by Sally Koslow
dowsill and the bag next to the bed. She hugged Abbey and then
Daniel. “How do you both feel?”
“Surprised,” Abbey said, “elated, exhausted.”
“Très content,” he said.
“A long labor?”
“C-section at three-ten this morning,” she said. “We got here at
eleven. I thought it was a false alarm until my water broke—it hap
pened fast after that.” In slow motion, Abbey shifted her position. “I
want you to see her.”
“She is in the front left corner,” Daniel said, “with the long, dark
coiffure.”
At five pounds, thirteen ounces, Amélie Charlotte Rothschild
Cohen looked about as big as a Perdue oven-stuffer. She was sleeping
peacefully in a tightly swaddled blanket, a curl escaping from a small
pink cap. Already, she had a certain je ne sais quoi.
“Welcome, little angel,” Magnolia cooed through the glass. “I’m
your auntie Magnolia and wait till you see the layette I bought you at
Barney’s. It’s at home.” Amélie yawned. “Okay, if you don’t like it, we
can exchange. I’m telling you now—this is a promise—I will be your
fairy godmother. We are going to explore New York together, and I
plan to teach you everything I know.” Magnolia was fairly sure
Amélie opened her eyes and held her gaze. Maybe one day I’ll pro
duce a friend for you, she thought.
She returned to the room. With Daniel’s help, Abbey sat up. “I’m
duct-taped together,” she said and winced. “I can’t believe Nurse
Ratched out there expects me to take a walk.”
“This is for you,” Magnolia said, handing her the large box in the
bag. Abbey opened it carefully. Inside was a peach chiffon bed jacket
Magnolia had found two months ago on Portobello Road. “There,”
Magnolia said, as she helped Abbey slip it on. “You look like some
body’s very well-kept mistress, circa 1955.”
“Thanks, Mags,” Abbey said. “For everything.” “Sorry those lessons of ours turned out to be irrelevant,” Magnolia
said, puffing out a few shallow Lamaze breaths. “We were world-class.”
“Thank you for being there,” Daniel said in his deep voice. “Now I
stay in Manhattan for three months. And next week, Marie-France
will arrive.”
“She takes care of les enfants Rothschild,” Abbey said. “Don’t you love it?”
“Abbey, I want your life,” Magnolia said, though both of them
knew it wasn’t true.
“I’m so sorry I have to leave this afternoon.”
“As I recall, you have a plane to catch.”
“Not for five hours, and I’m already packed.”
“Which dress are you wearing?”
“The Armani sequins. Definitely not the Dolce & Gabbana. I’m
aiming for elegant, not ‘I work at Hooters.’ “
“I loved you in the Dolce.”
“Because you’re obsessing about nursing,” Magnolia said. “I just
hope you aren’t one of those mommies who whips out her huge titties
every chance she gets.”
“Stop—it hurts when I laugh,” Abbey said, holding her stomach.
Wind howled against the windows. “I really think you should get to
the airport early,” she urged.
“Unfortunately, I believe you’re right,” Magnolia said, as she stood
to leave. “As usual.”
It had been almost a year since Magnolia had become editor in chief of Dazzle. Her weeks of drafting and redrafting the Voyeur proposal allowed her to submit—almost overnight—a fully hatched vision of how she could attract new, younger readers to Dazzle and give it an edge.
“Cookie, you nailed it,” Natalie had called to say the very day she
turned in her pitch, complete with eight sample covers on which Mag
nolia had worked with Fredericka, with the understanding that if she
got the job, Fredericka would have one, too. “When can you start?”
“Thanks, Natalie,” she said. “I’ll start as soon as Wally looks over
my contract.” “Fair enough,” Natalie answered.
A week later, she moved into Natalie’s old office, which Natalie
agreed to let her redecorate—smart of Wally to ask for that, Magno
lia thought, along with weekly flowers in lieu of the standard health
club. Magnolia wasn’t ready to give up running with Abbey.
The walls were now a whispery violet repeated on the soft, low
mohair sofas that flanked the fireplace, which Magnolia had kept
ablaze since Halloween. She was back to working at the same long,
antique pine table—unearthed from Scary’s netherworld—that she’d used at Lady. There were big windows and huge bulletin boards layered with photographs and in-progress pages from the magazine. It
was a spare, calming work space, which was good, since her days
began before eight and ended after ten.
True to Natalie’s prediction, Magnolia had been working seven
days a week, including traveling at least once a month with the maga
zine’s publisher, Malachy Jones. They’d made sales calls in San Fran
cisco, Atlanta, Chicago, Minneapolis, Detroit (twice), Boston,
Houston, and London. This trip would be their first to Los Angeles.
There were two aspects of travel with Malachy Jones that Magno
lia particularly appreciated. The first was that in every city he seemed
to have a boyfriend, which meant her evenings always ended by nine.
The second: he wasn’t Darlene Knudson; he was quiet and thoughtful.
What had become of Darlene since the firing, nobody was certain.
Some said she and Jock were selling condos in Queens, which they
were marketing as “the new downtown.” Others declared that Dar
lene had launched a tween girls’ clothing line with prices starting at a
thousand dollars.
Almost every day at Dazzle brought the rush of New Year’s Eve, minus the champagne. Magnolia had more than kept up her end of
the bargain. The magazine wasn’t just Scary’s queen breadwinner—
newsstand, subscriptions, and ads were all soaring. There were two
good reasons why. First, a long overdue redesign by Fredericka. The
second, Magnolia’s secret weapon, Sasha.
“Do you want to work for me again?” she’d asked Sasha. “You’ll be
my first hire.” “As your assistant?” Sasha asked. Magnolia could hear her disap
pointment. “You know I’m applying to law school.”
“You’d be a staff writer,” Magnolia said. Sasha accepted the posi
tion on the spot, and every week generated headline-grabbing articles,
like her exclusive on those nasty rumors about one of President Bush’s
daughters.
The rest of the staff, which she’d inherited from Natalie, wasn’t
just efficient—she liked them. And the person she liked the best was
Stella, her number-two geisha, whom Natalie had left behind. With
her MBA from the Natalie Simon School of Office Protocol, Stella
arranged every detail with what was once quaintly known as military
precision. Before a trip, for instance, she anticipated Magnolia’s needs
down to the location of each airport’s ladies’ rooms.
Today, the moment Magnolia arrived home after visiting Abbey,
Stella was on the line, assuring her that the car she reserved to take
her to the airport was—amazingly,
considering the blizzard—on
time. Magnolia thanked her profusely and opened the shiny black
folder Stella had messengered over with its hour-by-hour itinerary
amended with tickets, directions, and vouchers.
What she looked at first, of course, was the large, square engraved
invitation, not unlike the one she’d received last week for her cousin’s
daughter’s Bat Mitzvah in Boca Raton. “The Academy of Motion Pic
ture Arts and Sciences invites Ms. Magnolia Gold to the Academy
Awards …” This year she would be watching the Oscars not from her
living room but from the Kodak Theater, in one of the two seats traditionally accorded to Dazzle. Magnolia wondered if Malachy, her date, would actually wear socks with his evening shoes.
Magnolia reached the airport with more than an hour to spare, but
soon enough she settled into her seat—first class—and eyed her
heavy bag of manuscripts. Usually, she couldn’t wait to read and com
ment. Today she had other plans. Magnolia took out the bound,
uncorrected galley of the book Stella had worked her contacts to
chase down just the previous day. The cover showed the back of a couple embracing. A Friend Indeed. She was glad Cameron had won the war with his publisher over the name.
She looked first for the dedication and acknowledgments, her heart
racing, but they were TK—publisher’s jargon for “coming later.” She
flipped to the end for the author’s bio: “Cameron James Dane was
raised in Burlington, Vermont,” it said. “He received his bachelor’s
degree from Williams College and a master’s in fine arts from Yale University. A Friend Indeed, his first novel, is being published in fourteen countries and made into a major motion picture. He lives in Mal
ibu with his rescue dog, Mags.” The photograph showed Cam with a
pup whose fur was the same dirty-blond as that of her owner, who was
walking barefoot on the beach, his face hidden by sunglasses.
Magnolia opened to the first page, telling herself she was just curi
ous to see whether Cam’s editor had macerated his deceptively simple prose. “Jake Hawkins had loved Daisy Silver for four years. Five, if you counted the year when he only admired her from his desk in the office three doors down. He loved the way her laugh sounded like the charm bracelet that never left her slim wrist, and he wondered whether she kept it on, even when …”
As she devoured the pages, she could see that the decorum com
mittee at Cam’s publishing house had convened and blessed the sex
scenes, which were now more fruitful and had multiplied. But, other
wise, the book was as she remembered. Cam’s voice was still strong. In
fact, she felt as if he were dictating into her ear and she luxuriated in
every word. When the captain announced they were landing at LAX,
she was only half finished, having—at strategic points—allowed her
mind to swerve into territory no one would call virginal.
Magnolia deplaned and found her waiting town car. The Four
Seasons in Beverly Hills couldn’t be less like its forbidding Manhattan
cousin. She was admiring its warm, old-world ambience, waiting for
her room key, when she heard her name.
“Mag-knowl-ya.”
“Bebe!” she said, spinning around to face her. “Hello.” Bebe had
lost a good fifty pounds and had dyed her hair black.
“I hear you’re in town for the Oscars.”
“And you’re making a movie.”
“Don’t you think I’m perfect for the Elizabeth Taylor role?” Bebe said. “As soon as I started Hellcat—that’s my production company—I knew The Taming of the Shrew had to be our first release.”
“Sorry Yentl closed so soon,” Magnolia said.
Bebe dismissed the four performances with a wave of her hand.
“Those Broadway audiences don’t get subtlety,” she said. Magnolia
saw a fleet of Louis Vuitton luggage roll by. “Great, my bags are
finally here. So, can I take you to dinner?”
“Sorry, Bebe, but my publisher has us seeing a client,” Magnolia
said. “But thanks.”
“Breakfast tomorrow?”
“Same.”
“Drink then?” Bebe said. “The bar here, say about ten?”
“I’d love to, but we’ll be meeting with other clients later,” Magno
lia lied. “You know how it is—sell, sell, sell.”
“Well, catch you later,” Bebe said, unfazed. “And think cover. I
want a fabulous cover just like this!” she said as she put on white
movie-star sunglasses.
“Yes, I know,” Magnolia said. Bebe had been agitating for a cover on Dazzle since Magnolia had got her job.
“Promise?” Bebe said, winking.
She winked back.
A bellman ushered Magnolia into her suite. She tipped him gener
ously. On one table stood a bottle of Cristal chilling in a silver bucket.
“Cookie, enjoy the Oscars,” the card from Natalie said, “and thanks for your wonderful performance.” Magnolia hadn’t known what to expect of Natalie as a boss, but she quickly learned that as long as she kept Dazzle solidly in the black and favorably in the news, they’d get along famously.
Two large bouquets crowded the coffee table. One was a tall stand
of mango calla lilies, their bright orange a lightning bolt in the taste
fully beige room. She ripped open the card. “Orange you glad we’re
going to the Oscars?” Malachy’s jokes sometimes fell a bit short on the
wit meter, but unlike Darlene, at least he tried. The second bouquet
was an extravagance of peonies, hydrangeas, and full-blown red roses
accompanied by a gardenia-scented candle and two pounds of dark Belgium chocolates. “Welcome to the town where more is more, Big
smooch, BEBE,” the card read.
Magnolia unpacked, carefully hanging her gown on a heavily
padded silk hanger. She lined up her Cinderella-worthy sandals on
the closet floor and stowed this year’s birthday present from Abbey—
jade and moonstone drop earrings—in the safe. The Balenciaga
evening bag, filmy wrap, and silky lingerie, still with their tags on,
she slipped into the drawers.
In fifteen minutes, she was due downstairs to meet Malachy. She
considered—as she had, constantly, for the last few weeks—whether
she should call Cameron. She hadn’t seen Cam at all since she aborted
her trip to visit him the past spring and once her job started, their
e-mails had dwindled to nothing. “Hi, there. Want to get together? In
town for the Oscars!” Magnolia practiced saying the lines out loud,
trying to imbue them with a blithe insouciance.
She couldn’t do it. She’d make the call later.
Later, however—after dinner with four obstreperous, twenty
eight-year-old cosmetic clients who seemed to especially enjoy that
the mojitos were on Scary—she fell dead into bed. Amélie’s arrival,
the time difference, her months and months of fatigue … in two
minutes, she was out cold. On Sunday, she nearly overslept, and before
the nine o’clock appointment Malachy had lined up for them, barely
had time for a swipe of lip gloss before meeting him downstairs. Mag
nolia had scant conversation to share as they drove in their rented
convertible to Doughboys on Third and La Jolla.
As the group gorged on flaxseed pancakes, Magnolia discreetly
checked her itinerary. After brea
kfast she’d be back at the Four Sea
sons, at the spa. Eleven o’clock: manicure and pedicure; twelve o’clock:
massage; and one o’clock: the house specialty, margarita body pol
ishes: she’d be rubbed with juices from limes, oranges, and tangerines
mixed with sunflower oil, salt, and tequila. Magnolia hoped she
wouldn’t walk away, smelling like a Tijuana bar. After the spa, she’d
return to her room to meet a hair and makeup stylist. Assuming no
snafus, she and Malachy would connect at three-thirty.
Which was how it worked out. Having been pummeled, exfoliated, and transformed by a team of dedicated Southern California profes
sionals, slipping into her sequins and shoes was the quickest thing she
did all day. As she fastened her earrings and admired the way they
caught the light, there was a knock.
“Flowers,” the bellman said. “Again.” She peeked through the
chained door and saw a bouquet in each of his hands.
“Kisses from the Cohens—Abbey, Daniel, and Amélie,” said the
card attached to the lavender roses in a silver cache. The other blos
soms were creamy white and starlike, on branches that appeared to
have been recently cut from a backyard garden. She breathed in their
unmistakable fragrance, as sweet as a June twilight on the delta.
Magnolias.
There was no card. Did she dare think they might be from Cam?
They were probably from a publicist who would follow up later, per
haps with skywriting promoting a miracle depilatory she wanted Dazzle to feature. Although they might be from Rabbi Hirsch. They’d gone out six times, and although Magnolia felt he was a good
deal more appropriate for her than Tyler Peterson, she couldn’t see
herself with a man who might expect her to bake a kugel every Fri
day night.
Magnolia locked her cell phone in the safe—her evening bag was
barely bigger than a six-year-old’s hand—and checked her reflection.
No one was going to mistake her for a best-actress wannabe, but a doc
umentary short subject nominee perhaps. She went downstairs to
meet Malachy.
“You look lovely, Ms. Gold,” he said, offering his arm. Magnolia
hoped she looked half as pretty as he did. Malachy-the-metrosexual
had eyelashes she would kill for, not a pore in sight, and highlights so
deceptively natural she wished she had the nerve to ask for the name
