, "but I thought we might get out of the city for a while."
He would turn the car around if I wished. Thankfully, I didn't wish. "Sounds great. Where are we going?"
"That," he said, grinning enigmatically, "is a surprise."
If there was one thing I had learned to count on with Elliot, it was surprise.
Sinking back into the plush seat, I watched out the window as the city faded into countryside. The flat expanse of Milan gave way to lush green hills. In the distance I could make out the snow-capped peaks of the Italian Alps in the moonlight.
"How has your birthday been so far?"
"Wonderful," I sighed. Then, when I feared he might think I was speaking only of my time with Gavin, I hastily added, "Especially the fashion show. I don't know if I can go through that on my own."
"Are you thinking of going it alone?" He asked, apparently picking up on the undertones.
"I was," I explained. "Starting my own jewelry line and striking out on my own. But then Ferrero offered me a creative position within the house. Designing my own line under the umbrella of his name."
"Then it wouldn't really be yours?"
"It would." Mostly. "But more like Fererro by Lydia Vanderwalk or Lydia Vanderwalk for Fererro."
I looked at Elliot, gauging his reaction. His eyes never left the road, but he squinted like he was concentrating on bending a spoon or something.
"Doesn't sound like a good deal to me." He glanced at me, his eyes full of sympathetic concern. "Seems like Ferrero gets all your talent and you get nothing."
"I get security. And the use of his name. A lot of designers start out under the name of an established house. It gives them instant name recognition." At least until their own name becomes recognizable on its own. "Alleviates some of the risk."
"Why would you want that?"
"What? To reduce the risk?" I asked.
"Risk is what makes life worth living."
Elliot pulled the car to a stop. I looked out the window, pondering his philosophy on risk, to find we had arrived in a small, Medieval village. The buildings, weathered limestone with red tile roofs, stacked around us like children's blocks.
When Elliot opened his door, a rush of cold wind chilled the inside of the car and goosebumps popped up all over my body. I tightened my cardigan around me, struggling to keep my teeth from chattering as he opened my door and I climbed out.
"Welcome," he pushed my door shut and clicked the locks with the remote, "to Bellagio."
"Bellagio? You mean it's a real place. I thought they just made that up for Vegas."
"Nope, it's real. And you're in it." He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and I sank into his body heat. "This way, Madame."
I let Elliot lead the way, across the narrow, cobblestone street and through the pair of doors beneath a sign proclaiming, Trattoria del Lago. The host, a friendly man with a knowing smile, led us down a hall hung with elegant landscapes depicting a beautiful lake surrounded by tree-covered hills.
"How did you find this place?" I asked.
"The concierge at the Regina was happy to assist." He leaned close as we emerged in a large room full of guests dining at cozy tables. "Especially when I told him a birthday was involved."
"Oh Elliot," I exclaimed. "It's breathtaking."
The entire far wall of the room consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake depicted in the landscapes. A gorgeous view from every corner of the room, but the host led us to the central window. The best in the house.
"Just wait until you see what I have planned for dessert."
Sweet Saltwater Taffy. I didn't think things could get better than this.
It was nearly seven when we finished the last bite of tiramisu. Though I didn't think that was the dessert Elliot had in mind, I was pretty sure a person couldn't leave Italy without having native tiramisu at least once.
"Are you ready?" Elliot asked as he held up my cardigan.
"That depends. Does it involve more food?"
"Definitely not."
I shrugged into the sweater and buttoned up for the chill night outside. Prepared to return to the car, Elliot surprised me by heading the opposite direction. Toward the lake.
"This," he stated as we descended a length of uneven steps, "is my birthday present to you."
A man bundled up in layers of warm clothes met us at the base of the steps and led us along the lakeside walkway to a small boat dock. He climbed aboard a small tour boat, complete with several rows of seats and a small captain's cabin. Turning, he indicated we should follow him on board.
"Oh no," I argued, already imagining the frigid temperatures that must sweep across the lake itself and shivering harder at the thought. "I'm not going on that. I'll freeze."
"No. No frio, signorina. " The little man ducked into the cabin and returned with an armful of blankets. He handed them to Elliot and waved me onto the boat.
"Here, here," he said in nearly indecipherable accented English, heading to the front of the boat and pointing to a bench seat situated against the front wall of the cabin.
Elliot climbed on board behind me and urged me forward, not letting up until I lowered onto the bench. He set the blankets down next to me and thanked the captain.
"Grazie."
"Sit. See." The captain pointed at Elliot and then the bench. And then waved his hand in a sweep of the lake. He grinned as Elliot moved the pile of blankets and sat by my side. "Amore. "
Then the captain disappeared, leaving us alone on a bench on a freezing lake on a freezing night. I was about to complain, but when Elliot hooked one arm around my shoulders and began wrapping us in woolen blankets my body and my heart warmed. I could definitely see the possibilities in this adventure.
"We go." The captain's voice crackled over a tiny speaker above our heads, followed by the romantic strains of a Verdi composition.
"That's your problem," Elliot said as he tucked the last blanket behind my hip, "you need more risk in your life. You're a Marilyn trying to be a Norma Jean."
"What? What does that mean, I'm a Marilyn?"
"You think you're this nice, reserved, tame woman who dresses safe, takes the safe job, and keeps her heart safe and locked away. But you're not. You're a firecracker, Lydia Vanderwalk." He leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "You're an Atomic Fireball trying to be a Tic Tac. You just don't know it yet."
It might have been the night air or the brush of his breath against the ear, but when my entire body erupted in shivers I had a feeling it had everything to do with the challenge of his words.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Some Title Hunt Hints
The Medusa Girls Title Hunt has been up for ten days and there are ten days left, so I think it's time to give you some extra hints. First, I will share the hints I've given to various desperate hunters who've emailed, Twittered, Facebooked, and forumed me begging for help.
And, because I'm feeling extra generous, here are a couple of new clues.
Still need more help? Check out the forum where you can discuss clues and ask for help or give help to others (good karma there). And one of my Splash Team members has been a veritable fairy godmother to other hunters, providing great hints without giving anything away.
Also, it has come to my attention that you can only see the second clue if you are a member of Facebook. You don't have to be my friend, but you have to be a member and I don't like that. So I've posted that clue in the Clue #2 forum, too.
Hugs,
TLC
- If you check out my social network profiles, you're on track.
- If you find clues out of order, unscramble them to find the title.
- You have to take the last clue very literally.
- When you enter correctly you will receive a confirmation.
And, because I'm feeling extra generous, here are a couple of new clues.
- Read this entire post to find out where the first clue leads.
- The clues are spread across virtually every major social networking and media site on the web.
- The final clue leads to somewhere that is not a social network.
Still need more help? Check out the forum where you can discuss clues and ask for help or give help to others (good karma there). And one of my Splash Team members has been a veritable fairy godmother to other hunters, providing great hints without giving anything away.
Also, it has come to my attention that you can only see the second clue if you are a member of Facebook. You don't have to be my friend, but you have to be a member and I don't like that. So I've posted that clue in the Clue #2 forum, too.
Hugs,
TLC
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The 2011 Energy
Every since the new year began, I've felt a swirl of positive energy around me. (Not counting the part where I got sick, of course.) I just ... FEEL like 2011 is going to be an amazing year.
And not just for me, either.
I mean, of course I hope this year is amazing for me--I have two books coming out and hopefully bunches more on the way. But I know it's going to be great for my friends and family, too. There will be new book deals and personal triumphs and bestseller lists and goals achieved.
I hope you feel the same energy and that 2011 turns out to pretty darn freaking awesome for you, too.
Hugs,
TLC
And not just for me, either.
I mean, of course I hope this year is amazing for me--I have two books coming out and hopefully bunches more on the way. But I know it's going to be great for my friends and family, too. There will be new book deals and personal triumphs and bestseller lists and goals achieved.
I hope you feel the same energy and that 2011 turns out to pretty darn freaking awesome for you, too.
Hugs,
TLC
Monday, January 17, 2011
Project 365: Days 1-15
This year I'm undertaking Project 365, wherein I am supposed to take a picture every single day. I love taking pictures and I love the idea of documenting an entire year in this way. The only struggle will be actually remembering to snap a shot 365 days in a row
I'm posting the pictures on Flickr, but I also want to share them here on the blog. Here are the pictures from my first 15 days.
And just in case you wanted to see the full size version of any...
Hugs,
TLC
I'm posting the pictures on Flickr, but I also want to share them here on the blog. Here are the pictures from my first 15 days.
And just in case you wanted to see the full size version of any...
- Day 1: Taking Down Christmas
- Day 2: Daisy on Rainbows
- Day 3: Soy Toffee Nut Latte
- Day 4: Good Luck Dragon
- Day 5: Mom's Garden
- Day 6: Skinny Old Man
- Day 7: Pod in the Sun
- Day 8: Daisy's Christmas Fido
- Day 9: A Winter's Scene
- Day 10: Peace, Love, Mickey and Snow
- Day 11: Candlestick DNA
- Day 12: Icicles Through the Window
- Day 13: Blue Light
- Day 14: Flaming Fireplace
- Day 15: Keyboard Closeup
Hugs,
TLC
Friday, January 14, 2011
Eye Candy: Chapter Twenty
(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19.)
Q: What would you do if you were carried out to sea on an iceberg?
A: Keep cool until you were rescued.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #36
Deciding simpler was better, I dipped my key card in the reader and slipped into the room in order to offer my apology.
"I'm sorry."
Elliot was at the dresser, his back to me and the door, tossing clothes into the duffle bag on the bed. Every muscle in his back tensed up when I spoke. It was several long seconds before I saw him forcibly relax his shoulders.
"Hey, no reason to apologize," he said with a patently false casual tone. "It's not like we have something monogamous going here."
"Please," I wanted him to turn around, to look at me, "let me explain."
He turned his head, looking half over his shoulder but not really seeing me. "I think you already made everything perfectly clear. Message received. My job here is done."
"Job?" What was he talking about?
"You hired me to make the ex jealous, and clearly it worked." With a handful of socks, he crossed to the duffle, threw them inside, and pulled the zipper shut in one swift movement. "I'll send you a bill when I get home."
He started for the door. Other than tossing by body down in his path, I didn't know how to stop him. So I started talking. Fast.
"You weren't hired to make him jealous, you were hired to keep him away. And I thought—I thought that was all over now. But I found out that what I thought I knew wasn't right at all and I was all wrong about him and his secretary—Rhonda. You know her."
When he tried to sidestep me, I leapt back and pressed myself up against the door, blocking the handle. Anything to keep him from walking away. Maybe for good.
"So I wanted to see what I was missing—if I had made the wrong decision two years ago because I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering. It might not work out this time either but what if it did. I'm a different person now than I was then. Yes, I'm spending time with him, but I want to spend time with you too. I have fun with you—the kind of fun I didn't know I needed in my life until I met you, and I don't want to give you up for something that might or might not work out."
I saw a teeny bit of softening in his eyes. Hoping that my inane, rapid-fire babbling was getting through, I stepped forward and pressed my hands to his steel-tense chest.
"I know it's not fair to either of you but I—" This was low. I dropped my eyes. "—I can't choose. Not yet. Either way I would always wonder what if."
Though no one could get me to admit it on the record, I had watched a few—okay all—of those shows where a bunch of singles vie for the eye of an eligible bachelor or bachelorette. And I, like the rest of the country, fell victim to the patriarchal view that the bachelors were sour balls, but the bachelorettes were sluts.
Now, finding myself in the position of choosing between two guys and wanting to explore relationships with both of them before having to make my decision, I suddenly sympathized with those women.
"Please, give us a chance," I pleaded. "Stay."
His eyelids fluttered down, shielding his readable blue eyes from view. I could feel him weighing my argument. Weighing his own feelings.
Then, eyes still closed, he lowered his forehead to rest against mine.
"I'll stay," he whispered, "because I'm not strong enough to leave."
His lips pressed softly against mine.
The duffel dropped to the floor with a soft thud.
"Besides," he said against my mouth, "I only packed half my things. I couldn't leave without the trench coat."
"You brought it?" I asked, giggling more in relief that he was staying.
"Of course," his hands dropped to squeeze my backside playfully. "What good is a fantasy if you don't bring the props?"
Noticing the time on the filigree clock on the dresser, I pulled out from his welcome arms and sought my pajamas. The red satin ones from Victoria's Secret. Somehow candy hearts didn't belong in the fashion capitol of the world.
"Good, because it's supposed to rain tomorrow and I wouldn't want you to get drenched on the moped. I am only attending the first two catwalk shows tomorrow and I expect a full tour to follow." I finally found the shiny red satin in the bottom drawer of the dresser. They slinked along the edge of the drawer as I pulled them out. "It just wouldn't do to have my tour guide getting sick and bailing on me."
"No," Elliot's voice was low and slow, "it wouldn't do at all."
Turning, I knew that lustful smile was there before I saw his face. "You, mister, need to get into your jammies and into bed."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, hurriedly tugging his sweater over his head and kicking his shoes off. "Been wearing my jammies all day just waiting for this occasion."
For several tortuous moments, as I watched him disrobing before my eyes, I thought he was serious. My gaze riveted to every movement of his tan, masculine hands. When he was down to his t-shirt and slacks he hesitated, his fingers gripping his waistband but not undoing the button.
My eyes, anxious and terrified at the same time, flew to his. Those bright blues laughed at my distress.
"Get changed, princess."
Elliot crossed in front of me, scooping his duffel off of the floor instead of stripping the rest of his clothes off—a prospect I was not opposed to on a purely aesthetic level, but if a girl is feeling out a relationship with two guys, I thought it would be quite sluttish to try either one out all the way.
"I-I'll just be," I stuttered as I backed into the bathroom, "in here. Getting ready. Um, changed. For bed."
My face flamed.
Safely in the bathroom, the door firmly and swiftly shut behind me, I pressed my palms against the amber colored marble of the countertop. Only the last shreds of dignity saved me from stripping naked and laying on the equally-marble floor in a desperate attempt to cool off my burning body.
Really, a girl's body was not designed to turned on and off like hot and cold running water. Especially not twice in one night.
If it weren't already so late I might have been tempted to run an ice cold bath in the enormous garden tub and chill my libido into submission.
"I don't know how polygamists do it," I said to my flushed reflection. Only one night in the company of two guys and already I felt caught and tugged in two directions like the last roll of Smarties the day after Halloween.
Shaking the wayward thoughts out of my brain, I quickly stepped out of the ruffled tank and black cords I'd been wearing for thirty-six hours straight. After a momentary longing for a cold, refreshing shower, I resigned to a cool, damp washcloth and a quick sponge bath.
"Hurry u-up." Elliot's voice sing-songed beneath the white and gold door. "I've got the bed all warmed up."
If only closing my eyes would make this all go away, leaving only the right decision sitting front and center in my mind. But closing my eyes only brought conflicting thoughts of Gavin's hot kisses and Elliot's hot body into a knockdown drag-out for my attention.
Well, at the very least I knew that no easy answers would be forthcoming. I had to make the best of the situation I had gotten myself into and not think about the—likely—naked man in my bed.
What I hadn't counted on was my nightly routine taking so long that it bored him to sleep.
I emerged from the bathroom—admittedly nearly an hour later—to find him fully clothed in plaid cotton pjs and sleeping peacefully.
Pulling back the covers as quickly and gently as possible, I slipped between the 600-thread count sateen sheets and snuggled down into the downy soft bed. The room had chilled, thanks to an open window and dropping temperatures outside, and I found the fluffy duvet inadequate against the cold air.
Soon I was shivering and my teeth chattered so loud I was surprised it didn't wake Elliot up. Then again, if the deep, even rhythm of his breathing were any indication, he was out like a light and wouldn't wake unless the sun was up or Vesuvius erupted again.
Forty-eight hours without sleep and six hours worth of jetlag could do that to a person.
Casting caution aside in deference to a good eight hours of sleep, I took a deep breath and rolled to the other side of the bed. Just being millimeters from Elliot's radiating warmth, my chills vanished.
When, at somewhere around two a.m., he looped his arm around my waist and tugged me as close as I could get, my internal thermometer shot the opposite direction.
But for some reason that didn't hinder my falling back to sleep at all. I was just thankful for the two layers of fabric between us. No matter how flimsy a barrier they made.
"Caro mia, I am glad you came."
I turned in my seat at the sound of Alberto's voice. With his position at Gucci now filed under "former", I was surprised to see him at their show.
"Alberto, what are you doing here?"
Before I could rise to give him a hug, he leaned across the row and gave me a quick kiss on either cheek.
"My parting was not so bad that I do not still have friends on the inside." With a wink, he took my hand and lifted me out of my fifth row seat. "Come," he insisted, "sit with me in the first row."
Apparently those were very good friends. While the fifth row seats Janice, Kelly, and I occupied were amongst the local media representatives, the first row was reserved for celebs and VIPs.
I hesitated, feeling guilty for leaving my fr— oh no, was I really going to call them that? Yes. My friends. It hardly seemed fair to leave them in the ranks of the unimportant.
But the instant I started to decline, my friends started shooing me from behind.
"You'll never get another chance like this," Kelly argued.
Janice concurred.
"Alright," I acceded, allowing Alberto to lead me to a pair of vacant seats between a rising Hollywood starlet and a royal-by-marriage socialite.
"I understand congratulations are in order," Alberto said when we were comfortably seated. I must have looked confused, because he clarified, "For your knew promotion. It is wonderful that you will become a designer in you own right."
"Oh," I answered quietly.
With the uncanny insight he always had, Alberto saw right through me. "Ah, I see. You have not yet decided to accept the position."
He signaled to the tuxedo-clad waiter attending to the front row, who immediately arrived with a tray of champagne. Alberto handed me a flute and took one for himself before shooing the waiter away.
"To your future, caro." He lifted his flute to mine and carefully clinked the crystal. "Whichever path you choose will be the right one for you."
I sipped at the bubbly, lost in thought over both decisions I had to make. At least it was only two decisions. Choosing between two great guys and making a monumental career decision was bad enough. If bad things always come in threes—not that I considered my options bad things—then I guess I could count myself lucky that another decision hadn't fallen into my lap.
Not yet, anyway.
As the lights dimmed and the Plexiglas catwalk glowed to life, I felt my phone vibrate in my purse.
I dropped my head in resignation. Mental Post-It: Don't count your blessings before they've hatched.
A quick glance at my phone showed a number with a 305 area code. Where on earth was 305? Whew, must be a wrong number. Flipping open the tiny phone I punched the power button, sending the colorful screen black.
But the call did remind me that I hadn't gotten in touch with my parents yesterday. I would have to call them this afternoon.
At least with an experienced deck hand on board, I knew I didn't need to worry too much.
I emerged from the show an hour later, sequins in my eyes and shantung in my heart, full of inspiration and awe. All I could think of was locking myself away for a week and immortalizing all these ideas on paper.
"Your chariot awaits, milady."
Elliot sat on a cherry red moped, a helmet hanging jauntily from each end of the handlebar. In my euphoria I had totally forgotten our date. Again. My face must have dropped, momentary disappointment that my design time would not be anytime soon, because he scowled.
"You aren't coming," he accused.
"No," I argued. His scowl deepened. "I mean yes. I mean I am coming. Of course I am."
"Oh. Good." He grabbed one helmet—the white one—and pushed it into my hands. "Then why the long face?"
Handing him my purse so I could buckle the helmet into place, I explained. "The show was just amazing and I feel so inspired that I kinda wanted to get some sketches out of my system. But no big deal. They'll still be there later."
I hope.
Inspiration has a way of dispersing with increased distance from source.
Oh well. If the ideas were any good I'd remember them. Right?
"Have you got your sketchpad?"
"Yes," I answered, throwing a leg over the moped and taking my place behind him. "Why?"
He pulled on his helmet and started the engine before turning to answer. "Because you've got sketching to do and I've got just the place to do it."
I thought I heard him say, "Hold on," before the moped burst to life and darted out into the narrow cobbled streets.
Elliot navigated the streets like a native, choosing to view the street signs and crosswalks as mere suggestions, rather than traffic law. He merely waved at the American tourists who shouted after us for darting in front of them as they jaywalked between intersections. I half expected him to start pointing out the sights to me in fluent Italian.
"That's the Teatro alla Scala," he shouted, indicating a yellow-fronted, Neoclassical building on the right. "Built in 1778 on the site of a Medieval church."
We zipped through the little piazza without hesitation, slowing when we merged onto a slightly smaller street.
"This over here," Elliot pointed to the left, "is the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. One of the first iron and glass constructions in Italy."
I peered down the narrow alleyway, covered from above by a long glass roof. Where that alleyway crossed another at the center of the block, a huge glass dome rose above the intersection. All the little shops buzzed with shoppers despite the light drizzle beginning to fall.
How wonderful. Shoppers could feel like they were shopping outdoors without falling prey to the elements.
"How do you know all this?" I yelled in Elliot's ear, not sure if he could even hear me through the helmet.
He turned his head so I could see his profile and smiled. "I did my homework." Taking his eyes off the road for just a second, he threw me a teasing glance. "Surprised?"
"No," I answered quickly. I had learned early not to be surprised by anything to do with Elliot Phelps. Phelps Elliot. Whoever this enigmatic man was.
"Impressed?"
"Oh yes. Definitely impressed."
With a self-satisfied smile he turned his attention back to the road. "Just wait."
I was just about to voice my confusion when the buildings on our left disappeared and the moped pulled to a stop in the center of a clearing.
"Il Dio mio," I breathed.
"Precisely the point."
I was struck speechless by the towering façade of a massive church. A cathedral, certainly. Shaped like a child might shape a gingerbread house, eight, no, ten Gothic spires topped the ornate limestone, reaching Heavenward.
Dozens of tourists milled around the piazza in front of the main entrance, staring, pointing, and taking pictures.
"Duomo. Third largest church in the world," Elliot explained. "The lower levels are Baroque, but the rest is Neo-Gothic. Though construction began in the fourteenth Century, it wasn't finished until Napoleon had the—"
"Can we go in?" I finally managed.
Though I was impressed with Elliot's knowledge, and thankful that he had brought me here, I needed to get inside. To see this beautiful building from the inside out.
He laughed at my desperation. "Of course."
My eyes couldn't leave the façade as Elliot pulled the moped to a designated parking area beside the church. Seconds later we were walking—okay, I was practically running and Elliot had to jog to keep up—through the main entrance.
I fished a ten-euro bill out of my purse and pushed it into the donation box discreetly located as we crossed into the nave.
"This is," I sighed, trying to capture the feeling of the dozens of stained glass windows illuminating the terrazzo floor like the light of God, "breathtaking."
"How's your inspiration now?" Elliot asked.
Tearing my gaze from the fine beauty of the church, I met his sincere eyes. "Magnified." I smiled and threw my arms around his neck. "A thousand-fold."
"Well get to sketching, already," he joked, even as his arms slipped around my waist in a friendly hug. "We have about fifty more stops on our tour."
If I didn't know him so well, I would have thought he was joking. But I had a feeling fifty stops was his bare minimum.
"Yes sir." I saluted him playfully before heading for an unoccupied pew and pulling out my sketch pad.
Rather than explore the rest of the church, as I was sure he would want to do, Elliot slid into the pew in front of me and took up people watching. He seemed content to relax and absorb the energy around him.
As my pencil moved across paper, I managed only a few sketches for jewelry pieces before I found myself sketching the work of art in front of me.
Master sculptors and artisans had nothing on the fine eye of Mother Nature. Any woman would rush to buy a t-shirt with Elliot's beautiful mug on the front. Before I knew it, I had a dozen sketches of every detail of his face.
A girl has to take inspiration where she can.
"Do you know," Gavin mused across the dinner table Friday night, "I haven't seen you eat a single piece of candy this entire trip."
I gulped down the last of my minestrone before answering. "I'm—" Dabbing at the corners of my mouth with my napkin bought me a few seconds. "—trying to quit."
I expected shock or teasing or even superioristic advice, but Gavin simply smiled and said, "Good for you."
Like nothing else, that hit the problem home for me.
And it was true, I was trying to quit. The gummy bear incident had solidified for me what my mother had been trying to tell me for years. I placed too much emotional value on sweets. Either I needed to find a better outlet or a better dentist.
Actually, my teeth were in perfect condition, but any crutch in a storm is a problem if you bring it out in every slight breeze.
So, I had carefully packed my suitcase candy-free. Even with the dish of Mike&Ikes on the foyer table calling to me as I walked out the door.
Not that I had been entirely on the candy wagon.
I couldn't come to Milan without sampling the marron glaces from some quaint, Old World shop on a quaint, Old World street. Giving up my obsession didn't mean giving up on every ounce of edible delight in my life.
Still, my sugar consumption was at an all-time low, and I was—surprisingly—invigorated. I had energy to spare and, with all the fashion shows, must-see sights, and competing dates, plenty to spend it on.
"What is the plan for your birthday?" Gavin asked.
He couched the question with enough nonchalance to fool someone who hadn't known him half his adult life. Me, I saw right through.
I knew my birthday would be difficult to coordinate. Both Gavin and Elliot wanted to claim the day for their own—though I had to contend that it should really be for me, but that seemed a secondary concern.
"Well," I hummed, eying the dessert cart only a few feet away like a junkie with an eye on her next fix, "I've been thinking about that. After a lot of thought, I came up with a schedule that I think will make everyone happy."
Or at least as happy as they can be.
Gavin inclined his head, indicating he was listening.
"Ferrero's show will be the dividing line." Before Gavin could voice the confusion clear in his warm brown eyes, I explained. "Their catwalk show, which I have been waiting for all week, runs from four until five. I will spend the day with one of you from first thing in the morning until four and with the other from five until the night is over."
I consciously avoided saying "until bed," trying to keep any wayward thoughts from surfacing.
"Who gets which half?" Gavin asked, ever the pragmatist.
"That's the best part." For me, anyway. "You two get to choose."
If I made that choice, no matter which way I chose, feelings would be hurt, egos bruised, and assumptions made. Whoever got the morning would say that the night was the more significant part of the day. Whoever got the night would say that the morning was longer.
Much better they figure out a way to assign the schedule themselves.
"Don't you care?"
"Gavin," I said meeting his injured gaze earnestly, "I want to share my birthday with you both. And, since I don't think you'd like to celebrate the whole day as a threesome, I will take what time I can with each of you."
He looked ready to protest, to pout even.
"Now let's get out of here before that panettone jumps of that tray and sashays its way onto my plate."
Back at the hotel, Gavin and I parted in the lobby. I went upstairs and sent Elliot down so the pair could work out the schedule for tomorrow. Anxious and excited to celebrate my birthday, thirty-fourth though it may be, in Italy I hurried to get ready for bed and slipped between the sheets.
I wanted to be asleep before Elliot returned for two reasons. First, I wanted the identity of my morning date to remain a secret until I opened the door. And second, I had a feeling my morning would be starting mighty early.
Whoever got the first shift would want to maximize his time. After all, the night shift had no ending deadline.
Finally sinking into slumber nearly an hour later—and still alone in the room—I dreamt of all the once-in-a-lifetime things I wanted to do on my birthday.
Q: What would you do if you were carried out to sea on an iceberg?
A: Keep cool until you were rescued.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #36
Deciding simpler was better, I dipped my key card in the reader and slipped into the room in order to offer my apology.
"I'm sorry."
Elliot was at the dresser, his back to me and the door, tossing clothes into the duffle bag on the bed. Every muscle in his back tensed up when I spoke. It was several long seconds before I saw him forcibly relax his shoulders.
"Hey, no reason to apologize," he said with a patently false casual tone. "It's not like we have something monogamous going here."
"Please," I wanted him to turn around, to look at me, "let me explain."
He turned his head, looking half over his shoulder but not really seeing me. "I think you already made everything perfectly clear. Message received. My job here is done."
"Job?" What was he talking about?
"You hired me to make the ex jealous, and clearly it worked." With a handful of socks, he crossed to the duffle, threw them inside, and pulled the zipper shut in one swift movement. "I'll send you a bill when I get home."
He started for the door. Other than tossing by body down in his path, I didn't know how to stop him. So I started talking. Fast.
"You weren't hired to make him jealous, you were hired to keep him away. And I thought—I thought that was all over now. But I found out that what I thought I knew wasn't right at all and I was all wrong about him and his secretary—Rhonda. You know her."
When he tried to sidestep me, I leapt back and pressed myself up against the door, blocking the handle. Anything to keep him from walking away. Maybe for good.
"So I wanted to see what I was missing—if I had made the wrong decision two years ago because I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering. It might not work out this time either but what if it did. I'm a different person now than I was then. Yes, I'm spending time with him, but I want to spend time with you too. I have fun with you—the kind of fun I didn't know I needed in my life until I met you, and I don't want to give you up for something that might or might not work out."
I saw a teeny bit of softening in his eyes. Hoping that my inane, rapid-fire babbling was getting through, I stepped forward and pressed my hands to his steel-tense chest.
"I know it's not fair to either of you but I—" This was low. I dropped my eyes. "—I can't choose. Not yet. Either way I would always wonder what if."
Though no one could get me to admit it on the record, I had watched a few—okay all—of those shows where a bunch of singles vie for the eye of an eligible bachelor or bachelorette. And I, like the rest of the country, fell victim to the patriarchal view that the bachelors were sour balls, but the bachelorettes were sluts.
Now, finding myself in the position of choosing between two guys and wanting to explore relationships with both of them before having to make my decision, I suddenly sympathized with those women.
"Please, give us a chance," I pleaded. "Stay."
His eyelids fluttered down, shielding his readable blue eyes from view. I could feel him weighing my argument. Weighing his own feelings.
Then, eyes still closed, he lowered his forehead to rest against mine.
"I'll stay," he whispered, "because I'm not strong enough to leave."
His lips pressed softly against mine.
The duffel dropped to the floor with a soft thud.
"Besides," he said against my mouth, "I only packed half my things. I couldn't leave without the trench coat."
"You brought it?" I asked, giggling more in relief that he was staying.
"Of course," his hands dropped to squeeze my backside playfully. "What good is a fantasy if you don't bring the props?"
Noticing the time on the filigree clock on the dresser, I pulled out from his welcome arms and sought my pajamas. The red satin ones from Victoria's Secret. Somehow candy hearts didn't belong in the fashion capitol of the world.
"Good, because it's supposed to rain tomorrow and I wouldn't want you to get drenched on the moped. I am only attending the first two catwalk shows tomorrow and I expect a full tour to follow." I finally found the shiny red satin in the bottom drawer of the dresser. They slinked along the edge of the drawer as I pulled them out. "It just wouldn't do to have my tour guide getting sick and bailing on me."
"No," Elliot's voice was low and slow, "it wouldn't do at all."
Turning, I knew that lustful smile was there before I saw his face. "You, mister, need to get into your jammies and into bed."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, hurriedly tugging his sweater over his head and kicking his shoes off. "Been wearing my jammies all day just waiting for this occasion."
For several tortuous moments, as I watched him disrobing before my eyes, I thought he was serious. My gaze riveted to every movement of his tan, masculine hands. When he was down to his t-shirt and slacks he hesitated, his fingers gripping his waistband but not undoing the button.
My eyes, anxious and terrified at the same time, flew to his. Those bright blues laughed at my distress.
"Get changed, princess."
Elliot crossed in front of me, scooping his duffel off of the floor instead of stripping the rest of his clothes off—a prospect I was not opposed to on a purely aesthetic level, but if a girl is feeling out a relationship with two guys, I thought it would be quite sluttish to try either one out all the way.
"I-I'll just be," I stuttered as I backed into the bathroom, "in here. Getting ready. Um, changed. For bed."
My face flamed.
Safely in the bathroom, the door firmly and swiftly shut behind me, I pressed my palms against the amber colored marble of the countertop. Only the last shreds of dignity saved me from stripping naked and laying on the equally-marble floor in a desperate attempt to cool off my burning body.
Really, a girl's body was not designed to turned on and off like hot and cold running water. Especially not twice in one night.
If it weren't already so late I might have been tempted to run an ice cold bath in the enormous garden tub and chill my libido into submission.
"I don't know how polygamists do it," I said to my flushed reflection. Only one night in the company of two guys and already I felt caught and tugged in two directions like the last roll of Smarties the day after Halloween.
Shaking the wayward thoughts out of my brain, I quickly stepped out of the ruffled tank and black cords I'd been wearing for thirty-six hours straight. After a momentary longing for a cold, refreshing shower, I resigned to a cool, damp washcloth and a quick sponge bath.
"Hurry u-up." Elliot's voice sing-songed beneath the white and gold door. "I've got the bed all warmed up."
If only closing my eyes would make this all go away, leaving only the right decision sitting front and center in my mind. But closing my eyes only brought conflicting thoughts of Gavin's hot kisses and Elliot's hot body into a knockdown drag-out for my attention.
Well, at the very least I knew that no easy answers would be forthcoming. I had to make the best of the situation I had gotten myself into and not think about the—likely—naked man in my bed.
What I hadn't counted on was my nightly routine taking so long that it bored him to sleep.
I emerged from the bathroom—admittedly nearly an hour later—to find him fully clothed in plaid cotton pjs and sleeping peacefully.
Pulling back the covers as quickly and gently as possible, I slipped between the 600-thread count sateen sheets and snuggled down into the downy soft bed. The room had chilled, thanks to an open window and dropping temperatures outside, and I found the fluffy duvet inadequate against the cold air.
Soon I was shivering and my teeth chattered so loud I was surprised it didn't wake Elliot up. Then again, if the deep, even rhythm of his breathing were any indication, he was out like a light and wouldn't wake unless the sun was up or Vesuvius erupted again.
Forty-eight hours without sleep and six hours worth of jetlag could do that to a person.
Casting caution aside in deference to a good eight hours of sleep, I took a deep breath and rolled to the other side of the bed. Just being millimeters from Elliot's radiating warmth, my chills vanished.
When, at somewhere around two a.m., he looped his arm around my waist and tugged me as close as I could get, my internal thermometer shot the opposite direction.
But for some reason that didn't hinder my falling back to sleep at all. I was just thankful for the two layers of fabric between us. No matter how flimsy a barrier they made.
"Caro mia, I am glad you came."
I turned in my seat at the sound of Alberto's voice. With his position at Gucci now filed under "former", I was surprised to see him at their show.
"Alberto, what are you doing here?"
Before I could rise to give him a hug, he leaned across the row and gave me a quick kiss on either cheek.
"My parting was not so bad that I do not still have friends on the inside." With a wink, he took my hand and lifted me out of my fifth row seat. "Come," he insisted, "sit with me in the first row."
Apparently those were very good friends. While the fifth row seats Janice, Kelly, and I occupied were amongst the local media representatives, the first row was reserved for celebs and VIPs.
I hesitated, feeling guilty for leaving my fr— oh no, was I really going to call them that? Yes. My friends. It hardly seemed fair to leave them in the ranks of the unimportant.
But the instant I started to decline, my friends started shooing me from behind.
"You'll never get another chance like this," Kelly argued.
Janice concurred.
"Alright," I acceded, allowing Alberto to lead me to a pair of vacant seats between a rising Hollywood starlet and a royal-by-marriage socialite.
"I understand congratulations are in order," Alberto said when we were comfortably seated. I must have looked confused, because he clarified, "For your knew promotion. It is wonderful that you will become a designer in you own right."
"Oh," I answered quietly.
With the uncanny insight he always had, Alberto saw right through me. "Ah, I see. You have not yet decided to accept the position."
He signaled to the tuxedo-clad waiter attending to the front row, who immediately arrived with a tray of champagne. Alberto handed me a flute and took one for himself before shooing the waiter away.
"To your future, caro." He lifted his flute to mine and carefully clinked the crystal. "Whichever path you choose will be the right one for you."
I sipped at the bubbly, lost in thought over both decisions I had to make. At least it was only two decisions. Choosing between two great guys and making a monumental career decision was bad enough. If bad things always come in threes—not that I considered my options bad things—then I guess I could count myself lucky that another decision hadn't fallen into my lap.
Not yet, anyway.
As the lights dimmed and the Plexiglas catwalk glowed to life, I felt my phone vibrate in my purse.
I dropped my head in resignation. Mental Post-It: Don't count your blessings before they've hatched.
A quick glance at my phone showed a number with a 305 area code. Where on earth was 305? Whew, must be a wrong number. Flipping open the tiny phone I punched the power button, sending the colorful screen black.
But the call did remind me that I hadn't gotten in touch with my parents yesterday. I would have to call them this afternoon.
At least with an experienced deck hand on board, I knew I didn't need to worry too much.
I emerged from the show an hour later, sequins in my eyes and shantung in my heart, full of inspiration and awe. All I could think of was locking myself away for a week and immortalizing all these ideas on paper.
"Your chariot awaits, milady."
Elliot sat on a cherry red moped, a helmet hanging jauntily from each end of the handlebar. In my euphoria I had totally forgotten our date. Again. My face must have dropped, momentary disappointment that my design time would not be anytime soon, because he scowled.
"You aren't coming," he accused.
"No," I argued. His scowl deepened. "I mean yes. I mean I am coming. Of course I am."
"Oh. Good." He grabbed one helmet—the white one—and pushed it into my hands. "Then why the long face?"
Handing him my purse so I could buckle the helmet into place, I explained. "The show was just amazing and I feel so inspired that I kinda wanted to get some sketches out of my system. But no big deal. They'll still be there later."
I hope.
Inspiration has a way of dispersing with increased distance from source.
Oh well. If the ideas were any good I'd remember them. Right?
"Have you got your sketchpad?"
"Yes," I answered, throwing a leg over the moped and taking my place behind him. "Why?"
He pulled on his helmet and started the engine before turning to answer. "Because you've got sketching to do and I've got just the place to do it."
I thought I heard him say, "Hold on," before the moped burst to life and darted out into the narrow cobbled streets.
Elliot navigated the streets like a native, choosing to view the street signs and crosswalks as mere suggestions, rather than traffic law. He merely waved at the American tourists who shouted after us for darting in front of them as they jaywalked between intersections. I half expected him to start pointing out the sights to me in fluent Italian.
"That's the Teatro alla Scala," he shouted, indicating a yellow-fronted, Neoclassical building on the right. "Built in 1778 on the site of a Medieval church."
We zipped through the little piazza without hesitation, slowing when we merged onto a slightly smaller street.
"This over here," Elliot pointed to the left, "is the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. One of the first iron and glass constructions in Italy."
I peered down the narrow alleyway, covered from above by a long glass roof. Where that alleyway crossed another at the center of the block, a huge glass dome rose above the intersection. All the little shops buzzed with shoppers despite the light drizzle beginning to fall.
How wonderful. Shoppers could feel like they were shopping outdoors without falling prey to the elements.
"How do you know all this?" I yelled in Elliot's ear, not sure if he could even hear me through the helmet.
He turned his head so I could see his profile and smiled. "I did my homework." Taking his eyes off the road for just a second, he threw me a teasing glance. "Surprised?"
"No," I answered quickly. I had learned early not to be surprised by anything to do with Elliot Phelps. Phelps Elliot. Whoever this enigmatic man was.
"Impressed?"
"Oh yes. Definitely impressed."
With a self-satisfied smile he turned his attention back to the road. "Just wait."
I was just about to voice my confusion when the buildings on our left disappeared and the moped pulled to a stop in the center of a clearing.
"Il Dio mio," I breathed.
"Precisely the point."
I was struck speechless by the towering façade of a massive church. A cathedral, certainly. Shaped like a child might shape a gingerbread house, eight, no, ten Gothic spires topped the ornate limestone, reaching Heavenward.
Dozens of tourists milled around the piazza in front of the main entrance, staring, pointing, and taking pictures.
"Duomo. Third largest church in the world," Elliot explained. "The lower levels are Baroque, but the rest is Neo-Gothic. Though construction began in the fourteenth Century, it wasn't finished until Napoleon had the—"
"Can we go in?" I finally managed.
Though I was impressed with Elliot's knowledge, and thankful that he had brought me here, I needed to get inside. To see this beautiful building from the inside out.
He laughed at my desperation. "Of course."
My eyes couldn't leave the façade as Elliot pulled the moped to a designated parking area beside the church. Seconds later we were walking—okay, I was practically running and Elliot had to jog to keep up—through the main entrance.
I fished a ten-euro bill out of my purse and pushed it into the donation box discreetly located as we crossed into the nave.
"This is," I sighed, trying to capture the feeling of the dozens of stained glass windows illuminating the terrazzo floor like the light of God, "breathtaking."
"How's your inspiration now?" Elliot asked.
Tearing my gaze from the fine beauty of the church, I met his sincere eyes. "Magnified." I smiled and threw my arms around his neck. "A thousand-fold."
"Well get to sketching, already," he joked, even as his arms slipped around my waist in a friendly hug. "We have about fifty more stops on our tour."
If I didn't know him so well, I would have thought he was joking. But I had a feeling fifty stops was his bare minimum.
"Yes sir." I saluted him playfully before heading for an unoccupied pew and pulling out my sketch pad.
Rather than explore the rest of the church, as I was sure he would want to do, Elliot slid into the pew in front of me and took up people watching. He seemed content to relax and absorb the energy around him.
As my pencil moved across paper, I managed only a few sketches for jewelry pieces before I found myself sketching the work of art in front of me.
Master sculptors and artisans had nothing on the fine eye of Mother Nature. Any woman would rush to buy a t-shirt with Elliot's beautiful mug on the front. Before I knew it, I had a dozen sketches of every detail of his face.
A girl has to take inspiration where she can.
"Do you know," Gavin mused across the dinner table Friday night, "I haven't seen you eat a single piece of candy this entire trip."
I gulped down the last of my minestrone before answering. "I'm—" Dabbing at the corners of my mouth with my napkin bought me a few seconds. "—trying to quit."
I expected shock or teasing or even superioristic advice, but Gavin simply smiled and said, "Good for you."
Like nothing else, that hit the problem home for me.
And it was true, I was trying to quit. The gummy bear incident had solidified for me what my mother had been trying to tell me for years. I placed too much emotional value on sweets. Either I needed to find a better outlet or a better dentist.
Actually, my teeth were in perfect condition, but any crutch in a storm is a problem if you bring it out in every slight breeze.
So, I had carefully packed my suitcase candy-free. Even with the dish of Mike&Ikes on the foyer table calling to me as I walked out the door.
Not that I had been entirely on the candy wagon.
I couldn't come to Milan without sampling the marron glaces from some quaint, Old World shop on a quaint, Old World street. Giving up my obsession didn't mean giving up on every ounce of edible delight in my life.
Still, my sugar consumption was at an all-time low, and I was—surprisingly—invigorated. I had energy to spare and, with all the fashion shows, must-see sights, and competing dates, plenty to spend it on.
"What is the plan for your birthday?" Gavin asked.
He couched the question with enough nonchalance to fool someone who hadn't known him half his adult life. Me, I saw right through.
I knew my birthday would be difficult to coordinate. Both Gavin and Elliot wanted to claim the day for their own—though I had to contend that it should really be for me, but that seemed a secondary concern.
"Well," I hummed, eying the dessert cart only a few feet away like a junkie with an eye on her next fix, "I've been thinking about that. After a lot of thought, I came up with a schedule that I think will make everyone happy."
Or at least as happy as they can be.
Gavin inclined his head, indicating he was listening.
"Ferrero's show will be the dividing line." Before Gavin could voice the confusion clear in his warm brown eyes, I explained. "Their catwalk show, which I have been waiting for all week, runs from four until five. I will spend the day with one of you from first thing in the morning until four and with the other from five until the night is over."
I consciously avoided saying "until bed," trying to keep any wayward thoughts from surfacing.
"Who gets which half?" Gavin asked, ever the pragmatist.
"That's the best part." For me, anyway. "You two get to choose."
If I made that choice, no matter which way I chose, feelings would be hurt, egos bruised, and assumptions made. Whoever got the morning would say that the night was the more significant part of the day. Whoever got the night would say that the morning was longer.
Much better they figure out a way to assign the schedule themselves.
"Don't you care?"
"Gavin," I said meeting his injured gaze earnestly, "I want to share my birthday with you both. And, since I don't think you'd like to celebrate the whole day as a threesome, I will take what time I can with each of you."
He looked ready to protest, to pout even.
"Now let's get out of here before that panettone jumps of that tray and sashays its way onto my plate."
Back at the hotel, Gavin and I parted in the lobby. I went upstairs and sent Elliot down so the pair could work out the schedule for tomorrow. Anxious and excited to celebrate my birthday, thirty-fourth though it may be, in Italy I hurried to get ready for bed and slipped between the sheets.
I wanted to be asleep before Elliot returned for two reasons. First, I wanted the identity of my morning date to remain a secret until I opened the door. And second, I had a feeling my morning would be starting mighty early.
Whoever got the first shift would want to maximize his time. After all, the night shift had no ending deadline.
Finally sinking into slumber nearly an hour later—and still alone in the room—I dreamt of all the once-in-a-lifetime things I wanted to do on my birthday.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Buzzing About... New Author Advice and Mythology on the Underground
As you may know, I blog at Books, Boys, Buzz... on Tuesdays and on the 11th of the month at Supernatural Underground. It just so happens that this month, the 11th falls on a Tuesday. Lucky me. Well, lucky you, because I've got two blog posts to share today.
TLC
- Advice to Newly and Soon-to-Be Published Authors over at Books, Boys, Buzz...
- Stealing From the Ancients: Weaving Mythology into Your Fiction at Supernatural Underground
TLC
Monday, January 10, 2011
Medusa Girls Title Hunt Contest
I think it's finally time to reveal the real and official title of the first Medusa girls book, which will be out in October. I know, I know, I've been dawdling, but it'll be worth it, I swear. But rather than just give you the title (when have I ever made things that easy for you?) I'm hosting a title hunt.
Now, I'm not going to sugar coat it, this hunt is hard. What fun would it be if it were easy? But, again, it'll be worth it. Before I tell you about thehoops steps you're about to go through, let me share the PRIZES! At the end of the hunt (deadline is midnight Pacific Time on January 31st) I will choose three random winners, with prizes as follows:
Okay, are you motivated? Now here comes the hard part. This is a multi-step title hunt. The first clue (which I will give you below) will lead you to somewhere on the web, where you will find a letter (write it down) and another clue. There are ten letters in the title and a total of eleven clues. The final clue will tell you how to enter the contest.
These clues are kind of hard (I think) and even finding them once you get to the right place might be kind of tricky. That's why I'm offering the fabulous prizes as big giant carrots at the end of the stick.
What do you think? Are you ready for the first clue? Okay, here goes...
That's it. Now, get hunting. Remember, you must follow all the clues in order, write down the letters to decipher the title, and follow the instructions of the last clue to enter. And all before midnight Pacific Time on January 31st.
Good luck!
Hugs,
TLC
 |
| Elementary, my dear Medusa girls. |
Now, I'm not going to sugar coat it, this hunt is hard. What fun would it be if it were easy? But, again, it'll be worth it. Before I tell you about the
- Barnes and Noble NOOK Wi-Fi (or $150 gift card of choice)
- $50 gift card of choice and set of my 3 books
- $25 gift card of choice and set of my 3 books
Okay, are you motivated? Now here comes the hard part. This is a multi-step title hunt. The first clue (which I will give you below) will lead you to somewhere on the web, where you will find a letter (write it down) and another clue. There are ten letters in the title and a total of eleven clues. The final clue will tell you how to enter the contest.
These clues are kind of hard (I think) and even finding them once you get to the right place might be kind of tricky. That's why I'm offering the fabulous prizes as big giant carrots at the end of the stick.
What do you think? Are you ready for the first clue? Okay, here goes...
“Where I get some facetime with my friends.”
That's it. Now, get hunting. Remember, you must follow all the clues in order, write down the letters to decipher the title, and follow the instructions of the last clue to enter. And all before midnight Pacific Time on January 31st.
Good luck!
Hugs,
TLC
Friday, January 7, 2011
Eye Candy: Chapter Nineteen
(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18.)
Q: What did the fork say to the spoon?
A: Who's that sharp guy next to you?
— Laffy Taffy Joke #67
"Buona sera," Ferrero greeted. "Welcome to the Italian Express. Strap yourself in for a bumpy ride."
The limo could have seated at least twelve, but only five others occupied the soft leather benches. Ferrero sat at the head of the limo, his back to the driver and the privacy window. Kelly sat to his very near right and Jawbreaker to his very near left. I was surprised that Jawbreaker's husband wasn't coming. She always made him sound like such a perfect doting husband. He worked a lot, I knew, but I figured this could have been a vacation for him.
The other two occupants, Gavin and Elliot, knelt on the carpet in front of the bar, carefully picking up shards of glass.
"Good evening," I responded, choosing to ignore the tension and awkward glances all around me and whatever had resulted in a broken champagne flute. "How is everyone tonight?"
Though I was just making polite conversation, the question prompted Kelly to leave Ferrero's side, climb gingerly over the two men on the floor, and plop herself on the seat next to me.
"Oh my god, Lydia," she squealed. "Isn't this just the most exciting thing ever?"
She threw her arms around me in a strangle hold, squeezing until I finally patted her on the back in reciprocation.
"I mean, not only is this my first trip out of the country, my first time on a plane, but Milan? Milan? This is like my Mecca!" She could hardly keep her wiggling behind in the seat.
It was hard to believe she had never flown before. Never been out of the country. Everything about Kelly screamed jetsetter sophistication. Dressed entirely in winter white, in her lightweight wool slacks and chunky knit cowl neck she looked like she belonged on a private Greek island.
Unlike the outfit Fiona had selected for me to wear.
Which Kelly suddenly noticed.
"You look amazing! Like you're ready to step onto the runway." Her grin faltered for a second before adding, "The fashion runway. Not the airport kind."
All eyes in the limo—even the driver's, since the partition was down—turned on me. A long, low whistle let me know that Elliot approved of my new look.
I had to fight the urge to tug at the ruffles of the pacific blue satin tank, wishing they covered just a little more than they revealed. Though I had to admit, the way the ruffles accented things that weren't there and the way the bright blue made my eyes glow more than made up for the amount of flesh showing.
It had taken a lot of convincing to get Fiona to let me wear pants instead of the miniskirt she wanted. In the end, the statistics about the friction of pantyhose and bare skin on emergency ramps won out. To save my legs from third degree burns she had consented to a pair of tight black bootcut cords. They had just enough stretch to let me move freely and shaped my butt into a perfect curve.
And then there was the new make-up.
Fi and Beth had taken almost two hours applying my make-up. Both were experienced with professional make-up application—Fiona from working with make-up artists at the model agency and Bethany from working with make-up artists from the lines of cosmetics she sells in her shop. So, two hours later I really did look like a model.
Of course the worst of it was they expected me to remember how to recreate the look.
I probably could as long as I mastered the eyeliner. How Fiona lined the inside of my eyelids was still a mystery. But when I looked in the mirror and saw Brigitte Bardot looking back I had to admit that my past make-up skills had been lacking.
Bethany had even managed to spray and tease my limp, straight hair into a mass of voluminous, sexy curls.
A pair of cat-eyes and pouting lips later, I knew that the old Lydia—the one who used the Bobbi Brown all-in-one kit to the exclusion of all other make-up—was long gone, a lone brown M&M, sitting out in the rain and melting away into oblivion.
Hoping the cosmetic blush disguised the real color heating my cheeks at the attention, I managed a sincere, "Thank you."
While Elliot couldn't take his eyes of my screen siren face, Gavin's gaze dropped to my feet. He had always had a thing—almost a fetish, really—for sexy heels. Boink me pumps, he called them. And the four-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos I wore were as sexy as they got.
Of course, I had a pair of Tod's driving mocs in my carry-on for the plane—it would defeat all the effort to get permission to wear the pants if I broke my ankle on my way to the emergency exit—but for the trip to the airport I wanted to feel the full effect of my new look.
The fire in Gavin's green eyes was unmistakable when he finally met mine. But the fire banked quickly as Elliot crawled across the carpet to my feet and settled into the seat on my right.
Gavin quickly disposed of the last of the broken glass and filled two of the remaining flutes with Veuve Cliquot. Taking the seat next to Kelly, he handed a glass to her and I waited, expecting him to make a toast.
Instead, he handed the second glass to me and smiled.
Though I half-expected Kelly to giggle and squeal, "Bubbles," she merely raised her glass, indicating I should raise mine as well.
"To Italy," she toasted.
"To Italy," I echoed, my gaze dancing briefly over Elliot and Gavin before resting on Kelly. "And to new beginnings."
As Kelly chattered on about Milan and all the things she wanted to do, I felt Gavin and Elliot's eyes on me the entire way to JFK. I knew they each wondered which new beginning I was toasting. If I knew myself, I might have told them.
The Alitalia plane touched down at 7:46 the next morning; almost twenty minutes early, but not a second too soon. Through some cruel trick of fate—or the fact that Kelly requested the seating assignments—she and I were seated next to each other in the last row of the first class cabin. Somehow, even the soft leather seats and fresh baked cookies couldn't overcome the fact that I had to listen to her gushing for the entire seven hours and twenty-one minutes of the flight.
Jawbreaker, of course, took the seat next to Ferrero in the row in front of me, leaving Gavin and Elliot neighbors in the seats across the aisle in my row.
Needless to say, there was not a lot of conversation from the other side of the gray patterned carpet.
As the plane taxied through the runways of Milan's Malpensa Airport—an unfortunate name for an airport, roughly translating as "badly thought"—and Kelly oohed and ahhed at the Gothic spires and Romanesque bell towers I gathered my belongings back into my carry-on.
I had resisted the urge to pull out my sketchpad and work during the flight. Feedback from Kelly was not on my birthday wish list.
Electing not to change out of the oh-so-comfortable-and-yet-still-fashionable driving mocs, I checked on the carefully tucked away Choos before zipping the bag shut. I would just have to rely on my black cashmere pashmina to exude my jetsetterness.
We emerged into the insanity that is Italy in the morning.
"We go this way," Jawbreaker called when I headed for the sign with a suitcase on it, beckoning with the promise of baggage claim.
I frowned. "Shouldn't we—"
"We have a car waiting," Ferrero interrupted. Spying a young Italian man wearing a black suit and muted gold tie and casually holding a sign that read Ferrero Couture, Ferrero made a beeline and immediately pushed his nearly empty briefcase into the man's arms. "I am exhausted. I need a siesta before the shows begin at ten. The hotel will arrange for the luggage."
The driver, clearly used to the eccentric temperament of Americans—fake Italian accent or no—simply shrugged the briefcase onto his shoulder and led the way to the car.
Following closely behind, I had a feeling Fiona would have enjoyed the view. The car service did not skimp on their drivers. Fi would already be enumerating the boundless opportunities provided by a hunky chauffer and an empty limo.
But, rather than push me back into the car and climb in after me, the driver politely held the door as we all climbed in and closed it softly behind us.
"Here is a rough schedule." Jawbreaker handed out a stack of papers printed on Ferrero letterhead. Tasteful gold embossed ivory stock.
What should my letterhead look like if I didn't accept Ferrero's offer? More fun, definitely. Maybe a bright lilac paper with blue lettering that matched my top. Ooh, and maybe something sparkly—
"Did you hear me, Lydia?"
"Wh—" I returned from my brief daydream to find all eyes on me. Jawbreaker's, weary and above purple-smudged sags, looked tired. "Um, sorry. Could you repeat that?"
"The first show is a ten o'clock, but we should be able to relax and unpack a little beforehand since the hotel is only a couple blocks from the catwalk venue."
"Oh, yes," I said mostly because I felt like I needed to contribute something, "that's convenient."
As she looked down at the sheaf of papers in her hands I almost thought Jawbreaker rolled her eyes.
"Do you even know where we're staying?" she asked.
If she didn't sound so tired and run down, I might have taken offense.
Before I could shake my head, she answered her own question. "Hotel della Regina, in Via di Modo."
"Oh," I answered quietly, "thank you."
Why did I feel like I had done something very, very wrong?
"This is gorgeous!" Kelly exclaimed, not subtle as we stepped into the elegant Renaissance lobby of the Hotel della Regina.
"That's an understatement," Gavin concurred.
Elliot let out another low whistle as he came up at my side and slipped his arm around my waist. Exhausted from the long journey, I laid my head against his shoulder and sagged into his embrace. A growl resonated against the polished marble, emanating from the vicinity of where Gavin stood.
I was too tired to get in the middle of the testosterone contest. Instead, I pulled away from Elliot and walked away from them both.
Drawn to a beautiful oil painting of the hotel's façade, I was leaning in for a closer look at the brush strokes around the windows when Jawbreaker tapped on my shoulder.
"I understand there's some conflict about the sleeping arrangements." When I only looked confused she explained. "Gavin and Kelly have requested separate rooms. Something about being just friends and Kelly's use of counter space. Do you and Phelps need separate rooms as well?"
Across the lobby I could see Gavin and Elliot glaring at each other from about ten feet apart. If looks could wound there'd be blood all over the pristine white floors.
I weighed my options.
To request separate rooms would be a clear indication that I didn't want to be with Elliot. Not necessarily meaning that I chose Gavin, but a definite message that I had not chosen Elliot. A choice I was not ready to make.
I couldn't make either decision without knowing more about both of them. Sharing a room—for a week instead of just a weekend—would definitely be enlightening. And if Gavin had a problem with my exploring my options then he could just go hang.
"No," I declared, "we're fine the way we are."
Jawbreaker nodded and turned to the front desk. I went back to studying the painting until I was again interrupted.
"And Lydia?"
I turned around at her uncharacteristically soft spoken question.
"I ... I apologize for snapping at you earlier." She massaged her temples wearily. "There's just so much going on and ... there's no excuse. I'm sorry."
Something about the despondent look on her tired face—shockingly bare of make-up, I noticed—made me ask, "Is something wrong?"
"No, n-nothing."
She protested, but the moisture in her eyes was unmistakable. When I laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder a single tear dropped from each eye.
"Carmello left me. He—" She wiped brusquely at the tears, smearing them into oblivion. "—he went back to his ex-wife."
"Janice," I soothed, her true name coming out without thought, "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can—"
"No. It's fine. I just—" Patting my hand, she smiled gamely. "—He could have chosen better timing, is all. I'll be fine."
I watched in awe as she shook off the momentary display, strode purposefully across the lobby, and checked in. There weren't many women who could suffer a husband's leaving right before a gargantuan career event and rise to the occasion. I felt something tickling at my stomach that felt disturbingly like respect. For Janice. Jawbreaker! I meant Jawbreaker.
Sweet Saltwater Taffy, I hoped this was just indigestion from the airplane food. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I suddenly found respect for everyone I worked with.
Indigestion. That's it. I never should have eaten that Risotto alla Milanese. Rice can go bad, right?
The guest rooms were even more lavish than the lobby. Rich golds and lush velvets everywhere. Even the four-poster king-size bed had gold velvet drapes and gold quilted jacquard bedding. The gilding on the light fixtures alone must have cost more than my entire apartment.
Our baggage managed to beat us here and my Tumi stood empty in the antique armoire, the contents neatly folded into drawers and hung on smooth wooden hangers.
Never underestimate the value of five diamond service.
"Ready to see the sights, sugarcakes?"
Elliot came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and hugging me to his chest. His energy was boundless. Maybe I wasn't the only one needing to cut back on the sugar intake.
"No." I turned within the circle of his arms and slipped mine around his neck. "I need to rest before the shows begin. We still have almost an hour and I want to get a quick cat nap."
"Alright," he drawled, "but don't think you're getting out of a moped-driven city tour tonight."
I smiled at the exuberance in his sky blue eyes. "Just be sure and get a yellow one."
He grinned in return. "Daffy II."
Then, with a quick kiss to my forehead, he bounded out the door. Off to take Milan by storm, no doubt.
I stepped out of the driving mocs and padded over to the bed, lovingly caressing the sensuous duvet and testing the downy softness of the mattress. Sleep beckoned.
Before I could lift one knee a hesitant knock sounded at the door. Not Elliot, I knew. I didn't think he knew how to be hesitant. He took life by the horns in every situation.
Still, I shouldn't have been surprised when I swung open the paneled door to find Gavin standing in the hall.
"Hey," he offered in greeting.
"Hey back."
His eyes hovered over my shoulder, scanning the room behind me.
"He's gone," I answered the unvoiced question. "Sightseeing."
"Oh, well..." Gavin scuffed a perfectly polished oxford on the carpet and jammed his hands in his pockets. He looked like a recalcitrant schoolboy in his Brooks Brothers button down and Polo khakis. Golden hair a little mussed and guilt heavy in his bright green eyes. "I want to apologize for acting like an jerk. Earlier. In the lobby. In the limo."
"Accepted." Though I had expected a little more than this unnecessary apology when he showed up at my door. "Is that all?"
"No, of course not." Taking a deep, sighing breath, he shrugged and relaxed into a more casual, but undeniably confident stance. "If you don't have plans for tonight would you like to join me for dinner and maybe visit a museum. The Pinacoteca di Brera is only a few blocks away."
My eyes shot up and I held his gaze intensely.
He remembered. My favorite painting in all of history, The Kiss by Francesco Hayez, hung in that museum. How could he, two years later, still remember my favorite painting? And he had obviously gone to the effort of finding out where it lived.
A tiny, self-effacing smile lifted the corners of his mouth. As if ashamed to be caught being so thoughtful.
"That," I managed through the emotion swamping me, "would be wonderful."
"The last show ends at 5:30. Why don't we go to the museum straight from there and then to dinner after?"
I nodded. "Are you going to the show?"
"No, I have a couple of calls to make to New York. Time change and all that. Besides," he raked a hand through his hair and stepped back into the hallway, "you know I'm not much for the whole fashion thing."
This was an opportunity I couldn't resist.
"But Gavin," I cooed, "you were on the cover of GQ."
"A horrendous lapse in judgment. The firm's publicity rep owes me big time." He grinned, confidence and mischief sparkling in his eyes. "Need tickets to the Super Bowl?"
It felt like forever since I'd laughed with Gavin. Forever since he pulled back the reserved façade to let his inner class clown show. I was surprised to realize that I missed this.
"I'll let you know," I joked back.
We shared a smile. One that bridged a gap that had long kept us isolated. Different than the completely spontaneous and outrageous ones I shared with Elliot. One that felt like home.
He lifted his wrist and checked his Tag Heuer. "I'd better let you rest," he said as he backed down the hall towards his room two doors down. "I'll meet you in front of the Fiero Pavillion at 5:30."
"See you then."
I'd lost track of which new beginning this was, but it sure felt like a Whopper.
Now all I had to do was decide what to tell Elliot about my plans, because it was going to be hard keeping the emotion out of my voice when I told him I was spending the evening with Gavin.
"I never imagined how beautiful it would be in real life."
Though it had to be the millionth time I commented on the exquisite beauty of the Hayez painting, I couldn't help saying it again. And as we strolled along the narrow streets of a Medieval city, Gavin let me gush.
I wondered what Elliot would have thought of the The Kiss. Would he have been awed by the emotion in the lovers’ embrace? Or would he have turned to me and swept me into an embrace of our own? Maybe I would bring him to museum before we leave.
I also wondered how to tell him I’ve spent the evening with Gavin. Even though we are not committed, he has an endearing streak of jealousy. Especially where Gavin is concerned.
"If I could afford it," Gavin said, interrupting my thoughts, "I would buy it for you. Just so you could see it every day."
"Oh no," I exclaimed, horrified by the thought. "It should never leave this museum. The public needs it more than I do."
Gavin laughed at my adamant response.
"You were joking, weren't you?" I asked. Sometimes with Gavin I couldn't tell. He had a kind of humor that made you wonder if he was laughing with you, at you, or if he really laughed at all.
"If you want me to be." He batted his eyelashes in feigned submission.
When I stuck out my lower lip in a pout, he laughed and put his arm around my shoulder, deftly guiding us across Via Broletto and onto the sidewalk on the opposite side.
Gavin was the sort of man who always knew where he was going. In a new city. In a car. In life.
Navigation was not my strongest suit.
"I don't know how you know where you're going." I shook my head in wonder. "Do you ever get lost?"
"Not," he answered, distractedly reading the sign above a door on Via Dante, a street blocked off as a pedestrian area and strewn with sidewalk cafes and full of tourists and locals alike, "when I look at a map beforehand. This is it."
Gavin pulled open the unassuming, carved wooden door and ushered me inside. Down a flight of ancient tile steps we met a maitre d' with a pair of menus in his hands and a welcoming smile on his lips.
"Buona sera, Signore Fairchild. Come sta?" the maitre d' asked musically.
"Molto bene, grazie Carlo."
Gavin's fluent response surprised me. "I never knew you spoke Italian."
"There were a lot of things you never knew."
Carlo motioned for us to follow him. "I have saved you the very best table, il migliore. All is ready."
"Thank you Carlo."
After setting the menus on the small corner table, Carlo pulled out my seat. Gavin stepped around and took the chair and slid it in beneath me as I sat. With a quick nod and a smile of commiseration, Carlo disappeared.
"What is ready?" I asked as Gavin sat.
"A special order," he replied cryptically. Picking up the open bottle of local Valpolicella to his right, Gavin carefully poured two equal glasses. Lifting his glass, he indicated I should raise mine as well. "To Italy."
I smiled, holding my glass higher. "To Italy."
"And to you," he added, interrupting my first sip, "Lydia Ilene Vanderwalk. You are an amazing and beautiful woman."
Not knowing how to respond—I'm sure a woman with more social savvy would have said "Thank you" with grace and aplomb—I merely nodded and lifted the glass to my lips.
The meal was slow, in a leisurely and sensual way. Several minutes passed between each lavish course and the conversation never waned. I told Gavin about my promotion offer from Ferrero and my idea of starting my own jewelry line. He gave me advice, as both friend and businessman, for both options.
We never spoke about that night two years ago when I walked out of his life or that afternoon two weeks ago when I escaped out of his apartment.
Getting to know Gavin all over again was more like realizing that I had never known him at all.
"I didn't know you spent a summer in college volunteering at Sustainable Development International." I looked at him in a whole new light. "That must have been very rewarding."
He shrugged as if it meant nothing, but I could see in his eyes that he regarded that time very fondly.
"It was okay."
Yeah, if okay meant life-altering. "Where were you sent?"
"West Africa. Ghana mostly. Digging canals and planting soil-retaining vegetation in areas that suffer from soil erosion-induced droughts."
Rather than continue the conversation, Gavin looked around and caught Carlo's attention. A cryptic signal passed between the two and Carlo quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
Moments later he reappeared, a grinning chef and two waiters following in a mini-parade.
"For you, signorina." Carlo bowed and stepped out of the way.
The chef stepped forward and set a large, covered platter on our table. One waiter lifted the lid as the other handed each of us a dessert fork and wished us, "Buon appetito!"
On the platter sat an enormous, spherical scoop of Semifreddo al Limone—a rich ice cream parfait that is my absolute all-time favorite dessert—in a bed of strawberry sauce. Written in the strawberry sauce, in carefully piped chocolate, were the words, "Guaranteed to melt in your hand."
My mind sped back to a clear blue morning several years ago—laying in Gavin's king-size bed, decadently wasting away the first half of a lazy Sunday. One where he miraculously didn't have to work and I had no plans but being with him.
He had rolled over and reached under the bed to pull out a brown paper bag with "Sugar and Spice" imprinted in vibrant red. From the bag he produced a sable artist's brush and a small paint can.
"What's that?" I had asked.
He had grinned wickedly in return. "Chocolate body paint."
With a swift twist of the lid, he popped the can open and dipped a finger into the liquid inside. He held the chocolate-coated finger out, waiting until I had closed my lips around him to add, "Guaranteed to melt in your hand."
Needless to say, we had been lucky to make it to work on time the next morning. And I bet his sheets still bore traces.
"Lydia?"
Gavin's voice jarred me back into the present. Into a new moment. A memory in the making.
He held a forkful of Semifreddo hovering in front of my mouth. Our eyes met and, as I leaned forward in slow motion, taking the frozen treat into my tongue, the tension built and crackled between us.
"You know," I breathed after swallowing the bite, "I'm not really hungry."
Not taking his eyes off mine, Gavin shouted, "Check please."
Carlo appeared with the bill before I could even lick the little drop from the corner of my mouth. Clearly he was expecting things to go this well.
We were out the door in a taxi to the hotel moments later.
Our mouths met before Carlo closed the door behind us. The taxi only took three minutes to get to the hotel, but already I was overheated and trying to get on Gavin's lap.
He threw a few lira at the driver—far more than a three-minute ride warranted—and climbed out the cab, pulling me out behind him. Hand-in-hand, like anxious school children, we dashed across the lobby to the elevator which, thankfully, was waiting on the ground floor.
"God, I've missed you," Gavin exclaimed as the doors slid shut and he pushed me against the back wall.
His mouth captured mine, his tongue sweeping across my lips before forging in to taste all of me. I couldn't get enough. I had to touch him everywhere. My hands grabbed at his shoulders. His back. His tight behind. Finally, needing more, I tugged his button-down out of his waistband and smoothed my hands over the rippling planes of his chest.
"I've missed this," I breathed when his mouth released mine to devour my jaw and neck and collarbone and ... oh my.
A faint ding registered in the back of my mind, but I was too swept up to even notice. It wasn't until I felt Gavin move away suddenly that I opened my eyes to find out why he left.
"I guess I know why you missed our date," Elliot said, his voice cold as he held Gavin by the shirt collar.
Dropping his catch, Elliot turned abruptly and stalked down the hallway to our room.
"Elliot, wait!" I called after his swiftly retreating form. "Elliot!"
The door to our room slammed with a resounding thud.
Dubble Bubble Damn!
I looked from the empty hallway to Gavin, still panting from our heavy petting and obviously confused by what had just happened. Did I stay and satisfy some long-unaddressed urges with Gavin, or go to Elliot and do a lot of explaining?
That was the trouble with new beginnings; you had to make choices to get them started.
Q: What did the fork say to the spoon?
A: Who's that sharp guy next to you?
— Laffy Taffy Joke #67
"Buona sera," Ferrero greeted. "Welcome to the Italian Express. Strap yourself in for a bumpy ride."
The limo could have seated at least twelve, but only five others occupied the soft leather benches. Ferrero sat at the head of the limo, his back to the driver and the privacy window. Kelly sat to his very near right and Jawbreaker to his very near left. I was surprised that Jawbreaker's husband wasn't coming. She always made him sound like such a perfect doting husband. He worked a lot, I knew, but I figured this could have been a vacation for him.
The other two occupants, Gavin and Elliot, knelt on the carpet in front of the bar, carefully picking up shards of glass.
"Good evening," I responded, choosing to ignore the tension and awkward glances all around me and whatever had resulted in a broken champagne flute. "How is everyone tonight?"
Though I was just making polite conversation, the question prompted Kelly to leave Ferrero's side, climb gingerly over the two men on the floor, and plop herself on the seat next to me.
"Oh my god, Lydia," she squealed. "Isn't this just the most exciting thing ever?"
She threw her arms around me in a strangle hold, squeezing until I finally patted her on the back in reciprocation.
"I mean, not only is this my first trip out of the country, my first time on a plane, but Milan? Milan? This is like my Mecca!" She could hardly keep her wiggling behind in the seat.
It was hard to believe she had never flown before. Never been out of the country. Everything about Kelly screamed jetsetter sophistication. Dressed entirely in winter white, in her lightweight wool slacks and chunky knit cowl neck she looked like she belonged on a private Greek island.
Unlike the outfit Fiona had selected for me to wear.
Which Kelly suddenly noticed.
"You look amazing! Like you're ready to step onto the runway." Her grin faltered for a second before adding, "The fashion runway. Not the airport kind."
All eyes in the limo—even the driver's, since the partition was down—turned on me. A long, low whistle let me know that Elliot approved of my new look.
I had to fight the urge to tug at the ruffles of the pacific blue satin tank, wishing they covered just a little more than they revealed. Though I had to admit, the way the ruffles accented things that weren't there and the way the bright blue made my eyes glow more than made up for the amount of flesh showing.
It had taken a lot of convincing to get Fiona to let me wear pants instead of the miniskirt she wanted. In the end, the statistics about the friction of pantyhose and bare skin on emergency ramps won out. To save my legs from third degree burns she had consented to a pair of tight black bootcut cords. They had just enough stretch to let me move freely and shaped my butt into a perfect curve.
And then there was the new make-up.
Fi and Beth had taken almost two hours applying my make-up. Both were experienced with professional make-up application—Fiona from working with make-up artists at the model agency and Bethany from working with make-up artists from the lines of cosmetics she sells in her shop. So, two hours later I really did look like a model.
Of course the worst of it was they expected me to remember how to recreate the look.
I probably could as long as I mastered the eyeliner. How Fiona lined the inside of my eyelids was still a mystery. But when I looked in the mirror and saw Brigitte Bardot looking back I had to admit that my past make-up skills had been lacking.
Bethany had even managed to spray and tease my limp, straight hair into a mass of voluminous, sexy curls.
A pair of cat-eyes and pouting lips later, I knew that the old Lydia—the one who used the Bobbi Brown all-in-one kit to the exclusion of all other make-up—was long gone, a lone brown M&M, sitting out in the rain and melting away into oblivion.
Hoping the cosmetic blush disguised the real color heating my cheeks at the attention, I managed a sincere, "Thank you."
While Elliot couldn't take his eyes of my screen siren face, Gavin's gaze dropped to my feet. He had always had a thing—almost a fetish, really—for sexy heels. Boink me pumps, he called them. And the four-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos I wore were as sexy as they got.
Of course, I had a pair of Tod's driving mocs in my carry-on for the plane—it would defeat all the effort to get permission to wear the pants if I broke my ankle on my way to the emergency exit—but for the trip to the airport I wanted to feel the full effect of my new look.
The fire in Gavin's green eyes was unmistakable when he finally met mine. But the fire banked quickly as Elliot crawled across the carpet to my feet and settled into the seat on my right.
Gavin quickly disposed of the last of the broken glass and filled two of the remaining flutes with Veuve Cliquot. Taking the seat next to Kelly, he handed a glass to her and I waited, expecting him to make a toast.
Instead, he handed the second glass to me and smiled.
Though I half-expected Kelly to giggle and squeal, "Bubbles," she merely raised her glass, indicating I should raise mine as well.
"To Italy," she toasted.
"To Italy," I echoed, my gaze dancing briefly over Elliot and Gavin before resting on Kelly. "And to new beginnings."
As Kelly chattered on about Milan and all the things she wanted to do, I felt Gavin and Elliot's eyes on me the entire way to JFK. I knew they each wondered which new beginning I was toasting. If I knew myself, I might have told them.
The Alitalia plane touched down at 7:46 the next morning; almost twenty minutes early, but not a second too soon. Through some cruel trick of fate—or the fact that Kelly requested the seating assignments—she and I were seated next to each other in the last row of the first class cabin. Somehow, even the soft leather seats and fresh baked cookies couldn't overcome the fact that I had to listen to her gushing for the entire seven hours and twenty-one minutes of the flight.
Jawbreaker, of course, took the seat next to Ferrero in the row in front of me, leaving Gavin and Elliot neighbors in the seats across the aisle in my row.
Needless to say, there was not a lot of conversation from the other side of the gray patterned carpet.
As the plane taxied through the runways of Milan's Malpensa Airport—an unfortunate name for an airport, roughly translating as "badly thought"—and Kelly oohed and ahhed at the Gothic spires and Romanesque bell towers I gathered my belongings back into my carry-on.
I had resisted the urge to pull out my sketchpad and work during the flight. Feedback from Kelly was not on my birthday wish list.
Electing not to change out of the oh-so-comfortable-and-yet-still-fashionable driving mocs, I checked on the carefully tucked away Choos before zipping the bag shut. I would just have to rely on my black cashmere pashmina to exude my jetsetterness.
We emerged into the insanity that is Italy in the morning.
"We go this way," Jawbreaker called when I headed for the sign with a suitcase on it, beckoning with the promise of baggage claim.
I frowned. "Shouldn't we—"
"We have a car waiting," Ferrero interrupted. Spying a young Italian man wearing a black suit and muted gold tie and casually holding a sign that read Ferrero Couture, Ferrero made a beeline and immediately pushed his nearly empty briefcase into the man's arms. "I am exhausted. I need a siesta before the shows begin at ten. The hotel will arrange for the luggage."
The driver, clearly used to the eccentric temperament of Americans—fake Italian accent or no—simply shrugged the briefcase onto his shoulder and led the way to the car.
Following closely behind, I had a feeling Fiona would have enjoyed the view. The car service did not skimp on their drivers. Fi would already be enumerating the boundless opportunities provided by a hunky chauffer and an empty limo.
But, rather than push me back into the car and climb in after me, the driver politely held the door as we all climbed in and closed it softly behind us.
"Here is a rough schedule." Jawbreaker handed out a stack of papers printed on Ferrero letterhead. Tasteful gold embossed ivory stock.
What should my letterhead look like if I didn't accept Ferrero's offer? More fun, definitely. Maybe a bright lilac paper with blue lettering that matched my top. Ooh, and maybe something sparkly—
"Did you hear me, Lydia?"
"Wh—" I returned from my brief daydream to find all eyes on me. Jawbreaker's, weary and above purple-smudged sags, looked tired. "Um, sorry. Could you repeat that?"
"The first show is a ten o'clock, but we should be able to relax and unpack a little beforehand since the hotel is only a couple blocks from the catwalk venue."
"Oh, yes," I said mostly because I felt like I needed to contribute something, "that's convenient."
As she looked down at the sheaf of papers in her hands I almost thought Jawbreaker rolled her eyes.
"Do you even know where we're staying?" she asked.
If she didn't sound so tired and run down, I might have taken offense.
Before I could shake my head, she answered her own question. "Hotel della Regina, in Via di Modo."
"Oh," I answered quietly, "thank you."
Why did I feel like I had done something very, very wrong?
"This is gorgeous!" Kelly exclaimed, not subtle as we stepped into the elegant Renaissance lobby of the Hotel della Regina.
"That's an understatement," Gavin concurred.
Elliot let out another low whistle as he came up at my side and slipped his arm around my waist. Exhausted from the long journey, I laid my head against his shoulder and sagged into his embrace. A growl resonated against the polished marble, emanating from the vicinity of where Gavin stood.
I was too tired to get in the middle of the testosterone contest. Instead, I pulled away from Elliot and walked away from them both.
Drawn to a beautiful oil painting of the hotel's façade, I was leaning in for a closer look at the brush strokes around the windows when Jawbreaker tapped on my shoulder.
"I understand there's some conflict about the sleeping arrangements." When I only looked confused she explained. "Gavin and Kelly have requested separate rooms. Something about being just friends and Kelly's use of counter space. Do you and Phelps need separate rooms as well?"
Across the lobby I could see Gavin and Elliot glaring at each other from about ten feet apart. If looks could wound there'd be blood all over the pristine white floors.
I weighed my options.
To request separate rooms would be a clear indication that I didn't want to be with Elliot. Not necessarily meaning that I chose Gavin, but a definite message that I had not chosen Elliot. A choice I was not ready to make.
I couldn't make either decision without knowing more about both of them. Sharing a room—for a week instead of just a weekend—would definitely be enlightening. And if Gavin had a problem with my exploring my options then he could just go hang.
"No," I declared, "we're fine the way we are."
Jawbreaker nodded and turned to the front desk. I went back to studying the painting until I was again interrupted.
"And Lydia?"
I turned around at her uncharacteristically soft spoken question.
"I ... I apologize for snapping at you earlier." She massaged her temples wearily. "There's just so much going on and ... there's no excuse. I'm sorry."
Something about the despondent look on her tired face—shockingly bare of make-up, I noticed—made me ask, "Is something wrong?"
"No, n-nothing."
She protested, but the moisture in her eyes was unmistakable. When I laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder a single tear dropped from each eye.
"Carmello left me. He—" She wiped brusquely at the tears, smearing them into oblivion. "—he went back to his ex-wife."
"Janice," I soothed, her true name coming out without thought, "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can—"
"No. It's fine. I just—" Patting my hand, she smiled gamely. "—He could have chosen better timing, is all. I'll be fine."
I watched in awe as she shook off the momentary display, strode purposefully across the lobby, and checked in. There weren't many women who could suffer a husband's leaving right before a gargantuan career event and rise to the occasion. I felt something tickling at my stomach that felt disturbingly like respect. For Janice. Jawbreaker! I meant Jawbreaker.
Sweet Saltwater Taffy, I hoped this was just indigestion from the airplane food. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I suddenly found respect for everyone I worked with.
Indigestion. That's it. I never should have eaten that Risotto alla Milanese. Rice can go bad, right?
The guest rooms were even more lavish than the lobby. Rich golds and lush velvets everywhere. Even the four-poster king-size bed had gold velvet drapes and gold quilted jacquard bedding. The gilding on the light fixtures alone must have cost more than my entire apartment.
Our baggage managed to beat us here and my Tumi stood empty in the antique armoire, the contents neatly folded into drawers and hung on smooth wooden hangers.
Never underestimate the value of five diamond service.
"Ready to see the sights, sugarcakes?"
Elliot came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and hugging me to his chest. His energy was boundless. Maybe I wasn't the only one needing to cut back on the sugar intake.
"No." I turned within the circle of his arms and slipped mine around his neck. "I need to rest before the shows begin. We still have almost an hour and I want to get a quick cat nap."
"Alright," he drawled, "but don't think you're getting out of a moped-driven city tour tonight."
I smiled at the exuberance in his sky blue eyes. "Just be sure and get a yellow one."
He grinned in return. "Daffy II."
Then, with a quick kiss to my forehead, he bounded out the door. Off to take Milan by storm, no doubt.
I stepped out of the driving mocs and padded over to the bed, lovingly caressing the sensuous duvet and testing the downy softness of the mattress. Sleep beckoned.
Before I could lift one knee a hesitant knock sounded at the door. Not Elliot, I knew. I didn't think he knew how to be hesitant. He took life by the horns in every situation.
Still, I shouldn't have been surprised when I swung open the paneled door to find Gavin standing in the hall.
"Hey," he offered in greeting.
"Hey back."
His eyes hovered over my shoulder, scanning the room behind me.
"He's gone," I answered the unvoiced question. "Sightseeing."
"Oh, well..." Gavin scuffed a perfectly polished oxford on the carpet and jammed his hands in his pockets. He looked like a recalcitrant schoolboy in his Brooks Brothers button down and Polo khakis. Golden hair a little mussed and guilt heavy in his bright green eyes. "I want to apologize for acting like an jerk. Earlier. In the lobby. In the limo."
"Accepted." Though I had expected a little more than this unnecessary apology when he showed up at my door. "Is that all?"
"No, of course not." Taking a deep, sighing breath, he shrugged and relaxed into a more casual, but undeniably confident stance. "If you don't have plans for tonight would you like to join me for dinner and maybe visit a museum. The Pinacoteca di Brera is only a few blocks away."
My eyes shot up and I held his gaze intensely.
He remembered. My favorite painting in all of history, The Kiss by Francesco Hayez, hung in that museum. How could he, two years later, still remember my favorite painting? And he had obviously gone to the effort of finding out where it lived.
A tiny, self-effacing smile lifted the corners of his mouth. As if ashamed to be caught being so thoughtful.
"That," I managed through the emotion swamping me, "would be wonderful."
"The last show ends at 5:30. Why don't we go to the museum straight from there and then to dinner after?"
I nodded. "Are you going to the show?"
"No, I have a couple of calls to make to New York. Time change and all that. Besides," he raked a hand through his hair and stepped back into the hallway, "you know I'm not much for the whole fashion thing."
This was an opportunity I couldn't resist.
"But Gavin," I cooed, "you were on the cover of GQ."
"A horrendous lapse in judgment. The firm's publicity rep owes me big time." He grinned, confidence and mischief sparkling in his eyes. "Need tickets to the Super Bowl?"
It felt like forever since I'd laughed with Gavin. Forever since he pulled back the reserved façade to let his inner class clown show. I was surprised to realize that I missed this.
"I'll let you know," I joked back.
We shared a smile. One that bridged a gap that had long kept us isolated. Different than the completely spontaneous and outrageous ones I shared with Elliot. One that felt like home.
He lifted his wrist and checked his Tag Heuer. "I'd better let you rest," he said as he backed down the hall towards his room two doors down. "I'll meet you in front of the Fiero Pavillion at 5:30."
"See you then."
I'd lost track of which new beginning this was, but it sure felt like a Whopper.
Now all I had to do was decide what to tell Elliot about my plans, because it was going to be hard keeping the emotion out of my voice when I told him I was spending the evening with Gavin.
"I never imagined how beautiful it would be in real life."
Though it had to be the millionth time I commented on the exquisite beauty of the Hayez painting, I couldn't help saying it again. And as we strolled along the narrow streets of a Medieval city, Gavin let me gush.
I wondered what Elliot would have thought of the The Kiss. Would he have been awed by the emotion in the lovers’ embrace? Or would he have turned to me and swept me into an embrace of our own? Maybe I would bring him to museum before we leave.
I also wondered how to tell him I’ve spent the evening with Gavin. Even though we are not committed, he has an endearing streak of jealousy. Especially where Gavin is concerned.
"If I could afford it," Gavin said, interrupting my thoughts, "I would buy it for you. Just so you could see it every day."
"Oh no," I exclaimed, horrified by the thought. "It should never leave this museum. The public needs it more than I do."
Gavin laughed at my adamant response.
"You were joking, weren't you?" I asked. Sometimes with Gavin I couldn't tell. He had a kind of humor that made you wonder if he was laughing with you, at you, or if he really laughed at all.
"If you want me to be." He batted his eyelashes in feigned submission.
When I stuck out my lower lip in a pout, he laughed and put his arm around my shoulder, deftly guiding us across Via Broletto and onto the sidewalk on the opposite side.
Gavin was the sort of man who always knew where he was going. In a new city. In a car. In life.
Navigation was not my strongest suit.
"I don't know how you know where you're going." I shook my head in wonder. "Do you ever get lost?"
"Not," he answered, distractedly reading the sign above a door on Via Dante, a street blocked off as a pedestrian area and strewn with sidewalk cafes and full of tourists and locals alike, "when I look at a map beforehand. This is it."
Gavin pulled open the unassuming, carved wooden door and ushered me inside. Down a flight of ancient tile steps we met a maitre d' with a pair of menus in his hands and a welcoming smile on his lips.
"Buona sera, Signore Fairchild. Come sta?" the maitre d' asked musically.
"Molto bene, grazie Carlo."
Gavin's fluent response surprised me. "I never knew you spoke Italian."
"There were a lot of things you never knew."
Carlo motioned for us to follow him. "I have saved you the very best table, il migliore. All is ready."
"Thank you Carlo."
After setting the menus on the small corner table, Carlo pulled out my seat. Gavin stepped around and took the chair and slid it in beneath me as I sat. With a quick nod and a smile of commiseration, Carlo disappeared.
"What is ready?" I asked as Gavin sat.
"A special order," he replied cryptically. Picking up the open bottle of local Valpolicella to his right, Gavin carefully poured two equal glasses. Lifting his glass, he indicated I should raise mine as well. "To Italy."
I smiled, holding my glass higher. "To Italy."
"And to you," he added, interrupting my first sip, "Lydia Ilene Vanderwalk. You are an amazing and beautiful woman."
Not knowing how to respond—I'm sure a woman with more social savvy would have said "Thank you" with grace and aplomb—I merely nodded and lifted the glass to my lips.
The meal was slow, in a leisurely and sensual way. Several minutes passed between each lavish course and the conversation never waned. I told Gavin about my promotion offer from Ferrero and my idea of starting my own jewelry line. He gave me advice, as both friend and businessman, for both options.
We never spoke about that night two years ago when I walked out of his life or that afternoon two weeks ago when I escaped out of his apartment.
Getting to know Gavin all over again was more like realizing that I had never known him at all.
"I didn't know you spent a summer in college volunteering at Sustainable Development International." I looked at him in a whole new light. "That must have been very rewarding."
He shrugged as if it meant nothing, but I could see in his eyes that he regarded that time very fondly.
"It was okay."
Yeah, if okay meant life-altering. "Where were you sent?"
"West Africa. Ghana mostly. Digging canals and planting soil-retaining vegetation in areas that suffer from soil erosion-induced droughts."
Rather than continue the conversation, Gavin looked around and caught Carlo's attention. A cryptic signal passed between the two and Carlo quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
Moments later he reappeared, a grinning chef and two waiters following in a mini-parade.
"For you, signorina." Carlo bowed and stepped out of the way.
The chef stepped forward and set a large, covered platter on our table. One waiter lifted the lid as the other handed each of us a dessert fork and wished us, "Buon appetito!"
On the platter sat an enormous, spherical scoop of Semifreddo al Limone—a rich ice cream parfait that is my absolute all-time favorite dessert—in a bed of strawberry sauce. Written in the strawberry sauce, in carefully piped chocolate, were the words, "Guaranteed to melt in your hand."
My mind sped back to a clear blue morning several years ago—laying in Gavin's king-size bed, decadently wasting away the first half of a lazy Sunday. One where he miraculously didn't have to work and I had no plans but being with him.
He had rolled over and reached under the bed to pull out a brown paper bag with "Sugar and Spice" imprinted in vibrant red. From the bag he produced a sable artist's brush and a small paint can.
"What's that?" I had asked.
He had grinned wickedly in return. "Chocolate body paint."
With a swift twist of the lid, he popped the can open and dipped a finger into the liquid inside. He held the chocolate-coated finger out, waiting until I had closed my lips around him to add, "Guaranteed to melt in your hand."
Needless to say, we had been lucky to make it to work on time the next morning. And I bet his sheets still bore traces.
"Lydia?"
Gavin's voice jarred me back into the present. Into a new moment. A memory in the making.
He held a forkful of Semifreddo hovering in front of my mouth. Our eyes met and, as I leaned forward in slow motion, taking the frozen treat into my tongue, the tension built and crackled between us.
"You know," I breathed after swallowing the bite, "I'm not really hungry."
Not taking his eyes off mine, Gavin shouted, "Check please."
Carlo appeared with the bill before I could even lick the little drop from the corner of my mouth. Clearly he was expecting things to go this well.
We were out the door in a taxi to the hotel moments later.
Our mouths met before Carlo closed the door behind us. The taxi only took three minutes to get to the hotel, but already I was overheated and trying to get on Gavin's lap.
He threw a few lira at the driver—far more than a three-minute ride warranted—and climbed out the cab, pulling me out behind him. Hand-in-hand, like anxious school children, we dashed across the lobby to the elevator which, thankfully, was waiting on the ground floor.
"God, I've missed you," Gavin exclaimed as the doors slid shut and he pushed me against the back wall.
His mouth captured mine, his tongue sweeping across my lips before forging in to taste all of me. I couldn't get enough. I had to touch him everywhere. My hands grabbed at his shoulders. His back. His tight behind. Finally, needing more, I tugged his button-down out of his waistband and smoothed my hands over the rippling planes of his chest.
"I've missed this," I breathed when his mouth released mine to devour my jaw and neck and collarbone and ... oh my.
A faint ding registered in the back of my mind, but I was too swept up to even notice. It wasn't until I felt Gavin move away suddenly that I opened my eyes to find out why he left.
"I guess I know why you missed our date," Elliot said, his voice cold as he held Gavin by the shirt collar.
Dropping his catch, Elliot turned abruptly and stalked down the hallway to our room.
"Elliot, wait!" I called after his swiftly retreating form. "Elliot!"
The door to our room slammed with a resounding thud.
Dubble Bubble Damn!
I looked from the empty hallway to Gavin, still panting from our heavy petting and obviously confused by what had just happened. Did I stay and satisfy some long-unaddressed urges with Gavin, or go to Elliot and do a lot of explaining?
That was the trouble with new beginnings; you had to make choices to get them started.
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