Will Work for Prom Dress (19 page)

After their police station clickfest, one of the reporters had used his slimy ways to get ahold of an illegally obtained police report and verified Anne’s connection as a suspect.
Thankfully, my face was in shadows, but a clear shot of the two beautiful faces of the Parisis—Anne, defiant, and Ms. Parisi, distraught—made for ideal tabloid fodder.

There had been no formal charges tying Anne to the crime, but, despite her being underage, unscrupulous Hollywood talk shows spent long hours gossiping about what a shame it was for the formerly perfect Victoria Parisi to be so humiliated by her daughter. The vultures even speculated on what sort of mother she must be.

I sunk into the soft leather of my cushy window seat and tried to put it out of my head, like Anne and her mom seemed to be doing. Ms. Parisi might be used to getting bumped up on flights, but I had never ridden in first class before. I checked to see if anyone was looking and tucked the complimentary amenities bag full of tiny toiletries, socks, and a lavender-scented eye mask into my backpack for back at home, when I could savor it.

Finally, the line of boarding passengers slowed to a trickle. A flight attendant followed them, stopping at our aisle holding a tray of champagne glasses.

“Refreshment?”

“Oh please, yes,” Ms. Parisi said, showing the first crack
in her poise as she gratefully accepted the glass and took a long deep drink.

“Thank you. Yes, me, too,” Anne said with a smirk, but flashed an apologetic smile at her mom before correcting, “I’ll have a Diet Coke, though.”

“Me, too,” I said, and flipped on the seat’s lumbar massage feature. “Ahhh, this is what I needed last weekend after that parade.”

“Awww, you were cuke,” Anne said. “Seriously, you were a hit. I heard the slug asking if you’d be up for another show in the future. And I got to blow off T-Shirt and you got to blow off Zander. Perfect day!”

“What? Where was Zander?”

“You didn’t—Sorry, I thought you saw him and iced him because of what he said.”

“I didn’t even see him. Who was he there with?”

“A few little kids in wheelchairs—they were in the handicapped section up front. He was with some redhead chick, but don’t worry, they weren’t acting like anything special. Does he have a sister?”

“I guess. I don’t really know that much about his family. He never talks about them. Great, he probably thinks I
blew him off. And while he was doing charity work of all things.”

It didn’t surprise me in the slightest that Zander would volunteer to take sick kids to a parade.

“You were more than a little incognito. And so what if he did. What he said was awful.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“All set, Ms. Parisi?” asked the flight attendant, accepting her empty glass and offering a downy blanket.

“Thank you.”

The attendant nodded and then placed a hand on Ms. Parisi’s shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “How about I close this curtain.”

We all glanced back at the dozen or so eyes gawking up at the Parisis.

“That would be lovely,” said Ms. Parisi, and reached across the aisle to give Anne’s hand a squeeze of support.

Anne and I settled into our front-row seats. The giant tent buzzed with chatter and excitement, and the white runway gleamed like a mirror. A heavy, rhythmic thumping of
nondescript music with an overtone of seductive jazz sax filled the venue as the lights dimmed.

“That’s weird,” Anne whispered. “She’s usually more of a light, melodic type. Wonder if somebody on the soundboard screwed up.”

I glanced over as a critic sitting next to me scribbled “bold departure” on his pad. Anne pointed out the recognizable fashion writers, and I spotted a sprinkling of celebrities in the masses.

Ms. Parisi strode out as a hush fell over the crowd.

“Thank you all for being here for a toast to Chicago’s fashion history. As a designer, you never know when inspiration might hit and where it might come from. I think you’ll notice a flash of spark and drive in this line not fully expressed in my usual designs. I hope you see this emergence of passion as the natural progression burgeoning from the classic roots and stately stalks of past collections—a vision inspired by someone I greatly admire—my daughter.”

Ms. Parisi turned and strode back up the runway, throwing a kiss and wink at Anne as she passed.

The sax swelled as model after model, poured into slinky flapper-inspired gowns, kept in check by Ms. Parisi’s
signature highly constructed style clicked past us. Heads held high, exuding everything from coy flirtation to smoldering sensuality, they pranced past, drawing spontaneous bursts of applause and exclamations from the enchanted crowd.

“It’s
so
you, Anne,” I said.

Anne beamed and jumped up with the rest of the crowd for a thundering finale as the entire line of models entered the runway for a final pose. Ms. Parisi followed them, graciously accepting the renewed cheers. She paused alongside us and reached one hand down for Anne. Anne tucked one heel onto her seat and stepped gracefully onto the runway—a move that would have induced blooper-style footage had I tried it—and walked arm in arm with her mom, laughing and waving. They stopped and stood, proud and brave at the end of the runway under a sea of flashes that were likely to be less about the fashions than the designer. They followed the line of models back through the curtains as the lights came up.

The audience pounced on their cell phones, abuzz with talk of the designs and the moment Ms. Parisi flaunted her support of her daughter. Anne’s cheeks flamed as she happily weaved her way through the crowd to our seats, accepting compliments and good wishes from everyone she passed.

I hugged her tight.

“I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

“It just can’t get any better than this, can it!”

I laughed. “Should we head back to the hotel now?”

“I kind of want to go find Mom. She got whisked off the second we passed the curtains. It’s total chaos back there.”

“Isn’t that why she wanted us to just meet her back at The Talbott?”

Anne started shifting back through the seats toward the stage.

“Yeah, but who knew she was going to pull this! I just want to thank her. Come on, bring your camera. Shoot some of the flowers and champagne and half-naked model mania of a post–fashion runway show. Maybe you’ll get your winning citywide contest shot!”

She had a point. I’d been carrying the school’s loaner camera around my neck like an albatross, reminding me of the David mess and the fact that I hadn’t replaced my own entry for the contest yet.

I followed her, snapping away as dresses whipped past me and shoes were flung across the lens to waiting assistants positioned next to tissue-paper-filled boxes. I got a nice photo of a model swiping one side of her dramatic makeup
off through a magnifying mirror. I
click-click
ed until we reached her mom’s dressing room and it hit me.

“Wait, Anne! I’ve got it. The perfect shot. I’ll snap right as you open the door and catch her reaction and your mutual perfect, emotional, authentic moment! You just need to cheat toward me so I can get at least half your profile, maybe three-quarters, and still see her face. Just turn the knob with your arm wide so I can get a clear shot, and don’t forget to look as happy and excited as you are right now.”

We busted into giggles a few times and finally steadied ourselves for the “candid” shot.

“Okay. One, two—”

I brought the camera into focus and nodded. She threw open the door, and I heard the
click
as I snapped a picture worth millions, of three very shocked faces, two of which featured perfectly matching chin dimples.

Keith Gordon was the first to speak, though his eyes
stayed glued on Anne’s face. “I am so sorry, Victoria. You said she wouldn’t be—”

“I know,” Ms. Parisi said. “Anne? Are you okay?”

Anne nodded, staring at Keith Gordon.

“Quigley, would you—”

“Go? Sure, I’ll go. Let me, I’ll just—”

“No, sweetheart,” Ms. Parisi said. “I was just going to ask you to step in and close the door. If it’s okay with Anne?”

Anne nodded again. Her whole body was trembling. I nudged her forward a little so we could close the door behind us.

“Water?” My voice came out in a squeak.

Anne nodded. Ms. Parisi and I dove for the cooler, anxious to help in any small way. Keith Gordon seemed paralyzed in a half-seated lounging pose on the dressing table.

Anne glugged half the bottle down at once, nostrils flared as she tried to suck in air.

“Victoria, may I?” Keith asked.

Ms. Parisi sat down hard on the cooler. “Sure.”

“Anne, I’m at a loss for words,” he said. “I have the advantage here, I know. I planned the trip assuming I’d be seeing your mother, but I didn’t realize you might … I’m sorry. There’s just this mixed-up bundle of happy, ecstatic, pissed-off, sad, and about every other emotion you can think of hitting all at once right now.”

Anne’s nod was so slight he probably missed it.

“I want to grab you and hug you. I mean, my God! This is just … 
amazing!
I mean, look at you! I don’t know what to say. I’m scared as hell you’re going to think I’m some nut you don’t even know. Do I have any right to even be talking to you? From what your mom says, my suspicion was right. It’s hard to swallow everything I lost—we lost—but you’re just so …” He shrugged and swiped at tears that accompanied his joyful laugh.

My head spun from holding my breath. Anne still hadn’t moved a muscle or said a word. Keith Gordon slid down into the dressing table chair with his head in his hands.

“God, I’m sorry; I’m just a mess. Since I saw that photo,
every minute of every day this past week, all I could think of is what I’d say, how I’d act—God, even what I’d wear! How stupid is that? You know how many times I changed my shirt this morning? Then I sweated right through that one and had to change again.

“And here I am, rambling on like an idiot, when I just wanted to make a good impression and maybe be somebody you might like or want to get to know or something. And there you were up there on that stage looking so beautiful, looking out so confidently with
my mother’s eyes
, next to your mom, who is still every bit as beautiful as when we met almost two decades ago, both of you so full of life and strength—please, Anne. Help a guy out here, tell me what you’re thinking.”

Anne opened her mouth and shut it. With a little frown between her eyes she asked the golden question. “So, it’s true?”

Mr. Gordon and Ms. Parisi looked to each other before nodding. Seeing the biggest superstar in the world so hopeful, practically begging for acceptance, I worried the old Anne would resurface and cut him to shreds. Instead, her expression softened into an emotion I never thought I’d see on my best friend’s face. It took a minute to recognize it. She was shy.

“So, you’re … happy?” she asked. “About me?”

Mr. Gordon’s hands were clenched together so tight his knuckles went white. His head bobbed up and down like one of those dashboard bobblehead dogs on steroids.

The long silence while she considered this was pure torture. “Cool,” she said, and smiled.

Mr. Gordon rose and stepped forward, arms outstretched, and then stopped just short of hugging her. He looked to Ms. Parisi and back at Anne. “May I? Sorry—I’m just so nervous about doing the wrong thing.”

Anne laughed and stepped forward into his hug. I raised my camera instinctively and caught their laughter and wonder with a
click
. Ms. Parisi stepped forward to join them, and I stepped back to capture another family moment and give them some space. More than a few tears were wiped away.

“I just knew it,” Mr. Gordon said. “The minute I saw that picture on the news, I told my wife ‘My God, I think that’s my daughter.’ ”

Anne stiffened and pulled away. “Look. My mom’s a great mom. She’s done a great job. It’s not her fault I screwed up and got into trouble. I don’t need someone coming in trying to take me—”

“No, no. God, no. Anne—nothing like that would ever
happen,” Mr. Gordon said. He looked to Ms. Parisi for backup.