Eye Candy

  "Well," I hummed, eying the dessert cart only a few feet away like a junkie with an eye on her next fix, "I've been thinking about that. After a lot of thought, I came up with a schedule that I think will make everyone happy."

  Or at least as happy as they can be.

  Gavin inclined his head, indicating he was listening.

  "Ferrero's show will be the dividing line." Before Gavin could voice the confusion clear in his warm brown eyes, I explained. "Their catwalk show, which I have been waiting for all week, runs from four until five. I will spend the day with one of you from first thing in the morning until four and with the other from five until the night is over."

  I consciously avoided saying "until bed," trying to keep any wayward thoughts from surfacing.

  "Who gets which half?" Gavin asked, ever the pragmatist.

  "That's the best part." For me, anyway. "You two get to choose."

  If I made that choice, no matter which way I chose, feelings would be hurt, egos bruised, and assumptions made. Whoever got the morning would say that the night was the more significant part of the day. Whoever got the night would say that the morning was longer.

  Much better they figure out a way to assign the schedule themselves.

  "Don't you care?"

  "Gavin," I said meeting his injured gaze earnestly, "I want to share my birthday with you both. And, since I don't think you'd like to celebrate the whole day as a threesome, I will take what time I can with each of you."

  He looked ready to protest, to pout even.

  "Now let's get out of here before that panettone jumps of that tray and sashays its way onto my plate."

  Back at the hotel, Gavin and I parted in the lobby. I went upstairs and sent Elliot down so the pair could work out the schedule for tomorrow. Anxious and excited to celebrate my birthday, thirty-fourth though it may be, in Italy I hurried to get ready for bed and slipped between the sheets.

  I wanted to be asleep before Elliot returned for two reasons. First, I wanted the identity of my morning date to remain a secret until I opened the door. And second, I had a feeling my morning would be starting mighty early.

  Whoever got the first shift would want to maximize his time. After all, the night shift had no ending deadline.

  Finally sinking into slumber nearly an hour later—and still alone in the room—I dreamt of all the once-in-a-lifetime things I wanted to do on my birthday.

  21

  Q: Three people were standing under an umbrella with a hole in it. Who got wet?

  A: Nobody. It wasn't raining.

  — Laffy Taffy Joke #97

  "Happy birthday, beautiful."

  Gavin stood in the hallway, a fragrant bouquet of pure white roses in his hand and a beaming grin on his face.

  "Thank you," I said, taking the flowers and inhaling their heavy scent. "They're gorgeous. But where will I—"

  "Already taken care of." From behind his back, Gavin produced a gilded vase covered in floating cherubs and swirling ivy. "This hotel has everything."

  Stepping past me, Gavin set the vase on the dresser and took the bouquet from me to set the flowers in a simple arrangement that coordinated perfectly with the room. If luxury was in the details, Hotel della Regina defined the term.

  I took one last moment while Gavin's attention was on the flowers to check my appearance. For this very special day, one that would run nonstop from a morning outdoors to a fashion show to a night out, I had selected a very special outfit.

  A strapless, A-line dress in a dreamy shade of cream that made my fair complexion look like fine porcelain, decorated at the hem and neckline by black embroidered flowers, and pulled together by a narrow black belt. Add a black cashmere cardigan to ward off the chill, a pair of black Dolce & Gabbana peep-toe heels, and a Kate Spade Sam bag toting a pair of black Chanel ballet flats for emergency foot relief, and I felt like Audrey Hepburn in "Roman Holiday."

  "Ready for you big day, Cinderella?" Gavin asked as he moved to stand behind me at the mirror.

  I tucked one wayward strand of light brown hair back into the neat ponytail sitting low against my neck. "Absolutely," I said, turning. "You ready, Prince Charming?"

  Gavin offered his arm and I slipped my fingers into the crook of his elbow. Our eyes met, and I caught a glimpse of intense emotion.

  His voice low and intent, he answered, "For anything."

  Oh my. And the day hadn't even begun yet.

  "Mom?" The voice on the phone echoed and crackled. "Mom, is that you? Is everything alright?"

  "Yes ... every ... fine."

  The connection must have been failing. I only heard every other word. Maybe ship-to-shore communications hadn't caught up with modern technology. Or maybe Mom and Dad hadn't felt the need to upgrade their "classic" sailboat.

  "Where are you?" I shouted into my cell, trying to ignore the stares of the patrons at the sidewalk café where Gavin had chosen to eat a late lunch.

  "Half ... Miami ... Cuba ... bean."

  "Cuba!? What are you doing in Cuba?"

  "Not ..." The line went silent for a few seconds before, suddenly, Mom's voice came through perfectly clear. "We're not in Cuba, dear. We're passing Cuba. On our way to the Caribbean."

  "Oh. That's a relief."

  "I just wanted to call to wish you a Happy Birthday." Mom's voice sounded tired. Very tired. "Didn't want you to think you were forgotten."

  Something was not right about this conversation. Not just that Mom sounded worn out, but something I couldn't quite—

  "Did you hear me, Lydia?" she shouted, as if fearing the connection had been lost. "I said Happy Birthday!"

  "Yes, thank you." I chewed at my lower lip, trying to pinpoint what wasn't right. "I'm having a great time."

  "Oh, are you out with your friends?" she asked. "Tell Bethany and Fiona hello for me."

  I frowned. Mom knew I wasn't home. Didn't she?

  "Mom, I'm not in New York. I'm in—"

  "What, David? No, I'm talking to Lydia on the phone. Our daughter. It's her birthday, you know."

  I listened intently to the muffled conversation in the background.

  "Fine!" Mom said, then returned her attention to me. "Lydia, your father wants to speak with you. Apparently this call costs five dollars per minute, so I'll call you tomorrow when we reach land. Goodbye."

  "But Mom, tomorrow I'll be—"

  "Hello, gumdrop." Dad's cheerful voice rang across the line. "Happy Birthday."

  "Thanks, Dad. Is something wro—"

  "I have to go before this call bankrupts me. We'll call tomorrow. Goodbye."

  "But Dad, tomorrow I'll be—" The drone of dial tone buzzed in my ear. "—flying back to New York."

  I looked from the phone to Gavin and back again.

  "My parents hung up on me. Again." I returned the phone to my purse and found the napkin that had fallen to the ground. "Something is definitely wrong there."

  "Do you think it's serious?" Gavin asked sincerely.

  "No. Yes. Maybe. I don't know." I looked up, confused and concerned. "I just don't know."

  "We'll be home tomorrow night." He laid a hand reassuringly on mine. "Then you can call them back and find out exactly what's going on."

  Gavin was right. He always knew exactly what to say. How to make everything seem, if not alright, then at least doable. His no nonsense approach might become tedious in some areas of life, but when the chips were down, he was a solid, steady rock.

  That was one of the reasons I loved him so much.

  I gasped.

  "What?" he asked, immediately concerned. "Is something else wrong?"

  "No," I blurted out. "No, nothing's wrong."

  He didn't look satisfied, but he went back to quietly eating his pasta and watching me intently.

  My mind raced.

  Did I love Gavin? Or did I love him before? And if I loved him before, didn't that mean that I loved him still? And if I loved him now, before or not, did I love him love him? Or did I just love
him? Like a person loves a dog. Or a pretty dress. Or a subscription to the Toffee of the Month Club.

  I couldn't breathe. Couldn't get enough oxygen. My lungs felt on fire and my brain started to dim.

  Grabbing the arms of my chair firmly, I lowered my head and tried to take deep, even breaths. Slowly the darkness faded and my brain and lungs rejoiced at my steady breathing.

  Gavin, however, did not rejoice.

  "Lydia, my God," he demanded, shoving his chair back from the table and crouching by my side in an instant, "what's the matter?"

  "Nothing really." My assurances were as much for myself as for him. "I'm fine. Promise."

  "Fine," he snorted. "You look pale as milk."

  "It's the dress. It makes my skin tone light."

  "It is not the dress. No dress makes you look green around the edges."

  "A green dress might."

  From the scowl that earned, I didn't think that was the right response. But really, a near fainting spell when a person realizes they love, loved, or might be in love with someone is nothing to make a fuss over.

  "I'm fine." And just to prove my point, I pushed out of my chair and stood. "See."

  My legs threatened to go wobbly and send me to the ground—or into Gavin's arms, which might have been their motivation—but I remained on my feet and reasonably stable. Still in my heels, even.

  Though he looked doubtful, Gavin stood and pulled his jacket off the chair back with a flourish and signaled the waiter for the bill.

  When we were out of the café, walking down the street, Gavin's arm wrapped securely around my waist, he asked, "What's next on the list?"

  As if on cue, a bell tower pealed out three loud gongs followed by two smaller chimes. Three thirty.

  "Actually," I sighed, though I wasn't sure if I was reluctant or not, "it's time for me to head to the runway."

  "Oh."

  Without further comment, Gavin hailed a taxi and asked him to take us to the Fiera Pavilion. As the tiny car wove through heavy, Saturday afternoon traffic, we remained silent.

  My thoughts darted between my concern for my parents and my feelings for Gavin. How was I ever going to be able to survive backstage at Ferrero's show?

  "You know," he finally said as we neared our destination, "we could just pick up where we're leaving off after the show."

  He said it softly. Quietly. And I knew what he asked.

  He was asking me to make my decision now. To choose him over Elliot and spend the rest of the day and night with him.

  If I were certain of my feelings, I might have done just that. But deep inside I knew I wasn't ready. To protect my heart, and his as well, I had to say no. Even when a part of me deep down inside wanted desperately to say yes.

  "I—"

  Gavin waved off my explanation. "That was unfair of me to ask."

  The taxi screeched to a halt and Gavin leapt out of the car to open my door. He asked the cab to wait, promising a bigger tip.

  "Listen," he said, taking my hands in his, "I know this is a difficult decision for you to make, and I am willing to wait. For a while. But I'm not Job, Lydia. I can't wait forever."

  He pressed a soft kiss to my lips, and I pressed back. A warm feeling started at the contact, flowing gradually down my spine and out my limbs to the tips of my fingers and toes. A feeling like coming home.

  But was that feeling strong enough on which to wager an entire lifetime?

  As Gavin ducked back into the cab and sped away, I knew that was only half the question I needed to ask. And answers were a long time coming.

  "Caro," Ferrero's voice cried across the zoo of people bustling around the backstage area, "you have arrived. And just in time. Come. Help me pull delight from disaster."

  Models taller than the basketball player in my Art Humanities class were everywhere. Several sat in front of a long bank of vanity mirrors, mindlessly enduring the ministrations of the make-up artists. A cluster stood near the pair of garment racks that held the remainder of the collection, chain smoking and speaking in some obscure eastern European language. Another bunch paraded around Ferrero as he fussed over this detail and that.

  He looked calm and pulled together on the surface. But his accent, which had grown more heavily Italian with each day of the trip, wavered and died by the end of his speech. This, I knew, was a sign of a frazzled Ferrero.

  Tucking my purse into a cubby with several others, I asked, "What can I do?"

  "Oh!" he cried as he saw the models smoking near the racks. "Someone get those cigarettes away from the clothes. Sequins are extremely flammable. You there! Smoke somewhere else!"

  At his shouting, the offending models looked at him without moving a muscle, dismissed him, and returned to their conversation.

  "Oh my," Ferrero breathed, fanning himself with his hands. "I can see it now; the whole collection up in smoke. All because that anorexic Slav, Nadika, has to have her way wi—"

  "I'll take care of it," I soothed. A distracted designer was not a great asset at a fashion show. "You finish with the inspections."

  He smiled in gratitude before turning back to the impatient Pixie Sticks awaiting his approval, muttering something about lung cancer and karma.

  "Nadika?" I approached the models, careful to sound deferential to their exalted status.

  In return, I got a scathing glare.

  At least I had their attention.

  Maybe a little white chocolate lie was better than an all-out confrontation.

  "I'm very sorry to disturb you," I mewed, choking on every honeyed word, "but the stage manager said there was a call for you from—" I raced through a series of high fashion locales before taking a guess on something that might hit closer to home. "—Budapest."

  For a moment she, the tallest one with a white platinum bob and ice blue eyes, just looked at me. Weighing my worthiness, I imagined.

  Then, in a sudden and startling transformation that sent me back a step, her face softened. She smiled, and sighed, "Gregor."

  Without another word she took off in the direction I had vaguely waved to as the location of the phone, running across the concrete floor in four-inch stilettos, the pale blue ruffle of the cocktail dress fluttering behind her.

  With the queen bee gone the other models dispersed, stomping out their cigarettes and returning to their assigned stations.

  Satisfied, I returned to Ferrero's side.

  "Everyone," he called, "everyone please gather around."

  Most of the bodies in the backstage area, with the exception of the stage managers—stern looking women dressed all in black and shouting into headsets—moved into a close circle around Ferrero.

  "Before the show begins, I want to thank everyone involved. This is the best collection yet, and it would not be possible without the help of each of you."

  Everyone applauded, including Ferrero, who inclined his head at the group as a whole.

  He raised a hand to quiet them. "The time approaches. Let the madness begin. And I expect to see every last one of you at the after party tonight."

  A huge cheer erupted. The crowd dispersed to their pre-show positions, leaving me alone with Ferrero.

  "Thank you, Lydia," he said, his voice heavy with sincerely and without a hint of accent. "For being my inspiration and my sanity."

  He waved me off when I started to protest. "Are you ready to experience the reason I became a fashion designer?" When I nodded, he smiled like a guilty little boy. "Brace yourself for the adrenaline rush of a lifetime."

  On cue, the stage manager's voice announced over the speaker system, "Places please."

  Models lined up on the steel stairway leading to the catwalk. Make-up artists, make-up kits in hand, walked the line of models, touching up porcelain pale skin and cherry red lips. Ferrero moved to the curtained doorway that marked the last step before models emerged on stage.

  From beyond the curtain, the announcer's voice welcomed the guests attending the show and gave a brief history of the fas
hion house. The music started. The stage manager counted down, slapping her hand against her thigh in time to the beat.

  "... three ... two ... one ... go!"

  The first model stepped through the curtain. Ferrero fussed with the collar on the second.

  "Go," the stage manager ordered.

  The second model went.

  Ferrero aligned the hem on the third.

  "Go."

  The third model went.

  The first model emerged seconds later on the opposite side of the stage, climbing down the steps and heading to the garment racks for her wardrobe change.

  Without pause, this procession continued. Ferrero perfected the clothes on one model, she walked the catwalk, she changed her outfit, she lined up to do it all over again.

  My head spun.

  The entire year I'd worked with him, I had counted Ferrero as a bit of a flake. A gifted and talented designer, without doubt, but I doubted his reliability. Watching him work every model, assuring perfection time after time for the hour-long duration of the show, erased my doubts.

  By the time the stunning shantung and organza wedding gown closed out the show and Ferrero took his walk with the models smiling and the crowd cheering, I was in awe. My mind began imagining what it would be like to have a show of my own. To go through that kind of insanity with my own line of jewelry. Sure, jewelry shows were not nearly as big and overwhelming, but any show would come with a certain amount of pressure and excitement.

  The trouble was... I didn't know if I wanted that or not.

  Why did it seem like the decisions I had to make got harder every day?

  My heart was still racing with the thrill of the show when I walked out front to meet Elliot. After standing for over an hour in my heels I had changed into the flats, both to save my aching feet and in anticipation of tooting around Milan on a moped again.

  But when I got to the sidewalk, all I saw was a row of cars waiting to rush the fashion show guests to their next event. A parade of black sedans led by a white Ferrari. Must be a celeb. They loved to drive those flashy cars.