I remembered to shut my mouth close.
I knew St. Martin House. It was a very clean, very nice homeless shelter run by a compassionate and competent staff. They offered separated facilities and accommodation for men and women, clean, comfortable beds, good, hearty food, basic health needs, and some means of counseling whether it was to help people find jobs, or reach out to family or friends who could help them.
I choked down the sudden sob that swelled in my throat.
“He never said anything about it but I know without a doubt that Brandon was behind the whole thing. It was even named after his father.” Nicole gave a decisive nod and patted my hand. “I think, if Brandon had a chance to sit still and see how the world suffers, he won’t be able to help himself and he’d try to help everyone he can.”
My smile was a little shaky. “I know. He doesn’t like to admit it but Brandon’s real wealth is his heart of gold.”
Sometime later that day, after we’d bid Nicole and Zach goodbye and went home, I confronted Brandon as he was cutting up the cucumber for the salad we were making for dinner.
“Did you build St. Martin House?” I asked.
He paused in his task, glancing up at me with a raised brow. “Why do you ask?”
“Just answer me,” I prompted almost impatiently.
Sensing the significance I was attaching to my question, he set his knife down and faced me. “In a way, yes. The shelter was already there. I just expanded it.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”
His brows furrowed. “Why? What about it?”
My lips quivered as I fought to maintain my composure. “Do you know that it was named after Saint Martin of Tours, the patron saint against impoverishment, alcoholism, beggars and a whole variety of the unfortunate, among other things?”
His expression was inscrutable as he continued to watch me. “I know.”
“You do?” I asked with a faint smile. “I thought you named the shelter after your father.”
He didn’t smile. In fact, he looked quite serious. “In a way, he and the saint have some things in common.”
I laughed at that. “You’re right. They do.”
My brief laughter trailed off as I lowered my gaze and stared at the shiny surface of our marble countertop which was probably worth someone’s salary in a year.
It was a bit ironic, making dinner in our penthouse suite in the city’s most exclusive high-rise residence price-tagged in the seven to eight digits, when a few years ago, I was practically licking leftovers from a chipped and warped laminate countertop in a dilapidated shanty of a building.
“Why do you want to know about the shelter?” Brandon prompted again after our extended lapse into silence.
You’ve been trying to get around to this all day. There’s no use dissembling now. Say your thank you.
“There were times when I couldn’t stay with Aimee to avoid my Dad,” I started slowly, biting my lip and risking a glance at my husband.
He looked intent and impatient.
“I would sometimes pass the time taking the bus and walking around the city,” I paused, smiling a little at the memories. “Back Bay was my favorite—looking at all the pretty houses made me feel a bit better, ironically enough. I’d dream up of the life I kept telling myself I might still have a shot at someday—a charming, little town house with a good husband who would help me in the kitchen with the kids as we baked cookies.”
I couldn’t help my blush at how silly I sounded. “I was a teenage girl, you know? I had all kinds of ideas. They’d helped blot out the more dreary facts of my life then.”
I sighed and settled on one of the stools around the kitchen island. “I’d gone to Embers a few times before, just for a night here or there when my Dad was dangerously drunk. They didn’t ask a lot of questions, didn’t bother trying to call my parents at home when they all suspected I was too young to be wandering about on my own. I stayed for an odd night or two. One day, I came and it was this entirely new place called St. Martin House. It was very nice. Everyone there was very kind and helpful.”
I couldn’t help a smile. “It actually felt better than home the couple of nights I stayed there. I hadn’t gone back though because I left for Paris a few months after that.”
Brandon looked devastated.
His hazel eyes were full of tender sorrow even though his jaw was set tight with the intense emotions he was fighting to rein in.
I smiled broadly this time. “Don’t look so horrified, Brand. I wanted you to know about the shelter because it had been my refuge in the past. To know that you’d once seen what was home to a lot of us who were unanchored at some pretty low points in our lives, and had done something to improve it—it’s made me indescribably happy. You put those nice pillows under my head, those clean sheets to keep me warm. You put that bowl of hot soup in my hand so I could sleep with a full stomach. You put that fireplace there in the communal room where I curled up in a corner to read a book from the shelves you stocked full of classics. You did all that without even knowing I would be there, that you would someday find me and love me.”
I rose from the stool and rounded the kitchen island to stand in front of him.
His shoulders were rigid, his eyes stormy as they met mine.
He didn’t move as I wrapped my arms around his neck and stood on my toes, a soft smile curving on my lips. “Thank you for that act of kindness, my love. If you hadn’t done what you did, we may have never found each other.”
“Charlotte.” He choked out my name through a clenched jaw before his arms suddenly locked around me, nearly crushing me into the warm, hard frame of his body as he buried his face into my neck. His breath was warm and moist on my skin as he murmured my name over and over again.
Still smiling, I rubbed a hand in soothing circles across his back.
I knew Brandon hated to think of the hardships I’ve lived through but I needed to tell him in order to make him understand just how much he’d done for me without having even known me.
You never know how far your actions echo into the future. Every choice you’re faced with is a fork in the road that maps the rest of your journey, and determines who will be waiting for you when you get to your destination.
Brandon gently released me just enough so he could look into my eyes.
“I don’t think I will ever take anything for granted again,” he rasped, his large hands cradling the sides of my face, his thumb slowly grazing across my bottom lip. “To love you fully is to love you in every way possible, even in the smallest, most inconspicuous ways that will eventually all lead back to you.”
I grinned and held up a finger to stay him. “Can you hold that line for a sec while I go find a pen and paper?”
Brandon laughed, his cheeks flushing and his eyes sparkling with humor. “No, you’re not writing this down.”
I pouted. “But I have to so I don’t miss a single word! I want to have something to read to myself in case you’re too busy to tell me new declarations of love.”
Brandon stuck his tongue out at me. “I’d never be too busy.”
“What kind of hotshot CEO has time for corny declarations of love to his wife?” I asked with a dramatic roll of my eyes.
“My kind,” Brandon said with a teasing grin before he suddenly swept me off my feet and clipped me to his side like a sack of potatoes big enough to feed a small village.
“Brandon! Where do you think you’re going?” I demanded as he strode out of the kitchen, my legs pumping into the air as I twisted and turned to see where he was taking me. “We were in the middle of making dinner!”
“I know,” he answered nonchalantly as he turned down the hall that led to the bedrooms. “I decided we’ll have dessert first.”
Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was grinning.
I sighed and gave up my struggle.
Hey, every good man deserved dessert.
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Fabulous and The Forsaken
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To call the week that came next crazy busy was a bit of an understatement.
For many years, those who were sartorially stylish came in droves to Fashion Week, mainly in the top four fashion capitals of the world: New York, London, Milan and Paris.
It was an annual tradition—which happened twice in a year—for the rich and fabulous to sit in rows, previewing dozens of designer collections, showing off their own stylish ensembles, and getting their pictures taken with a ton of big names from designers to models to celebrities.
This flock of plump-pocketed fashion birds was too good an opportunity to pass up for the Championettes so five years ago, they started the tradition of hosting what had now been nicknamed as the Teaser even though it was formally called Haute Couture for Hope.
For a weekend, just before the Spring/Summer Fashion Week stormed through its four destinations at the start of September, participating designers would showcase a few creations from their spring and summer collections which would then be auctioned off to the highest bidder, a big chunk of that bid money going to the Championettes’ charity fund. In the last couple of years though, designers started creating specific pieces just for the auction alone while still hinting at the theme of their upcoming collection. They were beautiful, one-of-a-kind pieces that were to be never reproduced once sold, driving the bids up to more sky-rocketing figures.
The clothes were fabulous and for a good cause—it was too much good publicity material to pass up, especially for society big wigs.
It didn’t hurt that it put people in mind of the work that the Society was doing, and that their generosity would be greatly appreciated when the time came to write out the checks.
The Teaser unofficially kicked off the Championettes’ fund-raising events for the rest of the year. While the event was mainly organized by the local association of fashion designers, the Championettes were tasked to do a lot of the marketing, inviting some of the biggest and brightest names in the fashion industry to participate.
When I came into the Society, the designers and guests lists had already been completed, which was a bit of relief, since I personally didn’t know any big fashion leaders to talk into joining. I couldn’t even afford a designer label before I became Mrs. Maxfield a month and a half ago.
But apparently, being a patron/patroness of a designer wasn’t required when you were an overly sensationalized society persona because Felicity showed me no less than five personally handwritten invitations from some major names who wanted me to walk one of their creations.
When Felicity told me the news with all her sunny eagerness, I half-choked on the cup of tea I was in the middle of sipping, and looked at her, feeling quite stupefied I couldn’t manage a sound for a moment.
“They want me to go out on the catwalk?” I asked her incredulously. “Even though I’m way too short to be a model, or that I’m clumsy in heels, or that I barely know more than half a dozen designers, much less know how to pronounce their names correctly?”
Felicity shook her head dismissively, as if my objections were no big deal. Armina and Clyde, who also joined our little afternoon coffee meeting, expressed similar sentiments.
“You’re unique—a breath of fresh air. And most of all, you don’t care,” Felicity said with a shrug.
I arched a brow at her. “Is my not caring supposed to be a good thing?”
“Of course,” she answered with a quick nod. “No one likes publicity-whores, pardon my term. No one wants someone who’s desperate to extend their five minutes of fame that they’ll do anything. They want those who are vibrant and confident, and who hold themselves hostage to no one’s whim.”
“Ah,” I said with a wry smile. “So it’s the same way no one wants the girl who’s throwing herself at every guy’s feet because she needs validation of her worth, which to her perspective, is only measured by the attention and affection she receives from the guy. Problem is, guys want the cool, unattainable chick who would yawn at one of them hacking his heart out open for her because she doesn’t need grand gestures from anyone to like herself just the way she is.”
“Who’ll want the cow if the milk is free?” Clyde said with a snort before popping a piece of croissant into his mouth.
I grimaced although I couldn’t help my smile at Clyde’s analogy. “True. Desperation is like the bad bacteria that turns the milk sour—not into yogurt or any yummy variety of fermented dairy.”
Armina, Clyde and I burst out laughing and Felicity just sighed loudly, shaking her head. “At least, you get my point now. You don’t have to say yes to all of the invitations—you don’t even have to accept any but I strongly recommend that you take advantage of an opportunity like this. It’ll help you meet more people who would help the Championettes’ cause.”
“Or just do it because it’s fun,” Clyde added. “Didn’t you ever wear your mother’s high heels and pearls, smear her lipstick on and walk around the house like a little lady?”
I shook my head. “No, not really. She abandoned me when I was six and my father burned all her stuff.”
All three faces looking at me fell at that blunt admission.
“Hey, cheer up,” I told them with a small laugh. “It’s not a big deal. I’m way over it. I was just answering Clyde’s question.”
Armina reached over and squeezed my hand, her face lighting up. “Well, since you didn’t get to play dress-up as a child, you can do it now, even as a grown-up. It’ll be fun. Besides, Noli is one of these hopeful designers who would love to have you wear their creation.”
“Noli’s a no-brainer,” I told them, glancing at the brief note he wrote me, shyly asking if I would please be so kind to wear his piece because it would mean the world to him to have someone he respected and admired show off his artwork. “I’ve actually worn his creations and loved it both times. I’d do it for him, no questions asked.”
“He’s doing it for the new line Vienne is launching, since they’re finally trying something different from the typical gowns they normally do,” Armina explained. “Vienne is the design house by the highly-coveted gown designer Vivienne Cartwright. She’s expanding into some non-formal evening wear and had taken Noli in. She flew him out to Cobalt Bay after he left Marcellina’s for good. According to Noli, she’s a big fan of yours.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That’s not always a good thing. If she’s read and believed a lot of the crap that’s been written about me, I’m not sure she’s the best judge of character.”
Clyde scoffed out a laugh. “Dear, you obviously haven’t heard of Vivienne Cartwright’s reputation. She’s a pampered princess as daughter of a luxury liner magnate but she’s no sissy ditz. She’s very poised and elegant but she doesn’t take crap from people.”
“She’s a wonderful woman. I’ve met her and I can personally vouch for that,” Felicity told me, just as her eyes flashed with mischief. “I think she likes you because in a lot of ways, you’re a bit alike. With all the stories that Noli most likely told her in great, dramatic detail, she probably has no doubt about it.”
“Alright, alright. You’ve all sold me on it,” I told them moodily even as a warm flush crept up on my cheeks. “I just hope they won’t take one look at me and realize just how big a mistake they’re making. I’m happy with myself but that was with the acceptance that I am not, and will never be, a runway model.”
If you don’t fit the mold, break free of it.
Promptly after I said yes, I was thrown into a riot of meetings, fittings, press cons and photo ops, and even a short interview.
Since Lily Vienne was a completely new line of the famed fashion house, it was going to launch a few handful of creations to be auctioned off. Since the new line was highly publicized and anticipated, people were more than eager to get their hands on the first of their creations. From what Noli had shown me so far when he flew in a couple days later, the pieces were less formal than the prized Vienne gowns—more wearable and versatile yet still crafted with the same el
egant femininity and dreamy quality the designer’s work was known for.
Since there was more than one piece to showcase, Noli put me, Anna, Tessa and Felicity together to walk the small, coveted collection. Even though I was surrounded by natural beauties, the fact that I was doing the catwalk with good friends eased my nervousness and I had no trouble finding myself having fun as we attended fittings, rehearsals and press cons together to talk about the new line as the days led up to the big event that first weekend of September.
The event was set in Historic Faneuil Hall, one of Boston’s most important heritage buildings from the seventeen-hundreds. It had a long tradition of being a public marketplace and a meeting house, actively used during the American Revolution for public meetings and speeches.
It was built in a prime spot by the government center and because of its historical importance, it was a featured stop along the Freedom Trail. The stately, red brick building proudly showcased its historical identity yet it pulsed with a vibrant, modern, urban beat since shopping and dining became huge in the area after the addition of three long market buildings which made up the now much-sought-after festival marketplace. The combination made it an excellent location to hold a high-profile fashion event and highlight the rich legacy and old-world charm of the city.
The Teaser officially opened on Friday evening with a glitzy gala. Everybody who was anybody in the fashion industry showed up in their best attire, mostly by their designer of choice.
It was no ordinary cocktail party. There was a red carpet, a mini-army of formally-dressed servers supplying endless rounds of drinks and hors d'oeuvres, a press panel (a small section where members of the media were clustered at, interviewing and snapping photos of anyone who came that way for a quick chat with them), and a ‘gift lounge’ where guests received a bag full of free stuff from the different designers, fashion brands and beauty companies. I’d heard of these ‘gift bags’ before (like the Oscars and such) and when I saw what I had inside mine (a small, diamond owl brooch worth a small fortune among my loot), I wondered what the point was of giving expensive luxury items to people who could already well afford them. Of course, it was selling the item or the brand to the deep-pocketed customers but it was a little extravagant for a part give-away in my opinion.
The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield Page 66
