Enright Family Collection (55 page)

“Just a sofa” had turned into “and just this one cozy chair and just this great-looking table and just this fabulous lamp.” As Delia had intended all along. As Zoey had suspected she might do.

“Mom, did it ever occur to you that you spoil us too much?” Zoey had asked on the way home from shopping.

“Not for a second.” Delia dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand.

“You don’t think you’re overly generous?” Mildly amused at the denial, Zoey leaned back into the luxury of the plush leather seat of her mother’s big Mercedes sedan.

“Not a bit.” Delia shook her head adamantly. “If I can make it possible for my children to pursue their dreams without having to worry about whether or not they can pay the rent, whether or not they can afford to live in a safe place, whether or not they are comfortable, why shouldn’t I do that? Not a one of you been spoiled by it. And besides, it makes me happy to be able to help you along.”

“We are all grateful for your help, Mom, but—”

“Please.” Delia held up a hand. “I know you are grateful, darling. And I am grateful that you have all grown into such lovely, wonderful young people. I’d be happy to know and spend time with any one of you under any circumstances. It’s just the icing on the cake that the three of you happen to be my children. And
besides, now that you are safely settled in that darling little apartment, I know I’ll have a place to leave Gracie when I leave for the Midwest next week.”

“My home is Gracie’s home.” Zoey laughed as they pulled into her driveway, knowing how Delia’s much loved old lump of an orange tabby cat had hated the kennel the few times she had been left there.

“And speaking of which, let me give you my itinerary, in case you need to get in touch.” Delia dug in her purse for the carefully typed list of dates and hotels and bookstores and phone numbers for each.

Zoey smiled as she got out of the car and closed the door, knowing her mother would call her—and Nick, and Georgia—every other day until she arrived home.

“So, are you looking forward to this book tour?” Zoey leaned into the open window of the driver’s side door and watched her mother sort through several pieces of paper until she found what she was looking for.

“Ah . Here we are.” Delia handed the typed copy of her itinerary to her daughter, who gave it a quick glance before folding it and sliding it into her jacket pocket. “You know that I always look forward to my book tours. Always. I never get tired of it, Zoey. It rejuvenates me. And I’ve made friends in so many cities and towns over the years. Every time I go back, so many of the same people are there, at the same bookstores where I first met them when I toured that first time.” Delia smiled at her daughter. “Like old friends, so many of them, the booksellers and the readers. I know a lot of writers don’t like to tour, but when you’ve done it for as long as I have, it becomes an important part of your life. I like to hear what people think of my books. You know, there’s a lady in Peoria who has been writing to me for almost twenty years now, another in Idaho about the same. They matter to me, Zoey. I look forward to seeing them, even if it’s only for a brief time, once a year. It’s always important to me to go back.”

“Someday you’ll get tired of all that traveling around and then your fans will have to come to you.” Zoey
leaned through the window to give her mother a fond kiss on the cheek.

“Not while I breathe,” Delia grinned. “You just never know what you’ll find out there, Zoey. You just never know.”

“Hopefully, a lot of book sales.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

“As if you need divine intervention.” Zoey laughed as Delia backed out of the parking spot.

“My darling, we all need a little of that.” Delia blew her daughter a kiss. “And may you have all that you need for your debut next Saturday. I’ll be watching from my hotel room in Kansas City. I made certain that they had cable TV when I made the reservation. And don’t forget to pick up Gracie on Tuesday morning. You know how she hates to be alone for too long. . . .”

It had been a week of changes and firsts, Zoey was thinking as she blow-dried her hair, the fourth time since she had gotten out of bed at 5 A.M. Her first real show was scheduled from 4 to 7 P.M., and she was a nervous wreck. She fussed with her hair until it swirled around her head in loose, shiny black ringlets, then turned her attention to her nails. Again. She stared at the polish. Too red.

With a sigh she plunked herself down on the stool in front of the dressing table she had brought from her room in Delia’s house and unscrewed the top of the nail polish remover. Saturating yet another little cotton square, she attacked the offending color and wiped it away. She studied the row of small jars of polish that marched in a precise line across one side of the dressing table. Was there any color she had not tried and rejected at least once? Maybe this peachy shade of pink . . .

Choosing her clothes had been even worse. She had gone through seven outfits before only the ticking away of the afternoon forced her to settle on a dress of nubby peach silk and cotton knit with rolled-up sleeves and a slightly dropped rounded neckline, perfect to show off the gold necklaces she was scheduled to present in her
first hour. At 2:30 she packed her makeup into a plastic pouch and turned off the bedroom lights.

“Wish me luck, you guys,” she said aloud to Maudie and Felicity, who sat on the window seat at one end of the room. “And for heaven’s sake, would you try to show a little enthusiasm? Sheesh, guys, this is a really big day for me.”

She paused and looked at herself in the mirror from across the room.

“This is what it’s come to. I’m talking to stuffed animals. To dolls. Out loud. I hope it’s not a bad sign.”

On her way out, she stopped in the little sunroom off the kitchen to scratch old Grade behind the ears. The cat had made an uneasy adjustment. Clearly, she preferred Delia’s big rambling house to the smaller confines of Zoey’s apartment.

“Look, Gracie, it could be worse,” Zoey reminded her feline houseguest. “It could be a K-E-N-N-E-L. Got that? So stop your sulking and be a good little guard cat. And cross your paws that I don’t make a complete and utter fool out of myself today.”

And with that, Zoey Enright set off to make her debut on national television.

The entry into the building that housed the Home MarketPlace was strictly utilitarian, a few large green plants near the doorway and a few outdated magazines the only effort made toward accommodating visitors. A sofa of bright green vinyl—not particularly uncomfortable, not particularly cushy—sat against one short wall, the only seating available.

You would have thought that someone would have made a little more effort to put a happy face on the reception area,
Zoey thought as she checked in with the security guard at the desk.

That Zoey would make her debut was the very least of what was taking place that day. The Home MarketPlace was kicking off its new look, its new format, introducing its new program hosts in three-hour segments. There was a bustle, a heady electricity that surged throughout the
building. From the valet hired for the day to park the visitors’ cars, to the caterers setting up for the cocktail party in the CEO’s suite, to the producers and product coordinators and lighting engineers—all seemed to move a little more briskly, with greater purpose and determination, to perform their tasks with a little more certainty than they had in the trial runs that had dominated every day and night of the past two weeks. Now, it was showtime.

“How’s it going?” Zoey asked one of the technicians she passed in the hall.

“All things considered, we’re doing pretty well.” He nodded, his graying ponytail flopping silently against the back of his neck. “Your buddy”—he nodded toward the monitor—“got off to a little bit of a rocky start, but she’s doing real well now.”

Zoey crept to the corner of the stage where her new friend, Cecelia—CeCe—Hollister, a former Miss Montana, sat on a dark green velvet chair and exhibited the pantaloons of a porcelain doll. Sensing Zoey’s presence, she glanced over and winked, made a face, and continued her on-air conversation with the woman who had called in to buy the doll. CeCe looked as if she was doing just fine.

Nervous energy propelled Zoey down the corridor and into the lounge where she could sit and fix her hair and makeup without interruption.

“There you are,” Cara, one of the young production assistants, huffed and puffed as she poked her head in the door. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You have about twenty minutes before you go on. Do you feel that you need to come in the back and take one last look at the products you’re selling?”

“Yes.” Zoey nodded. “I want to make sure I’m as prepared as I can be. And there’s so much to remember. . . .”

She rose on shaking legs and packed her makeup bag into her tote.

“You’ll be great, Zoey. Everyone said you were the
best in the trial runs all week.” Cara held the door open for her and allowed Zoey to pass through. The hallway was crawling with activity, florists and caterers, people moving furniture and people pushing carts of fine stem ware and ice sculptures, preparing for the arrival of the CEO within the hour.

“That was then and this is now,” she muttered under her breath. And
now
is when it counts. There was, she sensed, more riding on her airtime than how many items she would sell. She needed to feel sure of herself, needed to know that she had, after all these years, found her place. She suspected that, by the end of the next three hours, she might know.

“Zoey Enright, you kicked butt!” CeCe met Zoey with a high five as she danced off the set at the end of her three-hour run.

“WE kicked butt!” Zoey laughed. “And we survived our maiden runs. And . . . if the gods have been very good to us, maybe, just maybe, someone actually bought something that we were selling. Come on, let’s see if there are any sales numbers available.”

The two women descended upon the producer, who happily showed off the sales for the past six hours.

“The best we’ve had all day,” he told them. “You are both either very good and very likable, or you’re both very lucky. I haven’t decided which as yet.”

“We are all of those things,” CeCe told him matter-of-factly. “We are good and likable and lucky. And now we are going to celebrate our good fortunes and our lively personalities with a few very cold beers and some very hot peppers at that little roadside bar a few miles down this old country road.”

“Not so fast, CeCe.” Zoey grabbed her arm and steered her down the hallway. “The bartender down the road will have to make do without our company for a little longer. Right now it’s French champagne and all manner of other good things right on down the hall here.”

“Oh, right. The CEO’s picnic or whatever.” CeCe
made a pouty face and ran her fingers through her thick dark auburn hair. “I’m from Big Sky country, Zoey, the good old American West. At the end of my workday, I want a cold beer and maybe, if it’s a big night, a bowl of cashews.”

“Later,” Zoey promised, and flashed a smile at the guard stationed at the doorway to check IDs, making sure that no outsiders crashed the party.

Zoey’s stomach reminded her that she had eaten next to nothing all day, her nerves having gotten the best of her early on. She made a plate of strawberries, melon, and icy cold shrimp. Stopping at the bar for a glass of sparkling water, she looked for a quiet corner in which to eat and collect her thoughts. Everyone in the room seemed to have watched her show, and had congratulated her on a job well done.

I did okay,
she told herself as she settled near a window that had a ledge just wide enough for her glass.
Better than okay. I was good. And I loved it. I loved it. Once the camera stated to run, I was fine. It was great. It was the best time I ever had. It was . . . it was like dancing on my toes in a white dress, on a big stage with beautiful music swirling around me. Like pulling a story from my mind and writing a book about people who never existed and making them sound real. Like looking through a microscope and watching all of the life forms that share the space of one tiny drop of pond water.

Zoey had landed, with both feet, and had made an enormous splash, exactly as Delia had predicted she would.

Chapter
4
 

Bennett Pierce set a steady pace as he headed for his destination. While in reality, he was jogging toward London’s St. James Park, in his mind, he was slipping his race car onto the track and into its designated starting position, preparing for the line-up lap, the first step of a race. The cars would make one lap around the circuit, then line up, ready to begin. The line-up was the last chance for each driver to make sure that every component of his car was ready and working properly.

Oblivious of the traffic, still light this early hour of the morning, Ben crossed the street and followed the walk-way that led down toward the pond, where the black swans had yet to waken to the day. Past sleeping forms on the benches, his feet kept up the rhythm, allowing his mind to keep him in the race. After the line-up would come the formation lap, which the race director would begin with a green flag, giving the drivers one full time around the circuit, at speed, to bring the tires, the water, the brakes, up to the right temperature for the race. This was also the drivers’ opportunity to stake their ground, to try to psyche out the competition, maybe by getting
right up behind another entrant and not hitting the brakes until his gear box was practically in your face. Chances are that the spooked driver would be starting the race with his eyes on his rearview mirror instead of the cars in front of him. Which was just a means of letting everyone know that you were there to win. From that point on, it was a matter of waiting for the green light on the five-second board to signal the start of the race.