Mine Are Spectacular! (30 page)

The next night, I'm in the dressing room before the show, wishing there was a cardboard photograph of me that I could send out. I'm worried that I'll be uncomfortable on stage and I know that I'm uncomfortable in my getup. I had only one requirement for the stylist—he had to find me a dress I could wear with my South Sea pearls. But I wish I'd made some other demands. It never occurred to me that a dress could weigh more than I do. I'm thrilled to know that every bead was hand-sewn, but the dress is so skin-tight stiff, I can't possibly sit down. And then there's the whole matter of my hair, which isn't just in an updo—it's been wrapped around a wire cage. I protested mildly to the hairdresser, but he assured me I'd look like a star. He didn't mention that the star was Marge Simpson.

Kate appears backstage, effortlessly glamorous in a lighter-than-air pale chiffon Armani with her hair casually pulled back in a ballerina knot.

“You look fabulous,” she says.

“I do?”

“Glamorous. Dramatic. The dress is gorgeous. Just one little thing about your hair.” Without any fuss, she takes two minutes pulling out all the bobby pins and wires that the hairdresser spent two hours putting in. She tosses my hair so it cascades freely around my face and arranges some tendrils softly across my forehead. “Better?”

I look in the mirror. “Your patients are right. Whatever you charge, you're worth it.”

“You bet I am,” she says with a big smile.

Kirk wanders in then and takes in both of us with one sweeping glance.

“The two most gorgeous women in town,” Kirk says admiringly.

“You look pretty good yourself,” says Kate, eyeing his buff, tuxedoed bod and going over to adjust his tie. Not a bow tie of course, but a long one that to the untrained eye appears to be exactly the same shade of black as his shirt. But Kate's eye is anything but untrained.

“I love that you've mixed the pitch-black and midnight,” Kate says. “Very chic.”

No wonder I couldn't tell the difference. I always thought it was pitch black at midnight.

Kirk offers an arm to each of us. “Ladies, may I escort you toward the stage?” he asks.

Kate adjusts her backstage pass, which says berni davis, agent. The laminated card had apparently been sitting on Berni's desk for weeks, and when Kate mentioned that she'd never been to the Emmys before and would love to accompany me, Berni quickly handed it over.

“I've been to way too many award shows,” Berni had said. “And I'd rather be home with Babies A and B than sitting in the audience at ABC.”

I'm glad to have Kate with me but I'm a little surprised when we make our way to the wings and I find Owen standing there with a pass around his neck that says vip proctor & gamble. Did nobody come as himself tonight?

“Change jobs?” I ask him.

“I won the pass off my tennis partner this afternoon,” says Owen, patting the fake ID. “I didn't really care about coming but he did, so it made the game interesting. Good incentive to clobber him.”

“And you knew your beautiful Kate would be here, so that was an even better incentive,” Kirk prompts gallantly.

“Ah, so nicely put,” says Kate.

Owen, in old-fashioned bow tie and white shirt, glares at the cool Kirk.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“You haven't met?” asks Kate. “This is Sara's partner. The
Afternoon Delights
guy.”

Owen blinks. “I've always liked an afternoon delight myself,” he says. I don't know if Owen's being funny or honest, and it would certainly never occur to him that Kirk's just my partner on a cooking show.

With the Emmys about to begin, backstage is suddenly abuzz with a bevy of beautiful soap stars rushing to take their places for the opening number. Several send air-kisses Kirk's way and wish him luck.

“Quiet please!” says the stage manager. Then, pointing at Owen, he says, “I need that space clear. Move away from there. Whoever you are.”

Instead of stepping backward as requested, Owen looks like he's going to move forward and deck the guy. Despite what his backstage pass might say, he is, after all, Owen Hardy. And everyone should know that.

One woman apparently does.

“Owen, darling!” calls out a leggy brunette who's walking by. She's obviously decided that the more formal the occasion, the shorter the dress—and tonight's about as formal as she gets. “Whatever are you doing here? I thought I wouldn't see you until tomorrow night!”

She comes over to join our little group, giving Kirk a peck on the cheek and then planting a long kiss smack on Owen's lips. What could she be thinking? She's smearing her lipstick right before she goes out on stage.

Owen pulls back uncomfortably. “Hi, Vanessa,” he says noncommittally.

The actress looks familiar—and then I place her. Vanessa Vixen, Kirk's much-publicized costar. Her long dark hair is stick straight and I can't tell if she's had Botox because her forehead is covered with a fringe of thick bangs. But I will say her eyebrows are very highly arched.

Vanessa tucks her arm into Owen's. “Isn't this cute?” she says. “I'm here with the two men in my life. Kirky, dear, you may be my pretend lover on-screen. But Owen's my real lover off-screen.”

“QUIET PLEASE!” repeats the stage manager.

He doesn't have to worry, because none of us could say a word right now.

Producer Bill rushes over to say that Kirk and I should get ready—we're the next presenters.

“Wait a minute,” I tell him, much more concerned suddenly about Kate than my career. “We've got a little problem here that we need to fix.”

“We're on live,” Bill reminds me.

But nothing can match the drama playing out back here. Kate goes over to Owen and plants her hands on the arm that Vanessa hasn't hijacked.

“Darling Owen,” Kate says, shaking her head and speaking in calm, measured tones. “You're an absolute fool. I've been thinking that for a while now. And I just keep getting more confirmation.”

“Vanessa was just making a little joke,” Owen says feebly.

“I don't care about Vanessa,” Kate says, not deigning even to glance at the actress. “I care about you. Or I cared about you. And that's why you're a fool. You're so used to chasing after things that you don't realize when you have something precious right in front of you.”

Vanessa tosses her head, hoping she's the precious commodity but figuring out pretty quickly that she's not.

“I gave you a great gift, Owen,” Kate continues, her voice quiet but laced with steel. “Myself. I don't give that easily. If you're too blind to realize what that means, you don't deserve me anymore.”

Owen, figuring he deserves everything he can get, disentangles himself from Vanessa. A good businessman, he realizes when the deal of a lifetime is slipping through his fingers.

“Honey, you're misinterpreting. I love you. You know that.”

“That's the sad part. I think you really do love me. But only in that limited way you know. When we were having an affair, my friends tried to warn me about you,” Kate says, nodding toward me, “but none of us realized then that the affair was the best part. You don't know how to stay with anything and appreciate what you have. I've learned a lot in our time together. Mostly that I should have someone a lot better than you.”

“Kate,” Owen stammers. “Let's go somewhere private and talk about this.”

“No,” Kate tells him. “I don't have anything more to say.” She leans over and gives him a little kiss on the cheek, then adds, “Good-bye, Owen. I wish you the best. I don't think you'll find it. But I know I will.”

Kate turns to walk proudly away, and I look after her in awe. She's just given the breakup speech of the year, and she deserves an award for leaving with dignity and marching forward with her life. After her exit line to Owen, she glides off with head held high. But she must be slightly more shaken than she lets on, because instead of walking out of the hall, she turns in the wrong direction and doesn't realize that she's walking straight onto the stage. The huge, brightly lit Emmy-decorated stage of Radio City Music Hall.

Kate keeps moving boldly ahead until she's halfway to the podium. And then she suddenly realizes what she's done and gasps audibly. She freezes in place and squints into the blinding lights ringing the stage, panicked by her position and unable to move. It's too late to turn and rush back to the wings because the audience, cued for entrances, has started to applaud. They don't know exactly who she is, but if she's on stage, she must be somebody. The cameraman comes in for a close-up and Kate looks like she might faint from sheer terror.

Backstage, all hell breaks loose. The show has been timed to the second, and everything meant to look spontaneous has already been written in. Unexpected moments are unwelcome on live television. And so are unexpected people.

“Who is she?” screams the stage manager. “Should I go out and get rid of her?”

“I'm stronger, let me go,” hollers an overeager stagehand.

“Wait a minute, she's got a nice dress. Maybe she's supposed to be there,” yells producer Bill, flipping madly through his script book, wondering if he's lost a page.

Now the director rushes toward us, flapping his arms but trying to look unflappable. “Is that woman supposed to be out there alone?” he asks.

“No, she's not,” says Kirk, suddenly gearing into action and moving forward. “She needs some help. Give us thirty seconds out there and cue the band.”

For some reason, the director does just that and music fills the empty space as Kirk walks briskly onto the stage and offers an arm to Kate, who gratefully accepts. But instead of escorting her back to the wings, he leads her the rest of the way to the podium. The audience falls quiet.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Kirk assuredly, his voice resounding through the hall and on television screens across America, “I want to take this moment to introduce America to someone everyone here already knows. Dr. Kate Steele—every actor's secret weapon! Actors read the lines in our scripts, but she takes the lines off our faces. To the woman who's made daytime television a beautiful thing. Doctor Kate, we salute you!”

He steps back and leads the audience in rousing applause. Kate, having entirely regained her composure, smiles, bows slightly and gives Kirk a kiss. He takes her hand and they walk back to the wings.

“That was good!” says Bill. “My idea, right? I forgot we were doing that.”

Kirk smiles and nods but he hasn't let go of Kate's hand. Owen has taken his bruised ego and left the building, but the rest of us give Kate and Kirk a backstage round of applause.

“Thanks for saving me,” Kate whispers to her rescuer as the show continues out front. “I don't know what happened. I guess I got turned in the wrong direction.”

“Now you're heading in the right direction,” Kirk says, taking her hand in both of his. “Got rid of the guy who doesn't deserve you. And now you need to find somebody who does.”

“Somebody like you?” Kate asks, joking.

“Exactly like me,” says Kirk. And he's not joking at all.

Chapter NINETEEN

“
DID YOU GET TO KEEP
the dress from last night?” asks Skylar, as we sit in our sunny kitchen having a casual family breakfast. She's already told me that she watched every second of the Emmys. She thought Kate looked like a princess and I looked like a queen. It occurs to me that sounds like I could be Kate's mother, but I know Skylar means it as a compliment.

“I gave it back. Complete with the wine stain from a party we went to afterward.”

“The parties must have been amazing!” says Skylar, wide-eyed.

“We definitely had fun,” Bradford says, smiling at me. He'd been sitting in the audience and then joined Kirk, Kate and me for a night of postshow celebrating. If Kate was in mourning for Owen, she managed to hide it pretty well, dancing with Kirk and accepting accolades everywhere she went for her impromptu TV appearance. At one point when I asked her how she was, she whispered that she was feeling relieved. Makes sense. Kate had seen the end coming for a while—Vanessa Vixen was just the final straw.

“The parties were fun,” Bradford repeats, “but Sara kept me up way past my bedtime. We didn't get home until two.”

“Oh Daddy, you're just a wild and crazy guy,” Skylar says.

“Tell Mommy how crazy!” says Dylan, jumping up and down in his chair. “Tell her what we're doing today that's crazy.”

“We're not telling yet,” Skylar hisses to Dylan, giving him a warning look.

I don't know what they're talking about, but I'm not worried. Ever since Hong Kong, I feel like a cloud has lifted. I wake up every day feeling exhilarated. Despite getting home late last night, I rushed downstairs early this morning, full of energy to squeeze orange juice and make fresh muffins and omelets for breakfast. I'm just as wild and crazy as Bradford. Today I used whole eggs instead of just the whites.

Dylan jumps up again and runs over to whisper something in Bradford's ear, and Skylar, who's never seemed concerned before about getting anywhere on time, keeps checking her watch.

“Some place you need to be?” I ask her.

“Nope, just staying here today,” she says, trying not to smile. “Nothing special going on.”

What am I missing? There's more covering up going on here than at a Revlon counter.

A few minutes later, Berni and Aidan stroll in, each of them holding a baby. And what's going on? One of the babies has on a little pink dress, and the other's wearing a blue sweater.

“Don't tell me you've given up on one-color-fits-all,” I say, going over to give each of the babies a kiss on top of the head. “Isn't this against your plan for an egalitarian upbringing?”

“We only dress them this way for special occasions,” Aidan says, smiling.

“Don't give it away,” says Skylar, trying to shush Aidan. “Daddy hasn't told Sara yet.”

“Told me what?” I ask, looking at Bradford.

Bradford hesitates, and then comes over to me.

“I haven't told you that we're getting married,” he says putting his arms on my shoulders.

“Yes you have,” I say, taking a gulp of my coffee.

“But he hasn't told you that you're getting married today!” Dylan says, unable to keep his secret for one more minute.

“Nice work, Dylan,” says Skylar, rolling her eyes.

I look from one grinning face to another, trying to understand what anybody's talking about. How could I be getting married today? We don't have a cake. I don't have a dress. And I was going to spend the day alphabetizing the spices in the pantry.

“I couldn't wait another day,” says Bradford, hugging me tightly. “I know you never wanted to plan a wedding. So the wedding is coming to you.”

“He did everything,” says Berni admiringly.

“But I got your dress,” says Skylar. “I bought it at Century 21. That really cool discount store down by daddy's office.”

Skylar knows what she's doing. For herself she shops at Bergdorf's on Fifth Avenue. For me, it's a bargain at Century 21.

“I'm the ring bearer. I bear the ring,” chimes in Dylan proudly. “Bradford says that means I carry it. And I can't lose it.”

He looks briefly worried and Bradford comes over and ruffles his hair. “You won't lose it, Dyl. You're my very responsible big boy.”

I'm still flabbergasted. So I have a dress, a ring bearer and an eager groom. But I'm no fool. I've read
Brides
magazine. You can't get married without a three-tiered cake and four-tiered bridesmaids dresses, a bouquet made out of exotic flora that cause anaphylactic shock in only five percent of the general population, a band leader who croons “Sunrise, Sunset” even though you've begged him not to and a high-stepping horse and carriage to take you to the ceremony. Though check local regulations—many municipalities require the steed to be Pampered.

“It's a nice thought, honey,” I say, kissing Bradford. “But we can't possibly do it today.”

“We can do anything we want,” says Bradford. Then stroking my face, he adds, “Sara, I really want to be married to you.”

“I do, too,” I say, and I know that I mean it. I have no doubts or hesitations anymore. No fear of shadows from either of our pasts eclipsing our bright future. I'd love to marry Bradford today. If only I didn't have bags under my eyes from staying up so late last night.

“Then we're doing it,” Bradford says, kissing me. “This afternoon. Right here.”

“Here?” I ask, looking around the splattered, pot-and-pan strewn kitchen.

“Of course here,” says Bradford. “This is our home. What better place to celebrate our future together.”

The Plaza Hotel is one possibility. But despite myself, I'm completely thrilled. The day's going to be wonderful. I'm having a wedding and all I have to do is show up.

“You're keeping it simple, right?” I ask Bradford.

“Very simple,” Bradford says. “This is just about us. And how much we love each other. Nothing else.”

But a few minutes later, two trucks pull up in front of the house, and I realize the whole family has been busy making secret preparations. Skylar runs expectantly to the door.

“Right this way,” she says, ushering in two burly workmen who start dragging in gold-leafed stanchions, round tables, a stack of gilded chairs and a half dozen white-stained planks of wood. I know today is only about how much we love each other, but maybe Bradford measures passion in two-by-fours.

“You forgot the velvet ropes,” Skylar says, frowning as she looks over the bounty.

“They're in the truck,” says one of the workmen.

That's a relief. I'm sure we'll be needing to hold back the throngs. I hope the bouncer's in the truck, too.

Before he can go back for them, the driver of the second truck traipses into the living room, carrying huge, long flower boxes. In a minute, the pungent scent of calla lilies overpowers the room.

“Those smell disgusting,” says Skylar, wrinkling her nose. “Can you get rid of them and bring in something else?”

“It's what you ordered, lady,” says the florist.

“Fine. Then let's put them outside the front door. They'll look pretty,” says Skylar, sounding less like a teenager and more like a little executive. Planning a wedding can definitely age a woman.

The florist dutifully moves the vases of lilies and Skylar descends on the other boxes. Then she turns to me. “I want you to be surprised,” she says. “Go upstairs.”

But there's already another surprise at the door.

“It's me-e-e-e,” calls out an inimitable voice that I haven't heard in a long time. But not long enough. “It's me-e-e-e-e. Mi-mi.”

Mimi bounces into the room in a tight Hérve Léger cocktail dress and a white fur shrug. Just what the average woman wears on Sunday morning. Especially if she's coming from her Saturday night date.

“I heard about your little wedding,” Mimi says, and she actually comes over and gives me a hug. A piece of white fur lands in my mouth, and when I blow it away, Mimi thinks I'm giving her a kiss. Which, amazingly, she returns.

“Sweet little Sara,” she says, taking my hand. “I don't know why Bradford loves you, but he does. And if he tells me one more time how wonderful you are, I'm going to puke.”

“Thank you,” I say. Because it's the nicest thing she's ever said to me.

“Skylar's been busy-busy planning this wedding with her daddy. Isn't that cute?” She glances over at Skylar, who's carefully unpacking streams of white garlands and starting to loop them through the banister on the staircase. “So I'm here to help. We're all family now.”

I look at her dubiously. Either she's here to spike the punch with knockout drugs and ruin the wedding—or her motives really are pure. And maybe they are. In some odd, modern way we really are family. And for the first time ever I'm secure enough with Bradford—and myself—that I don't even mind having her in the room.

“That's very thoughtful of you,” I say.

Mimi goes over to help Skylar with her garland-looping, but after one twist she gets bored and wanders back to me.

“I don't mind giving Bradford to you,” she says with mock beneficence. “I tried every trick I know, but he wouldn't take me back. So no matter.”

She drops her voice and moves us both a few steps away to make sure Skylar's out of earshot. “Anyway, I've met someone new,” she confides. “My Bikram yoga teacher. He has some moves I never thought were possible.”

Given all of Mimi's moves, that's some accomplishment. But even if Mimi can stand on her head with her legs wrapped behind her ears, how long is the guy likely to last? And what happens when he's gone? When the finagling CEO didn't work out, Mimi wanted Bradford back. So what happens when the affair with the yoga teacher falls flat on the mat?

“That's great. I hope this works out for you,” I say. “But if it doesn't, I want to be clear. You're done playing win-back-your-ex-husband. Right?”

“Right,” Mimi says with a flip of her white shrug. “Never look back is my motto.”

Obviously a new motto. I bet she hasn't even had time to stitch it on a pillow yet. But I like it.

“Come on, Sara,” calls Skylar, from her place on the staircase. “You're supposed to go upstairs.”

“Yoo-hoo,” calls someone new at the door, before I can take a step. “It's me, Priscilla. I saw you're having a party. I thought I could lend a hand.”

Priscilla comes in followed by a troop—literally—of little girls. About a dozen first-graders wearing beanies and Brownie scout uniforms parade in behind her. The only Priscilla parties I've been to involved sex toys and keys, so do I really want her hand in my wedding? At least her gift to Bradford and me will be something more interesting than a toaster.

“We're out looking to do good deeds,” says Priscilla, wending her way through the boxes and the still unconstructed wood panels cluttering the floor. “You look like you could use some help.”

“I think we're just fine,” I tell Priscilla, figuring she and her girls must have better things to do. Don't they have some four-square knots to tie or some cookies to sell?

“We need badges!” pipes up one of the pip-squeaks. “And I'm tired of walking.”

“Good, then we'll stay,” says Priscilla, checking out the room, and obviously making a mental list of all the things that need to be done.

“Are they any good with hammers?” asks Skylar, waving vaguely toward the wood. “We're building a canopy for my dad and Sara to get married under.”

“Sure, we'll do it,” says Priscilla, who must figure that if one of the girls pounds her thumb, there's always that first-aid badge to go after.

Bradford wanders back into the room and surveys the scene with a big smile. But then he sees Mimi and his face falls. He walks toward her.

“I thought we had an understanding,” he tells Mimi pointedly.

“I understand, I understand, I understand,” Mimi says, waving her finger like a metronome. “You're getting married. Our family has changed. I'm supposed to be nice. And that's exactly what I'm being.”

Bradford looks at me dubiously.

“It's fine,” I say. “Mimi is being nice. And a little later, she might even show us some yoga moves.”

Mimi looks delighted. All she wants is for someone to appreciate her. And if I take her with a grain of salt, she's a little more palatable.

Dylan comes in, holding blue-sweatered Baby B, and staggering only slightly under the robust infant's weight.

“Berni says he's all dressed up,” Dylan says to Bradford. “But he's not wearing a blue blazer. How come I have to wear mine?”

“Because you're not a baby,” I tell Dylan, figuring that Bradford has already set the dress code for him. “And think how handsome you'll look.”

“But I don't want to wear my blazer,” Dylan says.

“Then you don't have to,” Bradford says, coming over and putting his arm around Dylan. “This is the whole family's special day. You can dress however you want.”

“Yay!” says Dylan enthusiastically, screaming his delight directly in Baby B's ear. I brace myself for the baby to start crying, but he just gurgles. Bless Berni and her noisy vacuum cleaning.

At the far end of the room, the Brownies are busy observing the workmen construct the canopy. Is there a badge for watching? Skylar has finished putting flowers in the stanchions and she unrolls a long bolt of white fabric, forming a center aisle down the living room.

“Would you please go upstairs, Sara, please?” Skylar entreats. “You're going to see everything, and I want it to be a surprise.” She brushes back a strand of hair from her sweaty forehead. I'm touched. I've never seen her work this hard. Those teenage hormones are pretty impressive when they're put to this kind of use.