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  “We’ll straighten this thing out,” she promised.

  Lexis said nothing, simply smiled slightly and shook his head. Tenderly he reached up and caressed Felicia’s cheek with the back of his hand. With a whisper of a touch he ran his finger gently across her full lips. Their eyes locked, each searching for a clue to what was happening between them. He bent his face down toward hers, and for a fleeting moment Felicia thought, wished, and feared that Lexis would kiss her. Instead his lips found her ears and he simply whispered, “Thank you,” and turned to leave.

  “You’re welcome,” she called back softly, still touching her cheek as the door closed behind him.

  17

  Beatrice didn’t notice her error right away. It was only after she put the red six on the black seven did she realize her earlier mistake of placing two red cards together. Now her morning game of solitaire was thrown totally awry. Defeated by her inattention, Beatrice gathered the cards back into the deck and stifled a yawn. She was tired but determined to stay awake. Her future was riding on the outcome of Gabrielle’s meeting. Sleep could wait.

  Another yawn prompted Beatrice toward the kitchen for a cup of tea. This past week had been particularly hectic. As Gabrielle’s official chaperone, Beatrice now accompanied the young model to all location shoots. Because Gabrielle was a model in demand, the two of them were now genuine frequent fliers, hopping a flight every three or four days headed for a different part of the country. It was no longer an uncommon scenario for the two to be on the pink-sand beaches of Bermuda one day, only to leave that evening for a two-day shoot in the cactus-strewn deserts of Arizona. It was a job that, despite the wear and tear the high-speed pace caused her aging body, she wouldn’t trade for a king’s ransom.

  Bea loved every minute she spent with Gabrielle. Nothing could compare to the joy she felt knowing how much Gabrielle depended on her. Because Gabrielle had successfully convinced the people at First Face that she was afraid to fly, they had no reason to suspect that away from familiar surroundings Gabrielle became a foreigner in her own land and Bea her tour guide in a world she couldn’t understand.

  Beatrice was fully aware that this dependence was reciprocal. Gabrielle had become her lifeline. Being around this young girl added years to her life, effectively saving her from the despair of growing old alone.

  For this reason Gabrielle’s sudden desire to get literacy tutoring alarmed Bea. Her decision came immediately following a series of embarrassing and frightening incidents that took place while they were on location in Florida on Miami’s South Beach.

  The photo shoot had been a particularly tough one, thanks to the weather’s refusal to cooperate. Gabrielle and Claire, the job’s makeup artist, decided to have a leisurely dinner at a nearby Cuban restaurant to unwind and relax. They invited Beatrice to join them, but, exhausted from the long day, she declined and opted for room service.

  While she and Claire waited to order, Gabrielle excused herself and headed downstairs to the bathroom. She stopped in her tracks, confused by the signs marking the two doors in front of her. The door on the left said “Señoras,” while the sign on the right read “Señores.” These unfamiliar letter combinations threw Gabrielle into confusion. Where were the familiar words “Men” and “Women”? These were words she recognized on sight. She looked back and forth at both doors, searching for some sort of hint. Finding none, she walked over to the pay phone, picked up the receiver, and waited for someone to come into or out of the restroom.

  After a few minutes Claire rounded the corner. She saw Gabrielle at the phone and stopped to wait for her. Gabrielle mouthed the words “My booker,” and motioned for the woman to go ahead. Claire walked into the door marked “Señoras” and disappeared. Gabrielle counted to ten and rushed in behind her.

  Back at the table Gabrielle pretended to study the menu, wishing Beatrice were there to read it for her. When the waiter approached, Claire, unable to decide, prompted Gabrielle to go first.

  “I’ll have a hamburger,” she ordered.

  “I am sorry, señorita, but we do not serve hamburgers,” the waiter informed her.

  “Well then, I’ll just have a salad,” Gabrielle requested nervously. She was starving, but she didn’t want to risk making another mistake.

  “You models are always watching your weight. Come on, Gabrielle, this place is famous for their Cuban cuisine. Try something else.”

  “There’s so much to choose from. I can’t decide. Why don’t you order for me?” Gabrielle suggested.

  Happy to oblige, Claire proceeded to place their dinner order.

  After dinner Gabrielle returned to the suite she and Beatrice shared and headed directly for the bathroom. Her stomach, unaccustomed to spicy Cuban food, was upset. Gabrielle found what she was looking for, poured herself a glass of Evian, plopped the tablets into the water, and waited for them to dissolve. Gabrielle picked up the fizzing glass and was about to drink when Bea wandered into the bathroom.

  “Upset stomach?” she asked gently.

  “Too much ropa vieja. Alka-Seltzer to the rescue,” Gabrielle said, lifting her glass. “Cheers.”

  Noticing the discarded foil wrappers on the bathroom counter, Beatrice shouted, “Don’t!” and grabbed the glass from Gabrielle’s hand. Her action caused the foamy liquid to spill across the tile floor. “Sweetheart, this isn’t Alka-Seltzer. This is Polident.”

  “The stuff you clean your dentures with?”

  “Yes. If you drank that, you would have made yourself very ill.”

  “But it’s wrapped like Alka-Seltzer,” Gabrielle argued, her voice dropping. “How could I be so stupid?”

  “You’re not stupid. Don’t let me ever hear you say that again,” Beatrice said sternly.

  “Then why do I feel like I am at least a hundred times a day? When am I going to stop feeling like I’m two years old?”

  “Did something happen tonight? You haven’t been yourself since you got back from dinner.”

  Bea listened as Gabrielle ruefully recounted her evening at the restaurant.

  “Gabrielle, look at me,” Beatrice demanded. “Stop upsetting yourself over this. It will be okay. I promise.”

  “How do you know it will be okay?” Gabrielle snapped fiercely. “Do you know what will happen if people find out about me? They’ll laugh me out of the business.”

  Gabrielle began crying, and Bea held her for a moment, stroking her hair. “You don’t understand how it feels. Being illiterate is like being at the bottom of a dark well.” She sobbed. “You feel totally alone and helpless, and all you can think about is ‘How am I going to get out of this?’ ” Following a fresh series of sobs, Gabrielle abruptly pulled away.

  “Teach me how to read,” she demanded.

  “Honey, I tried to with those learn-with-phonics tapes, but you quit.”

  “I just didn’t get it.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll still read to you whenever you want.”

  Gabrielle went over to the coffee table and picked up several magazines. “I want you to teach me so I can read these myself. I’m not a child.”

  “Honey, I can’t teach you to read.”

  In an uncharacteristic fit of anger, Gabrielle threw the magazines across the room. “Yes, you can. You just won’t,” she shouted.

  “Gabrielle, listen to me. You need a professional tutor.”

  “How can I see a tutor with the kind of schedule I keep?”

  Beatrice was glad that Gabrielle had brought up the point herself. She didn’t want it to look as if she was trying to dissuade her from seeking help, but she was selfishly grateful that Gabrielle was putting up her own argument against finding a tutor.

  “Honey, don’t worry. I’ll always be here for you,” she promised.

  Instead of having the soothing effect she’d hoped for, Beatrice’s words unleashed a torrent of fury from Gabrielle. “Just like my mother? She also promised to always be here for me. Where is she now? Dead and buried. Are you going to swear
never to die on me, Beatrice? Can I count on you outliving me? Shall we draw up a contract—one that you can read to me, because I can’t do it for myself?” Gabrielle demanded as she stormed out of the room.

  Beatrice was stunned by the vehemence in her voice, but she understood Gabrielle’s anger. She was angry herself. It was tragic and inexcusable that this girl was allowed to slip through the cracks and graduate from high school knowing little more than her alphabet and how to sign her name. Since Gabrielle’s astounding revelation, Beatrice had researched the illiteracy problem in this country, and the facts had left her dumbfounded. Gabrielle was one of more than forty million American adults who either could not read or write well enough to vote, understand a legal document, or even read a young child a simple story. She shuddered to think what toll so many illiterate adults were taking on this country’s well-being—present and future.

  Later that evening Gabrielle came to her, not only to apologize but to inform Beatrice of her decision to seek help. Gabrielle’s determination to learn to read and write left Beatrice with mixed feelings. She could see the emotional damage that being illiterate had done to the girl. In many respects she was an outlaw, manipulating her way through literate society by any means necessary. Sometimes that meant lying and cheating, behavior that went against her natural goodness and inclination to do right. This constant collision between honor and survival left the girl confused and struggling to maintain some semblance of self-confidence.

  Any fault Beatrice attributed to Helene for not seeking help for her daughter was tempered by the wonderful job she had done in making Gabrielle feel special and important in spite of her reading deficiency. By continually stressing her magnificent career potential, Helene had allowed Gabrielle to grow up convinced that her future held marvelous things. Still, with Gabrielle held hostage by her illiteracy, her emerging success offered only a temporary buffer from potential disaster.

  Bea’s dilemma was clear: A literate Gabrielle, with all her accumulated wealth and fame, would be capable of living and functioning on her own. The very idea of not being a crucial part of Gabrielle’s life scared and saddened her. Beatrice was fully aware that someday it would happen. She even wanted it to happen, but not now. The Almighty had just sent Gabrielle to her, and she wasn’t ready to give her up.

  “Hi,” Gabrielle called out to the receptionist as she made her way back to Jaci’s desk. She was nervous and scared, yet amazingly hopeful. After this meeting she’d be on her way to the Brooklyn Library to see a literacy tutor and, she hoped, on her way to a more peaceful life as well.

  Jaci motioned to Gabrielle to take a seat while she finished up a phone call. “Another call from Appeal about you,” she said when she was done, spinning her chair around to face the model.

  “What now?” Gabrielle asked.

  “They want to know if you’ve chosen your favorite designer because they need your ‘personal style’ selections by the end of the week.”

  “I guess I’d have to say whoever designs for the Gap and Maynard Scarborough,” Gabrielle revealed. On her last shoot for Saks Fifth Avenue she’d worn several Scarborough outfits and was impressed by the simplicity of his designs and the quality of his workmanship.

  “I love his clothes, too. His lines are clean and slick-looking. You don’t get lost in the extra frills some designers find it necessary to include.”

  “I guess I never thought about it like that. I just like the way I look and feel in his designs. Jaci, I don’t know if I can do this. I can wear the clothes, but I don’t know if I can talk about them.”

  “Which is exactly why God created PR people. Felicia Wilcot is handling the publicity for the launch. She’ll have you so well briefed that by the time your interview comes around, the whole thing will be a piece of cake.”

  Gabrielle felt a slight sense of relief. Her experience at the Montell Spirits party had left her with a good impression of the woman. Judging from the huge success of the party and those that followed in other cities, Felicia was obviously very skilled at her job. Gabrielle knew that she was in good hands.

  “Now, I know you’re afraid of flying, but do you get seasick as well?” Jaci asked, crossing her fingers, toes, legs, arms, and eyes. She hoped not, because if Gabrielle did, this big launch would literally be dead in the water.

  Gabrielle laughed at the spectacle her booker was creating. “I don’t think so,” she said as Jaci uncrossed her eyes and appendages. “Why?”

  “Because the great majority of this shoot takes place on a cruise ship. The fabulous Costa Classica to be exact.”

  “The Costa who?”

  “The Costa Classica. It’s only the most sensuous and most Italian cruise ship sailing the Caribbean. I wish I could go with you on this one—good food, luxurious accommodations, and an entire ship filled with handsome Italian men at your beck and call. What more could a woman want out of life?”

  “How do you know that all the men on board are handsome?”

  “Because they’re Italian, you silly girl. But physical features are the least of what makes Italian men handsome. It’s mostly in the way they make a woman feel—adored, sexy, and oh, so feminine.”

  “You obviously speak from experience,” Gabrielle observed through her laughter.

  “Absolutely, but we don’t have the time to delve into that now. Back to the business at hand. You’ll also do some location work in Martinique and Barbados. Oh, did I mention that you leave in two weeks?”

  “I take it I won’t be working much until then.”

  “Except for the Harper’s Bazaar shoot, you’re booked out until your bon voyage. Enjoy the break, because with all these major publicity events centered on you, once this magazine hits the newsstands, you won’t be able to go anywhere without people recognizing your face,” Jaci informed her as she picked up her ringing phone. “Beatrice, hello. Tell me, do you get seasick? I’ll let Gabrielle explain,” the booker said, handing Gabrielle the phone.

  “I called to wish you luck at the tutoring center,” Beatrice said.

  “I’m not going.”

  “What made you change your mind?” Bea asked, trying to keep her relief in check.

  “According to Jaci, people all over are going to recognize me once this magazine comes out,” she explained, hoping that Bea would understand. There was no way she could get literacy tutoring now. Word would get out so fast that her newfound fame would turn to instant infamy. She was trapped. Whatever bubble of hope she had walked in with had quickly burst.

  “I understand completely, dear, but don’t you worry. We’ll straighten this thing out somehow. Now, what’s this about getting seasick?”

  “Pack your sunscreen. We’re going on a cruise.”

  18

  When I find the bastard who’s holding the voodoo doll with my face on it, I’ll string up the little shit by his balls, Stephanie thought, reacting to Felicia’s news. With Appeal magazine as a new client, she now had not only to live with Gabrielle but work for her as well. It was bad enough she had to watch the girl flit around the house with glee ever since she got this stupid cover. Promoting Gabrielle was going to be pure, unadulterated torture.

  Nothing could be as torturous as this stupid staff meeting, Stephanie decided. Who other than Felicia “Work Till You Weep” Wilcot calls a staff meeting for two people?

  “The Appeal magazine account has added a considerable amount of work to our already full plate,” Felicia was saying. “To deal with that, I’ve hired a new receptionist slash office manager. Her name is Deena Lacey. I’m also promoting you to account executive. You’ll get a pay raise and have much more client interaction. How does all this sound?”

  “Terrific.”

  “You deserve it. I couldn’t have gotten through these hectic months without you. Now, that’s it for new business. As for our other accounts, The American Spirit Celebration Tour is officially over, and from all reports it was a smashing success in all five cities. So smashing that the wine-coo
ler sales are double the company’s initial projections and Peter Montell is keeping us on retainer for future events.”

  “That’s great. What’s going on with Lexis Richards? That awful story about him was picked up by a lot of newspapers after it ran in Star Diary.”

  “Tell me about it. I feel like a California fireman desperately trying to put out a wild brushfire. Every time I smother the flames of one, another one breaks out. I’d love to find the little arsonist who lit the match on this blaze.”

  “Any clue how Harry Grain got his information?” Stephanie asked, assuaging her guilt by reminding herself that she had only reported the truth.

  “I’m sure he paid for it.”

  “He buys news?” Stephanie asked, feigning surprise and outrage.

  “They all do. These tabloids are notorious for doling out dollars to people who swear they know something about somebody. The more sensational the news, the bigger the payoff.”

  “Journalists can’t pay for their stories, can they?”

  “That’s the point, Stephanie. Harry Grain is not a journalist. He isn’t interested in reporting unbiased news. Anything goes—fact or fiction. It’s not all his fault, though. If people stopped buying this garbage, filth like ‘The Grain Harvest’ would cease to exist.”

  Stephanie disagreed totally with Felicia’s assessment of why these papers not only survived but flourished. It wasn’t the readers who fueled the tabloids, it was the celebrities themselves. Stars like Roseanne, Madonna, Michael Jackson, and Europe’s spoiled royalty were the drum majors in the great tabloid parade—marching the public straight into their wild sexual exploits, bizarre antics, and volatile relationships. How dare they have the audacity to whine and cry about invasion of privacy?

  “If I can do anything to help clean up this mess, please let me know,” Stephanie offered for good measure.

  “Thanks, but I think I have it all under control.”