And Death Goes to . . .

by Laura Bradford

  Instead, I took a deep breath, hooked my thumb over my smock-clad shoulder, and smiled up at my best friend. “May I?”

  He started to turn me, but stopped before I’d made it more than an inch or two.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  Reaching behind my neck, he unsnapped the smock and folded it against his chest. “There. Now you can look.”

  I completed my turn until I was face to face with the floor length mirror propped against the back wall of Carter’s living room. My first glimpse sucked the breath from my lungs.

  Whoa!

  “That’s…me?”

  “It sure is.”

  “But—”

  “The makeup may be me, but the gorgeous is all you. Always has been, Sunshine. Now go break a leg.”

  ~Chapter Two~

  On some level, I suppose I was aware of my colleagues milling about the Regency Hotel’s grand ballroom, shaking hands, patting backs, and trying not to talk shop while waiting for the award show to begin. But really, at that moment, all I could truly see were the people seated around me at my table—loved ones who were there to support me in what might very well be the biggest night of my life, career wise.

  Seated to my immediate left was JoAnna Kincaid, my secretary (aka lifesaver) at Tobias Ad Agency. Without her doing what she did on a daily basis, Carter wouldn’t have had any reason to transform me into the princess Andy hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off since he picked me up at my apartment thirty minutes earlier. To Andy’s right was my Grandpa Stu, beaming back at me like the proud grandfather he was. I returned his smile while trying not to shudder at the woman seated next to him.

  Truth be told, Ms. Rapple wasn’t my first (or even my bazillionth) choice for a spot at my table (or anywhere in the ballroom, for that matter), but inviting her had made my grandfather happy. And since Mary Fran’s new boyfriend, Drew, was away on business and couldn’t attend, my grandfather was quick to suggest Rapple for that seat.…

  Mary Fran, in turn, was so beside herself with pride for Sam and his nomination, she wouldn’t have noticed Ms. Rapple if the ornery little shrew was bedded down on her lap.

  “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

  I redirected my focus to the handsome man beside me and answered his smile with one I was pretty sure dominated my entire face. “You have, but it’s okay to repeat yourself on occasion.”

  “You’re beautiful.” He captured my hand off its resting spot on the edge of the table and brought it to his lips. “And I’m so very proud to be here—to be anywhere, anytime—with you.”

  “Wow. I should have Carter do this”—I gestured to myself with my free hand—“to me more often.”

  “You’re beautiful in sweats and a ponytail, Tobi.”

  I felt the familiar pang that was my good fortune at having Andy in my life and quickly blinked away the tears Carter had forbidden me from shedding lest I ruin the masterpiece (his word) that was me. “Thank you, Andy. For being here, for being in my life, for being…you.”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but closed it as Carl Brinkman, local network news anchor and the M.C. for the evening, stepped on stage to a ballroom-wide round of applause.

  Over the next ten minutes, Carl entertained the crowd with advertising-related jokes and puns before moving on to the first award category of the night—Best Fifteen Second Spot. The previous year’s winner came out to the podium, gave a fun description of the category, and then announced each nominee, leaving time between names for the swell of answering applause from both the represented agency and the crowd overall. When the moment of truth came, the presenter ripped open the sparkly gold-edged envelope and read the winner’s name aloud—a name I knew, but a person I didn’t.

  Cheers from a table on the right side of the ballroom led my attention toward the forty-something winner who stood, kissed the woman beside him, and jogged toward the stage with an excitement I felt clear down to my toes. The woman tasked with handing out the evening’s awards gave him his and then gestured him over to the podium for his allotted two minute acceptance speech.

  I tried to listen, I really did, but honestly, I found myself thinking what I might say if the unthinkable happened. Grandpa Stu had encouraged me to write out a speech, but I’d resisted for fear of jinxing myself. Yet now that I was there, listening to the eloquent words of the man holding the first award of the night, I couldn’t help but question my decision just a little.

  Before the mental browbeating could reach a crescendo though, the wait staff came out with salad plates while Carl Brinkman reappeared with a fresh round of jokes—some invoking laughter, others inciting muted groans and more than a few traded eye rolls. Eventually, he announced the next category—Best Photograph in a Print Ad.

  Everyone at my table stopped eating and turned their collective attention on Sam as last year’s winner came out to the podium with a gold-edged envelope in one hand and the list of all four nominees in the other.

  “As everyone here tonight knows, the right combination of words really does make a difference. It can mean the difference between success and failure for a new company, it can mean the difference between sought-after and ho-hum for a new-to-market product, and it can mean the difference between customers and no customers for a brand new restaurant or coffee house. But sometimes, depending on the method of delivery, the right words are only part of the equation. This is never truer than in a print ad. Because, let’s face it, pictures make people stop and look… And unless they stop and look, that really great combination of words you’re hoping will suck a prospective customer in, won’t matter a hill of beans. To that end, I present to you the nominees for this year’s Best Photograph in a Print Ad. Please stand when I call your name.

  “Mark Walton, with the Ross Jackson Agency, for his contribution to St. Charles Brewery’s Autumn Days/Autumn Nights campaign.”

  A swell of applause from a table directly in front of the stage intensified as the nominee stood and waved politely at the crowd.

  “Jess Summer, also with the Ross Jackson Agency, for her work on Dr. Wyatt Morgan’s Perfect Smiles campaign.”

  A second, louder swell of applause rose up behind me and I turned to smile at the petite brunette who rose up on shaky legs.

  “Tim Dalton, with the Beckler and Stanley Agency, for his work on the Davidson Clinic’s Healthy Lives campaign.”

  I traded glances with Carter as my former boss slapped his nominated photographer on the back so hard the man literally winced.

  “And Sam Wazoli, with Tobias Advertising Agency, for his work on the Pizza Adventure campaign.”

  In the interest of professionalism, I tried my best to curb my desire to hoot and holler, but even if I’d failed, I’m pretty sure it hadn’t been noticed anyway. Because really, anyone looking at our nominee at that moment was likely wiping their eyes over the way he pulled Mary Fran in for a hug. After a few seconds, he stepped back and nodded appreciatively at the crowd before taking his seat once again.

  For a moment, I just watched him, marveling as I always did, at the maturity and class the teenager exuded twenty-four/seven.

  “He’s really loving every minute of this,” Andy whispered in my ear.

  “As he should,” I whispered back. “I’d be willing to bet he’s the youngest person to ever be nominated for one of these awards.”

  “And that’s because of you.”

  I pulled my attention off Sam and fixed it, instead, on Andy. “Sam is here for one reason and one reason only—his ability, his talent.”

  “Oh, I’m not minimizing that in any way, shape, or form. I know Sam is good. He’s proven that again and again for Zander, as you well know. I’m just saying you gave him an opportunity to showcase that talent.”

  “It’s been a win-win for me, as—”

  “And this year’s winner for Best P
hotograph in a Print Ad is…” The woman stopped, slit the envelope’s seal with her index finger, and then cleared her throat as she pulled out the slip of paper. “Sam Wazoli!”

  This time, I didn’t care about professionalism or volume or anything like that. I simply pushed back my chair and ran around the table for the hug I’d imagined more than a few times since word came of Sam’s nomination. He returned the hug, added a kiss on my cheek, and then trotted up the center aisle and onto the stage to receive his golden briefcase. When he took his spot behind the podium and the applause finally stopped, he looked down at the award and then back up at the audience.

  “Some of you are probably wondering why I’m up here. And honestly, there’s really only one reason. Your colleague and my friend, Tobi Tobias, believed in me. She saw something in my work that wasn’t negated by my age and she gave me a chance to show that to all of you. Thank you, Tobes. For giving me a shot…for believing in me…for trusting in me.”

  I sank down onto Sam’s chair and stared at my friend’s son—a young man who was wise beyond his years in so many ways. He looked so poised and so mature, and I couldn’t have been prouder if I’d given birth to him myself.

  “I’d also like to thank Andy Zander of Zander Closet Company for not balking when Tobi brought me on as a photographer for their campaign…and Mr. and Mrs. Poletti for doing the same with the Pizza Adventure campaign that earned me”—he lifted his Golden Briefcase in the air and then grinned as he brought it back down to the podium—“this unbelievable accomplishment and honor. And, last but definitely not least, I’d like to thank my mom. Your love taught me to have faith in myself. I love you, Mom!”

  I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a dry eye in the house by the time Sam headed backstage with his award. Somehow though, Mary Fran managed to get herself together enough to locate her phone, text the good news to Drew, and then hightail it toward the lobby to congratulate her son and snap a few photos of her own.

  I, in turn, made my way back to my own seat and Andy, the smile on his face mirroring my own. “Wow. Just wow.”

  “I couldn’t sum it up better myself.” Andy gestured toward the stage, his voice hushed as the award show continued. “The other night, when you were telling me about past award shows and your category in particular, you mentioned a spiral staircase. Is that what’s behind that red curtain on the right side of the stage?”

  Following the path forged by his finger, I felt my stomach churn with excitement. “Yes. And at the very top, behind the platform where the winner stands, is the screen where they will play his or her award-winning campaign.”

  “I prefer your.”

  “Your?”

  He tapped the tip of my nose lightly and followed it up with a soft kiss. “As in the screen where they will play your award-winning campaign.”

  I didn’t mean to laugh. And I definitely didn’t mean to snort with that same laugh. But, well, preposterous ideas tended to elicit stuff like that from me. Still, I was glad my fellow nominees and advertising colleagues were either focused on applauding at the appropriate spots or working on their own meals. The last thing I needed was for my propensity for odd noises to become public knowledge.

  Andy drew back. “C’mon, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it—about walking up those stairs with your award…about standing in front of the screen while you smile out at everyone…about mentally reviewing the speech you’re about to give in which you break the hearts of every single guy in here by expressing your undying affection for yours truly…”

  This time, when I laughed, I managed to refrain from snorting. Instead, I leaned forward, buried my head in his chest for one brief, wonderful moment, and then pulled back to address the obvious. “Yes, I’ve thought about it. Many, many times. But the reality is I’m still a newbie in this field. And honestly, when I say I’m just honored to be nominated, I mean it. As for the part about the broken hearts? That, too, goes without saying.”

  The dimples I adored appeared beside his mouth before he swept my attention back to the red curtain. “It’s quite an elaborate set-up for an award, don’t you think?”

  “I guess. But there’s not an industry person in this room who hasn’t dreamed of walking up the spiral staircase with their award.”

  “I don’t doubt that. In fact, between you and me?” He leaned away from the table to allow the wait staff to replace his salad bowl with his dinner plate, and then continued. “When you first described the whole thing to me on the phone the other day, I actually pictured myself going up the stairs.”

  I grinned and then directed Andy’s attention to the table in the front center of the ballroom. “See that table there? That’s the Callahan table. Shamus Callahan passed away years ago, but his wife, Mavis—she’s the woman with the graying hair—and his son, Kevin, have kept the Callahan Foundation going ever since.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for starters, Kevin is in the business. In fact, when Shamus passed, Kevin stepped in as president of Callahan Advertising Agency. And, in case you’re wondering, he’s the one seated to Mavis’s right.”

  “He’s the president? He can’t be more than forty years old. Tops.”

  When I saw that everyone at our table had their dinner, I sliced a piece off my flank steak and took a small bite, the rubbery consistency in keeping with the venue if not the price of the ticket. “Said the thirty-four-year-old pot to the kettle.”

  It was Andy’s turn to laugh, and laugh he did. “Okay, okay, point taken. But let’s be honest here. Callahan Advertising Agency is a helluva lot bigger than Zander Closet Company.”

  “For now.” I plucked the ornamental green leaf off my potatoes, leaned in front of JoAnna, and handed it to an eye rolling Carter. “Anyway, Shamus and Mavis never had a child of their own so the running of the company was left to Kevin. I’ve only met him very briefly once or twice, but I didn’t really get the appeal.”

  “He’s not good at what he does?”

  “No, I just mean his not so subtle flirting didn’t really do anything for me.”

  “Why would it? You have me,” Andy teased.

  “Exactly.” I dipped my butter knife into the pat of butter atop my bread plate and slathered it across the bottom of my dinner roll. “Besides, he doesn’t have dimples like you do and he has a wife and a baby who, based on the empty chair and highchair I can see from here, are around here somewhere.”

  “Oh.”

  “Uh huh. And the little blonde with the curlicues on Mavis’s other side? That’s one of theirs, too.”

  “Why does that little girl look familiar?”

  “She’s been in a few of the ads Callahan has done. Most notably the one for last fall’s Boo at the Zoo commercial.”

  “That’s it! I knew I’d seen her before. She’s a real cutie.” He took a bite of his salmon and then looked again at the head table. “Mavis looks positively enamored with that little girl.”

  I smiled over the top of my dinner roll. “She does, doesn’t she?”

  “That’s the same way Stu looks at you, you know.”

  I let my gaze travel around Andy to the bald man on his opposite side, my heart swelling at the sight of a man I’d loved my entire life—a man who was so enthralled with the housecoat-wearing woman on his far side I couldn’t help but cringe. Like it or not, Grandpa Stu saw something in my next door neighbor I would never understand.

  My grandfather…

  And Ms. Rapple…

  I must have shuddered for real because Andy set down his fork and patted my hand in a show of understanding. But even with that, I had to look away from the pair before my rubberized flank steak found its way back up my throat.

  Category by category the show advanced—Best Humorous Slogan, Best Emotional Slogan, Best Jingle, Best 30-Second Spot, and, finally, just as dessert (chocolate cake!) was finishing up, the light
s dimmed, Kevin Callahan’s wife and baby reappeared at the head table to Mavis’s obvious delight, and Carl Brinkman returned to the stage, this time in a top hat and tails and brandishing a cane he spun in the air like a baton.

  “Well, folks, we’ve come to the pinnacle of the evening—the very award the late great Shamus Callahan built this entire award show around forty”—the anchorman–turned–master of ceremonies stole a peek at the head table for confirmation—“one years ago.”

  Applause broke out around the room only to subside as Carl held his hands up in a silencing gesture. “In fact, the coveted Golden Storyboard statue specific to the night’s top award was designed by Shamus’s wife, Mavis.”

  Clearly uncomfortable by the renewed applause now aimed at her, Mavis smiled quickly and then busied herself with her granddaughter and the just-returned grandbaby now seated atop her lap.

  “And the humiliation just goes on and on, doesn’t it?” JoAnna whispered in my ear.

  “Humiliation? What—”

  JoAnna swept the air between us. “Forget that. This is your night. Are you ready?”

  “I’m scared to death, quite frankly,” I whispered back.

  “Enjoy the moment no matter what it brings.”

  And that is why I loved my secretary. She had a way of cutting through the background noise to get to the part that matters—at work, in life, in love.

  I felt Andy’s hand encase mine a split second before Grandpa Stu winked at me and Sam and Mary Fran flashed a dual thumbs-up. Swinging my gaze to the left, I met Carter’s proud glance with what I hoped was a thankful one on my part. I was blessed and I knew that. No matter what happened in the next ten minutes, I had what mattered more than any award could ever mean.

  “To present the Golden Storyboard, for this year’s Best Overall Ad Campaign, is last year’s winner, Cassie Turner, from the Ross Jackson Agency. Cassie?”