by Zoey Dean
"Hell yes," Caine replied. "When you kissed me on the Ferris wheel, after what I said about you making the first move, I thought that was, you know, the first move."
"That's what I thought, too. And if and when we ever ... it would be because I felt something for you so real and so deep that my body would be following my heart." She slid off her bar stool. "I may be young. But I'm not stupid."
"I never thought--"
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"I don't know what you thought," Anna confessed. "But what's clear to me is that you didn't care what I thought. "We don't have to get serious for you to take me seriously."
"Fair enough."
She raised eyebrows that had been perfectly shaped on an outing with Sam to Valerie's salon on Rodeo Drive. "And one more thing, Caine."
"Yes?"
"I have to say, that's quite an outfit you have on."
By the time Anna dropped off Cammie and Champagne and pulled her Lexus into the circular drive in front of the double doors of her father's white stucco mansion on Elevado Drive, it was nearly midnight. The only way she had endured the last hour was to tell Cammie in no uncertain terms that the subject of Caine-in-the-Firehouse was strictly off limits.
Tomorrow, maybe. But not tonight.
Cammie got the message. She studiously avoided mentioning Caine the entire ride home. That didn't mean she wasn't thinking about him, though. More than once, Anna caught her with a completely shit-eating grin plastered on her face.
As she put the car in park and killed the headlights, she glanced over at Django's guesthouse--a two-bedroom wooden bungalow built by the Craftsman Company back in the 1950s, shortly after the main mansion had been constructed. Django Simms was her father's driver,
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a guy about Caine's age who hailed from Louisiana and was a wondrous keyboard player. With his short dark hair bleached white blond, and his lanky figure, he seemed an incongruous match for his boss. But Jonathan trusted Django implicitly, and Anna had come to like him a lot.
He was standing in front of his own door, talking to a young woman. This was no shocker. Django was a girl magnet. When Anna stepped out of the Lexus, he softly called her name and waved her over. Why not meet Django's latest? His love life had to be less complicated than her own.
"Hey, Miss Anna, you're getting home late," he noted in his Southern drawl. Per usual, he looked fabulous, in old jeans and a fifties-style bowling shirt. His light blue eyes shone in the moonlight. "Fun night?"
"Odd. Very, very odd." She held out a hand to Django's latest conquest, who was stunning in a very natural way--long chestnut curls held up by two pearl chopsticks stabbed through them, and very curvy under what looked like standard-issue black pants and a neatly tucked in white button-down blouse. "Hi, I'm Anna Percy. Ignore the 'Miss' thing--it's Django's idea of a joke."
"You're Anna? I've heard so much about you!" She was beauty-queen pretty and had a Southern drawl that matched Django's. "I've been wantin' to meet you since I got to town. I'm Citron, Django's sister."
For some reason, Anna was shocked. Django never
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talked about his family. She had no idea that he had a sister. All she really knew about him was that he played the piano masterfully. Now he was allegedly trying to get a record deal here. His work for Jonathan was his day job.
"Nice to meet you, Citron." She regarded Django and offered a little smile. "A sister? Aren't you the mystery man?"
"Now, see, I was going to introduce you to my little sister tomorrow. She just got here from Louisiana. She's working as a waitress over at the Polo Lounge."
"Good tips," Citron put in. "Even though I think I'm supposed to know a lot of people that I don't know. Not yet, anyway."
"She's living with a couple of friends of mine in mid-Wilshire, but I'm fixing to ask your dad if she can move in here with me for a while. There're two bedrooms, and she's on a budget," Django explained.
"I'm saving up to make a demo," Citron chimed in. "I'm a singer."
"Rock and roll?" Anna asked.
Citron shook her head. "Jazz, mostly. Not that there's much call for it in the music stores. Even less on the radio. I aim to change all that. Maybe."
Anna smiled. "So, I can see it's just a musical family. Well, nice to meet you, Citron. I love your name."
Citron breathed in the clean night air. "This is a beautiful house that your father has. In a real different way from down home. We had a big place there, too,
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but ever been in Louisiana in the summer? You can wring your clothes out after a walk on a clear night, it's that humid. And summer means April to October. You end up taking a lot of showers. Of course, after Katrina, most of my friends left. It's kind of a lonely place now."
They continued talking for a while, then Anna bade them good night and walked back to the main house. It was white with red shutters, and at night it was completely illuminated by bright white floodlights. Impossible to see from the road, it was guarded by shrubbery so tall and thick it served the same purpose as a barbwire fence.
She was surprised to find her father still awake. He was stretched out on the claw-foot beige couch in the living room reading a Tom Clancy novel and listening to a Gary Burton CD on the new Bose surround-sound system. Anna padded across the marble floor, past the white Steinway grand piano that never got played except when Django stopped over, and sat down by him. Her father rarely had time to read for fun. She was also surprised--and not in a good way--to see and smell marijuana smoke wafting from the huge blunt in the ashtray on the new Moroccan carved wood coffee table. Judging from the powerful reefer odor in the room, and the pair of roaches that flanked the joint, this hadn't been her dad's first one of the evening.
"Hey, Anna," he greeted her, his voice dreamy. He wore an old pair of black Levi's and an even older Yankees sweatshirt left over from their days in New
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York. With his spiky hair and two days' growth of beard, it would be easy for a stranger to mistake him for a writer, or maybe a music industry executive. Instead, Jonathan Percy was an accomplished investment advisor sought after by the richest of the rich.
"You're stoned." It was an observation, not an accusation.
"Couldn't sleep. You're up late. Out with Caine?"
Anna almost admitted that she'd been out watching his protege Caine Manning slide down a fireman's pole in jeans and suspenders but decided to keep her mouth shut.
"Hey Dad?"
"I've told you before. I want you to call me Jonathan. You've been here--how long have you been here?"
"Since New Year's."
"Uh-huh." He picked up the big fat doobie, sucked down a big fat hit, and offered it to Anna. She took a big fat pass. "Jonathan," he repeated, blowing out more smoke than the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland. "Call me Jonathan. Please."
"I'll try, Dad."
He grinned. So did she. "That's my Anna," he pronounced. "Raised right."
"Did you know that Django has a sister?"
He nodded. "I think so. Or maybe it was a brother."
"It's a sister," she assured him. "She moved here from Louisiana. I just met her out by the guesthouse.
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She's a singer, and she seems really nice. I told her she could stay there for a while with her brother--I knew you wouldn't mind."
"That's cool. Seem nice?"
Seem nice? Hadn't she just said that? Anna made a mental note to avoid whatever it was that her father was smoking.
"Very. Well... I guess I'll go up now. See you in the morning."
"Wait, Anna. When's that fashion show thing you're working on?"
She was surprised he was even tracking what she was doing with her days. "Wednesday night. County art museum. The modern art section."
"I'm going to come, I think. If I can rearrange my schedule. Anyway, have a good night." He took another monster hit of the joint, and returned his glassy gaze to his book.
That was it for the Ai
l-American father-daughter moment, and Anna climbed the stairs to her room. She pushed off her shoes, threw her purse on the bed, and slid into the brown Duxbury chair at her rolltop desk. She tugged her shirt over her head with one hand while bringing up her e-mail with the other. Life could be so insane. There was an e-mail from Sam--once this fashion show was over, she and Anna needed to really get cracking on their script reading. In fact, maybe they could put in a serious session on Tuesday. Plus, if Sam hadn't adequately thanked Anna for changing that coverage
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on Burnt Toast--well, Sam owed her. Big-time. Of course, if either of them had a brain, they would have realized that no one named their kid Norman Shnorman in the first place. Maybe they needed to improve the circulation of blood to their brains with a spa day.
While she was reading Sam's, her inbox lit up with a new-message indicator. When she saw the "from" line, it made her heart race. The subject line couldn't have been clearer: The photographs you sent me.
Dearest Anna,
Received and reviewed photos of Champagne. She is truly lovely and exactly the kind of fresh face we need to launch Principessa. I plan to be in Los Angeles for your fashion show, and perhaps I can meet her in person beforehand. I just saw your dear mother in Milan last week. She's the patron of a new young artist. His work is dashing and so is he, but I'm sure she told you all about it. Look forward to seeing you, and to meeting the glorious Champagne. Thank you for thinking of me first. Please say hello to your father for me. With your permission, I'll have my assistant telephone you to make arrangements for the night of the show.
Cheers,
Lizbette
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A Little Short on Role Models
"Okay. Listen up!"
Cammie assembled her so-called models--four other girls suggested by Mrs. Vanderleer from the New Visions at-risk program. Including Champagne, Anna, and Cammie herself, there would be seven women modeling at the fashion show, plus five guys from the Firehouse.
It was Monday afternoon, which meant the event itself was only two days away. They were in a dance studio in Santa Monica that Mrs. Vanderleer had rented for this rehearsal. The walls were mirrored, and the floor had been taped with the outline of the T-shape of a catwalk, indicating the correct width and length on which they'd be working. The girls wouldn't face an actual catwalk until they were on it, but Cammie had to make do with what she had. What she had to do was train rank amateurs of all sizes, shapes, and social strata in how to avoid falling on their asses during the fashion show.
What she needed was four months. What she had was four hours.
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Cammie felt pretty confident, however, about her own ability to walk these girls through the art of the catwalk. She'd done a fair amount of runway work herself back in junior high school, when she was among the tallest of the girls she knew. Alas, after she topped out at five-foot five, a serious runway career was almost impossible. Stunning as she was in person, she wasn't all that interested in print work.
In prep for the session, Cammie had asked for a TV monitor and combination DVD/VCR, so she could show the girls some video of professional models doing their professional modeling thing. She had also finagled some video equipment so that the girls could be filmed and then get a chance to review themselves. She wasn't surprised when Mrs. Vanderleer came through with everything she'd asked for.
Her models were identified by name badges. Exquisite and Mai both hailed from the Bellflower section of Los Angeles. Each was striking. Exquisite was taller, with close-cropped dark hair and startling green eyes. Mai was shorter, but with a perfect figure much like Dee's.
The other two girls were from East Los Angeles. Daisy was quite tall--close to five-ten. While she was far too voluptuous to be a runway model, easily a size twelve or maybe even a fourteen, and had a serious gap-toothed look, she wore the jet-black Escada knockoff dress she'd chosen for the rehearsal exceptionally well. Her friend Consuela was more boyish and athletic, with beautiful lips and thick, glossy hair.
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"Listen up." Cammie strode to the taped catwalk area. "First, everyone got measured and fitted this morning, right? And they took your shoe sizes? If anyone didn't get measured, see me when we're done. "Your shoes should be ready tomorrow. I've asked for them all to have scratched soles."
Exquisite waved a hand.
"Yes?"
"Why scratched-up soles? Won't that make the shoes look worse on the catwalk?"
Cammie smiled. "Smart question, Exquisite. The scratching is for your protection--to give you traction. New shoes are slippery. Which leads me right into the not-falling-on-your-ass thing. I've done it. Every model has done it. It isn't pretty."
Champagne had a question. "Do we get to keep the shoes?"
Cammie smiled to herself. She'd spoken with Mrs. Vanderleer about exactly this, and had extracted a promise from the organizer that the girls could indeed keep their shoes.
"Definitely. The shoes are yours."
The grins from the girls were as brilliant as the sun. Cammie actually felt her heart squeeze. She couldn't even remember a time when the acquisition of a single pair of shoes mattered to her.
"Okay, let's talk posture." She put one palm flat against her stomach, the other on her lower back. "Stomachs tucked in, shoulders back. An invisible
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string from your toes to the ceiling. Take a look at Anna. Wave, Anna."
Anna, who stood at the rear of the throng, raised one shy hand.
"Anna stands like this like this all the time without even thinking about it," Cammie pointed out. "It's natural to her. Watch her and learn. But first, do what I'm doing now."
All around the room, hands obediently went to tummies and lower backs. This was good. The girls were taking this seriously.
"You guys, you should stand like this all day and night between now and Wednesday night," Champagne advised. "You'll want to look great for the guys."
"When will we meet them?" Daisy asked excitedly. "They're firemen, right?"
"Wednesday night, at the show," Cammie reported. "Please. Stay focused on what we're doing here. This is important."
Cammie, Anna, and Champagne were publicly sticking with the myth that the guys were actual firemen who did a little calendar work on the side. If Mrs. Vanderleer found out the truth, she'd possibly cancel the whole show, lest models from the Firehouse somehow negatively impact the reputation of her foundation. Champagne had relayed the firemen story to her cousin Bryson, and he had schooled his buff-bodied friends.
As the girls worked on their posture, Cammie
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circulated through them, pushing a hip here, moving a shoulder there. She was pleased to see that Champagne got it naturally. "Now, for the all-important walk. One foot goes directly in front of the other, eyes straight ahead to an invisible horizon line. Like this. You've seen it on TV Pretend you're Gisele."
She moved to the DVD player and started a disc of top models on the runway, then put one hand on her hip and did the walk herself, executing a perfect 360-degree turn at the point of the T.
"Can we all try that walk?"
All around the room, the girls tried it. Most of them failed miserably. Consuela nearly twisted an ankle in her heels.
"It's not easy," Cammie warned. "Consuela, get right up and do it again. Remember, the heel of the front foot has to come to the toe of the other foot on every step. Shoulders back, stomachs in, butts tucked-- everyone practice and I'll come around and help you. Anna, come help me, please."
Anna cut through the crowd and then whispered to her hastily. "Me? I've never done this before in my life!"
"Yeah, but you've got that ballet posture thing going on, and you've already picked it up, so help," Cammie implored.
"Fine, but I'm modeling under false pretenses." Still, she went to help the other girls, some of whom were still teetering like half-cut trees in a winter gale.
"If you swing the back leg out befor
e you bring it
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around to the front, it will help. And look straight out," Cammie advised Champagne. "Never down at your own feet."
"Right, straight out," she echoed, walking with such focus and such intensity that some of the other girls followed in her wake, copying her movements.
An hour later, Cammie began videotaping each girl in turn on the mock catwalk. And fifteen minutes after that, they sat down to watch the tapes.
The girls were self-conscious and very self-critical when they saw themselves on tape. But interestingly enough, they were also extremely supportive of one another, offering suggestions and acting as more than cheering sections.
Then Champagne's tape came on.
She never changed her expression, but stayed cool, calm, and collected. She kept her head completely still and let her body move beneath her. At the far end of the runway, she did a little shift with her hips that turned her to the left, and then another that took her back to where she'd begun.
Cammie flicked off the monitor. The studio was silent, until Exquisite broke the quiet. "Was that your first time doing that, Champagne?"
"Please. I've done it thousands of times," Champagne replied loftily. Then a sad smile crept onto her lips. "In my mind. In the last week. Thanks to Cammie."
The girls laughed and hooted.
"Go, Cammie!" Daisy exclaimed. "You're our leader!"
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Cammie didn't know much about any of them, except for Champagne. But if they were in an at-risk program, they had to be facing challenges far bigger than whether to wear Chloe or Alaia. They were from neighborhoods that Cammie never ventured into, even with a driver, and had family incomes that probably didn't equal in a year what her father earned in three days. Yet here they were, giving it their all, excited because they'd get to be in an actual fashion show and take home a single new pair of designer shoes.
In another time and place, she would have been contemptuous. Now, though, Cammie just felt good. They were having fun. She even suspected that she might have something to do with it. "Guys, there's nothing I can tell you except this: What Champagne just did, you can all do. Bye-bye, Giselle, Kate, Tyra, and Heidi. Here are Champagne, Consuela, Mai, Daisy, and Exquisite!"
