by Karen Quinn
“I do? You’re not just saying that?” I handed him a cup of black coffee and an egg-and-cheese bagel sandwich with a side of Munchkins.
“Are you kidding?” He gave me the once-over. “Darlin’, you may be skinny, but you got all the right curves for a woman. And that messy hairdo makes you look like a French shop girl.”
“Oh, Pops,” I said, blushing. Since I was a kid, I’d worn my hair cropped, like my favorite film star, Audrey Hepburn. Some people said we looked alike—both brunette, tall and thin, big eyes, swan necks. But our faces were entirely different. My nose was thinner, my lips fuller, my brown eyes darker than hers. Audrey’s features combined to make her a dazzling beauty. My features combined to make me, well, let’s just say my face was slightly funny. Alessandro said it’d be gorgeous when the orthodontist got through with me.
“Holly, you’re a vision,” he said, stubbing his cigarette out on the step. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Ha! Take that, Alessandro. Pops thinks I’m a vision. Of course, he was wearing plastic garbage bags tied around his shoes.
“If you’d take that Martian wire and those Coke bottles off your face, you’d be even lovelier.”
Touching my headgear, I giggled. “It all comes off at work.”
“Nice suit,” he said. “Something special today?”
“Remember, I told you. My promotion’s being announced. Send good thoughts my way.”
Pops smiled, baring his tobacco-stained teeth. “I’ll say a little prayer for you,” he sang. “Forever, and ever, you’ll stay in my heart…”
“That’s good, Pops. You should sing professionally. Oh yeah, you do.” I noticed his crumpled brown suit and thin white dress shirt. “Why are you so fancy?”
“Job interview at Whole Foods on Houston Street. They pay benefits.”
I chucked his arm lightly. “Knock ’em dead.”
“If I do, breakfast is on me tomorrow, from Whole Foods. You think they’ll make me wear one of those beard hairnets?”
“Shave it off,” I suggested.
Pops rubbed his chin and then dismissed the idea. “Facial hair increases panhandling proceeds by at least twenty percent. Learned that the hard way last time I tried to clean up my act.”
The gentle spit suddenly morphed into pelting rain. We scrambled up the stairs, beneath the green awning. Pops threw a dirty yellow poncho over his head.
“Shoot,” I said, glaring at the black sky.
“You need an umbrella?” Pops said.
“You got one?”
“No.”
A steady stream of cabs whizzed by, all with their headlights on, all full. I checked my watch: 8:25. Thirty-five minutes until the staff meeting. I dug around in my purse. “Rats, I left my cell at work.”
“Use mine,” Pops offered.
“You have a cell phone?” I said. “Not that you shouldn’t, it’s just…”
“Darlin’,” Pops said, handing me the phone, “what do you think I do with the money I earn? Buy booze?”
“Pops, of course not,” I said, in my most offended voice, although I’d seen him chugging the cheap stuff more times than I could count. The rain was hammering down like we were in a car wash. We huddled next to the doorway as sheets of water poured from the sky. Pops’ poncho billowed in the wind.
“Tanya, I’m stuck downtown, but I’ll get there as fast as I can,” I said to my boss’s voice mail. I couldn’t afford to be late. Not today.
“Your shoes are getting wet,” Pops said.
I jumped back, then stuffed the shoes in my purse. These were my real Jimmy Choos, the ones I kept meaning to return to HBO after the Fashionistas in Pop Culture exhibition we’d held at the museum where I worked. Sarah Jessica Parker wore them in the episode where Carrie tells Big she loves him and then he gives her an ugly Judith Leiber bag.
“You can’t go barefoot. Here.” Pops knelt down and held open a double grocery bag he pulled out of his cart. I stepped into it and he wrapped a rubber band around my ankle. “Give me your other foot, Cinderella,” he said, grinning. “Hold this over your head for an umbrella.” He handed me a black Hefty bag. I was good to go.
“Thanks,” I said. “Do great on your interview. Oh, I almost forgot. I’m going to a tasting tonight of all the food they’re serving at our wedding. Want to come?”
“Me, turn down a free meal? Oh, wait, I can’t,” Pops said, slapping his craggy forehead. “It’s Monday. I’m busy.” On Sundays and Mondays, he played piano at the Jazz Factory with Bongo Herrera’s Latin fusion big band. It was his one steady job. The pay sucked, but the regular gig was its own reward. Pops was fond of saying, “Jazz, the gift that keeps on taking.”
“That’s okay; I’ll reschedule,” I said, taking a deep breath, holding my Hefty bag overhead, and stepping into the deluge. “Love ya.”
Autumn in New York
I MOVED UP THE STREET deliberately, head low, garbage bag high, plastic-covered feet squishing with each step. May nobody I know, and I mean nobody, see me like this. Alessandro would have a fit. My boss would read me the riot act, I thought.
A torrent of water swooshed down the street, flooding the corners where the drains always back up. Just as I traversed a pool at First and Fourteenth, an ivory Maybach sailed by, shooting a heavy stream in its wake—and sploosh! “Oh, crrrraaap shoot,” I wailed, shaking the water off my jacket and skirt. Passersby regarded me with pity, but no one offered to help. Bastards.
A block ahead, the Maybach pulled over, stopped, then backed up when the traffic cleared, its motor whirring. The door swung open. A gentleman stuck his head out and shouted, “Are you all right?”
I looked down at my champagne-colored suit, which was now soaked with muddy water. “What do you think? Do I look all right?”
“Why don’t you get in,” he said. “I don’t bite…”
I planted my grocery-bag-covered feet firmly on the sidewalk.
“…unless it’s called for.”
Cute, I thought. Mr. Fancy Car is a comedian. I did an emergency assessment. Outside: rainy, sticky-hot, and blocks to go before a subway station. Inside: dry, air-conditioned, clean, well-heeled middle-aged guy with chauffeur. What were the odds that the car that happened to splash me contained a rapist or serial murderer? Infinitesimal. I dove in the backseat, but not before asking the man to produce identification.
He pulled out a slim Gucci wallet and showed me his driver’s license. Sweet Jeezus of Nantucket, I thought, glancing at the ID and then him. It was Denis King.
Denis King was a fortysomething mogul, masculine in a dorky but appealing way. He wore a simple navy pin-striped suit, this season’s Armani. His neck was red where he kept tugging at his French collar. His body was neither thin nor fat. He had a cleft in his chin, and dancing kohl eyes. It was the eyes that dominated his face—they were penetrating, with lines radiating from the corners that bespoke laughter, wisdom, and experience. His brows were thick and his wavy brown hair faded to gray at the temples. In front of him was a tray that came out of the seat (like in an airplane). A laptop with spreadsheets on the screen sat on it. I looked down, then glanced up beneath my batting eyelashes, giving him my shy Princess Diana smile.
He smiled back and there were dimples, deep adorable dimples. I don’t know why I’d never noticed them before. I’d seen his picture in the paper a thousand times and we’d met more than once at the museum. Each time, he’d reintroduce himself. Sadly, the man didn’t know I existed, although I was chummy with his assistant, Elvira.
Denis was the next big benefactor my boss was looking to bag. He was a major supporter of New York City opera, art, ballet, and symphony. Tanya was after some of his do-re-mi for our fashion museum. He was scheduled to underwrite our upcoming tiara show. That was how Tanya lured them in before capturing an even bigger pile of their net worth. First she invited them to join the board. Then she named them underwriters of an important exhibit. Finally, after they enjoyed the publicity and pre
stige associated with a high-profile retrospective, she went in for the kill. She had secured millions in pledges this way.
As I pulled the door shut, his chauffeur took off. Inside, the Maybach smelled like success. I wondered if Denis would let me borrow the car if we ever got married.
“Which way you going?” Denis asked, closing his computer.
“The subway station at Fourteenth. I’m headed to Eighty-fourth.”
His chauffeur silently passed back a roll of paper towels. Denis tore off several squares and watched as I patted myself down. “Thanks,” I said. “Oh, lordy, I’m getting water all over your fine Corinthian leather.”
Denis smiled. “Lordy?” he said, raising one eyebrow in Jack Black fashion.
I could tell he thought I was cute.
Denis took a few more paper towels and dried the seat as best he could. “Don’t worry. We’ll drive you. We’re going uptown.”
The car made its way west, then turned north on Union Square as rain pounded the windshield, wipers whipping back and forth to little avail. The traffic was crawling and a cacophony of horns blared.
I took in his fancy set of wheels. There was enough room to set up a kiddie pool. “Wait a minute. Is this the kind of car where the seats turn into beds?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Denis said. “Why, you tired?”
“Are you being fresh?”
He laughed. “I was kidding. Anyway, you’re not my type.”
I shot him a hurt look. “Just because I’m wearing grocery-bag shoes, you think you’re too good for me?”
“No, not at all,” he said, looking concerned.
Snapping the rubber bands off my ankles, I said, “I’ll have you know, these are Manolo Bagnicks.”
Denis laughed, revealing those twenty-four karat dimples once again. Handing me his business card, he said, “Let me pay to get your suit cleaned. Will you send me the bill?”
“That’s okay,” I said, stuffing his card in my bag anyway.
“Seriously, I want to take care of you.”
I sighed. If only he meant that personally and not dry cleaning–wise. Glancing up, I saw that he was staring at me. Mesmerized. Was it possible he was interested in me? Why shouldn’t he be? Pops did say I looked fetching today. Oh, Lord! My headgear. Reaching in my purse, I took out a compact and checked my reflection. Gaaah! Glasses too. My under eyes were stained with ink gel eyeliner and mascara, my skin looked splotchy, and my hair—don’t get me started. I was a walking “Don’t.”
“Seriously,” I whispered, “just drop me at the next subway station.”
Denis’ mouth crinkled into an amused smile. “It’s raining like a son of a bitch. We’re almost in the thirties. Here.” He handed me a box of Kleenex.
“Okay, thanks.” I started to remove my appliance and glasses, but stopped when I realized that if I put myself back together, there was an ever-so-slight chance he would recognize me. God forbid he associate this monstress in his Maybach with the woman he’d met and was bound to meet again at the Fashion Museum. I ceased all recovery efforts, but did replace the grocery bags with my Jimmy Choos.
“Those are unusual,” Denis said when he saw them. They were black, from the tips of the soles to the bottom of the sculpted three-inch heels. The leather toe straps were two tones of green—olive and ivy. The matching satin lacing, adorned by hand-made leaves and soft-sculpture pink cherry blossoms, tied like that of ballet slippers around my ankles. I called them my cherry tree Choos. “They’re designer, one of a kind, priceless,” I said in a sort of braggy tone, letting him know there was more to me than meets the eye.
“Priceless, huh?” he said, doing the one eyebrow raise again. “Where’d you get a pair of priceless, one-of-a-kind shoes?”
“I’ll never tell,” I said mysteriously. Drat, he probably thinks I stole them. Technically I did, but still. “Look, thanks for picking me up. Usually I’m not such a mess.”
“You look perfect…” he started.
I melted. Alessandro was quick to find fault with my imperfections, while Denis found perfection with my faults. That was refreshing. Still, I held my hand up in faux protest. “Please, I know I’m a sight.”
“Well, we nailed you pretty good back there. I’m really sorry.”
I felt something digging into my thigh, lifted my butt cheek, and unpeeled some pages from my skin. “Oh, geez, I sat on your book.”
“It’s only a catalog,” he said, flipping through the soaked pages. “My family’s doing Athens to Rome in a few weeks.”
The catalog was for Tiffany Cruises, the crème de la crème of luxury lines, no connection to the jewelry company as far as I knew (except for the fancy pricing). From what I’d heard, their trips started at thirty thousand dollars per person and went as high as two hundred and fifty thousand for just a week. Even movie stars and tycoons with their own yachts sailed the Tiffany Line because their ships were so opulent and their itineraries unsurpassed—Cannes for the film festival, London for Wimbledon, Pamplona for the running of the bulls. “Lucky you. Sounds like fun,” I said.
“Right side or left?” the chauffeur asked.
We were approaching Eighty-fourth, a block from my office. “Right side, far corner. By Duane Reade.” No way would I let him drop me in front of the Fashion Museum. I wondered if Elvira would blow my cover if I sent him the cleaning bill.
“Take care of yourself,” Denis said with a grin.
I wished I could stay with him longer. Forever would be nice.
Reaching behind the seat, Denis produced an enormous black umbrella, the kind doormen used, and escorted me to the drugstore. I could see the top of his head as we walked.
“Thanks,” I said.
He nodded and silently retreated into the rainy mist.
For Sentimental Reasons
I HAULED MY WET DERRIERE inside the museum and up the grand staircase to Tanya Johnson’s office. She’s the director of the museum. I’m her assistant, though not for long. Nigel Calderwood, the museum’s conservator, stood at the top of the landing. Euro-trash thin with a sleek, chiseled face, dark almond-shaped eyes, chocolate complexion, and a bald head that was as shiny as his Bruno Magli shoes, Nigel was so delectably gorgeous that everyone automatically assumed he was gay (which he was). His eyes widened when he saw me. “Holly, is that you?”
“Nigel, you’re back,” I said. “How was France?” He refused my offer of a hug.
“Sorry,” I said. “I know; I’m a mess. Is Tanya here? I don’t want her to see me like this.”
“She has someone in her office,” Nigel said. “The staff meeting’s been moved to ten.”
“Great,” I said, dropping my bag. “I have to tell you about Denis King. He picked me up this morning after his car splashed me.”
“Our Denis King?” Nigel said. “Ooh, sounds like That Touch of Mink with, who was in that?”
“Cary Grant and Doris Day. It was just like that, although he wasn’t exactly Cary Grant.”
“Too bad, because you’re so Doris Day,” Nigel said.
“Am not.”
“Excuse me, you’re sweet as a cupcake; you brighten up a room; I’ll bet you even sing “Que Sera Sera” in the shower. Need I go on?”
“No, you needn’t. But only because I’m in a hurry. Anyway, he drove me to work,” I squealed.
“Was he cute?” Nigel asked.
“Uh, yeah-ah. Although he’s shorter than me when I’m in heels.”
“A man looks taller when he’s standing on his money, luv.”
“Does he, now? No, he was really quite attractive, even though he had a touch of geek,” I giggled, checking my watch. “Oops, gotta go. I’m a mess.”
“What a coincidence! I adore rich geeks,” Nigel said. “You know who I’d fancy seeing all naked and sweaty? Bill Gates…”
“Eawww!” I yelled as I scrambled down the back stairs, and ran smack into Gus, who was guarding the vault. Gus was a feeble man in his seventies who would proba
bly have a massive heart attack if anyone actually tried to break in. His uniforms were always a size too big and he packed heat (not a gun, but those foot warmers that skiers use). All our guards were Gus-like: gray-haired, liver-spotted gentlemen living in the last lane, but they worked cheap, which is why Tanya hired them. “A necessary evil dictated by insurance companies,” she’d say. “Like someone would ever steal from us.”
“You look like a drowned Chihuahua,” Gus said when he saw me.
“I know,” I said. “Here. Two chocolate-glazed doughnuts with sprinkles; they were out of vanilla.”
Gus took the bag, peeked inside, then gave me a polite bow. “You’re the best, Holly.”
“Can you open the vault?” I asked. Gus could get in trouble for doing that. Technically, only curators and conservators were supposed to have access.
Gus unlocked the door and made a gallant arm gesture for me to enter.
I kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, I know you’re sticking your neck out.”
“Pish,” he said, practically spitting. “What are rules to a man with one foot in the grave?”
“My, but we’re feisty today,” I teased.
The vault was a locked climate-controlled storage facility where we kept clothes that weren’t on exhibit. We named it the vault so donors would feel extra secure lending us their pieces. I figured I could take something from Corny’s collection and put it back tonight. Borrowing clothes from the museum was strictly prohibited, under penalty of death or worse, which was why I had to do it in secret. I’d never done it before, and vowed never to do it again, but this was a fashion emergency—a real one.
Cornelia “Corny” Von Aston LeClaire Peabody was the patron saint of our fledgling institute, The National Museum of Fashion. We weren’t losers, exactly, but compared to the Met’s Costume Institute or the Fashion Institute of Technology Museum, we weren’t as well funded or as highly regarded. Tanya Johnson, my boss, was determined to change all that. I liked to think of us as the little fashion museum that could.
