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  “No, it’s mine,” Gabrielle said, jumping up quickly. She didn’t want to have to explain to Stephanie why she was listening to The Firm on tape while pretending to read the book.

  “Just checking. I came in to see if you’d be interested in a modeling job?”

  “Really?” Gabrielle asked, definitely intrigued.

  “Kind of. It’s only one night, mind you. I need someone at this party I’ve been putting together to hand out gift certificates.”

  “I can do that, but—”

  “If you’re going to ask about money, it was strictly volunteer, but I did manage to get you fifty bucks. Besides, it’s a great opportunity for you to mingle and be seen. You never know who you might meet at a party like this.”

  “But what am I going to wear?”

  Good question, Stephanie thought. After all, she was responsible for convincing her boss to hire Gabrielle. Stephanie couldn’t chance Gabrielle’s being a bad reflection on her judgment. On the other hand, she couldn’t afford to have Gabrielle upstage her either, not with Jack in attendance.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll help you find something.”

  “The problem is—well, I don’t have much money.”

  “You really are from small-town U.S.A. You don’t need much money. You go to the store, buy a dress, and wear it to the party. Just don’t take off the tags, and whatever you do don’t spill anything on yourself. The next day, you return it.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Honey, you can do whatever it takes to get what you want.”

  Felicia looked at her watch. It was six-thirty, and the florist had just placed the last of the huge silver milk cans filled with sunflowers. She and Stephanie had been here since four o’clock, checking on the art exhibit and overseeing the final arrangements for the evening. The gallery looked splendid. The rodeo theme had been played up throughout the space, from the bales of hay artistically stacked in the corners to the cowboy hats and yellow kerchiefs worn by the waiters. With the help of the Studio Museum’s curator, she’d managed to amass an amazing collection of art that validated the vast contributions of African-Americans to the Old West.

  Felicia decided to take her own private tour of the gallery before the crowd rushed in. Among the art decorating the cool white walls were prints by Frederic Remington, considered by most to be the greatest cowboy artist of the last Western frontier. But the stars of the show were the powerfully detailed and authentic sculptures of black cowboys by artist Phil Sumpter. The gallery spotlights danced off the dozen or so terra-cotta pieces covered in bronze patina. Some of Sumpter’s work was modeled after real people, like Bass Reeves, the first black appointed a U.S. marshal. The majority were representative figures including The Wrangler, The Brander, and a series of three Buffalo soldiers. Each sculpture, through Sumpter’s command of detail, brought to life the pride and pain of black people in the Old West.

  Felicia’s eagle eye surveyed the room. This was the biggest client event she had ever thrown, and she wanted everything to be perfect. In one hour this place would be packed with an eclectic group of politicians, athletes, and other celebrities—from Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown to Eddie Murphy and Patrick Ewing.

  Television crews outside in the August heat were setting up their equipment to catch the arrival of the guests. Alongside were the paparazzi and adoring fans standing on alert, waiting for a glimpse of the famous faces scheduled to attend. Dozens of New York City’s finest were taking their positions up and down the block, keeping the inevitable party crashers at bay and providing extra insurance that the evening’s guests would arrive and depart safe and sound.

  “Stephanie, please keep an eye out for Tremaine. I don’t want our first scholarship recipient to get lost in the crowd.”

  “Okay.”

  “And remember, when the mayor arrives—”

  “I go up to the curator’s office and bring Mr. Montell down into the gallery. And I’ve asked them to turn up the air-conditioning so the guests don’t melt in this heat. Don’t worry, Felicia, everything is under control.”

  “I know I’m being a pain, but I just want everything to work out.”

  “It will.”

  “What time is your friend supposed to arrive?”

  “Gabrielle will be here at seven sharp.”

  “Good. What did you tell her to wear?” Felicia asked, unwilling to let even the slightest detail slip by her.

  “I told her to pick out something that fit with tonight’s western theme. I can only assume she found something appropriate,” Stephanie said, a sly smile tugging at her lips. The dress she’d pulled from the Macy’s summer clearance rack reeked of bad taste without turning Gabrielle into the evening’s joke. It was a patchwork of red, white, and blue bandana print, complete with fringe dripping from the underside of its sleeves. The dress was much too large, but at Stephanie’s insistence, Gabrielle had brought it home for Bea to alter. Stephanie had yet to see the outcome of Beatrice’s handiwork.

  “Good. Okay, now let’s go over these additions to the guest list. Who is this Harry Grain? His name sounds vaguely familiar.”

  “He’s on the press list, but it doesn’t say what paper he’s with,” she said, knowing full well that Harry Grain was a gossip columnist for the tabloid Star Diary. Stephanie also knew that Felicia would flip out knowing that she’d invited this “dirt-disher” to the party, but Stephanie, intrigued by his tart-tongued gossip, wanted to meet him.

  “Lexis Richards! How did that idiot get invited?”

  “He called and said he was going to be in town and wanted to come to the party. I didn’t think you’d mind, since he’s really big news now that Southeast has premiered to rave reviews.”

  “I don’t know why. That movie is garbage. I walked out after the first five minutes. Just be sure to keep him as far away from me as possible. Who is Jack Hollis?”

  “I believe he’s the photographer’s assistant,” Stephanie lied. She had her fingers crossed, praying that Felicia wouldn’t ask any further questions. At the last minute she had included Jack’s name on the guest list, knowing that Felicia had strictly forbidden any further additions. Stephanie was hoping like hell that the magnitude of the evening, combined with her outfit—a sexy suede halter dress adorned with Navajo-inspired beading—would help light a fire under their fizzling relationship.

  “Omigod! The photographer—”

  “Don’t worry. I told him to be here at seven as well.”

  “Thank you,” Felicia said calming down slightly. When this is over, I have to find a way to give Stephanie a raise. In so many ways Stephanie had been a real find. She worked well without supervision, was resourceful, and took the initiative to get things done, allowing Felicia to concentrate on expanding and serving her clients. With W&A showing signs of continued growth, there was no way Felicia could operate with maximum efficiency without Stephanie Bancroft backing her up.

  “Phone for a Mrs. Gordon,” the caterer’s voice interrupted.

  “That’s me,” Felicia answered, knowing it was Trace. She walked to the desk located in the entry of the museum and picked up the phone. “Trace, where are you?”

  “I’m still at the club. Our match ran long, and we’re just sitting down to dinner. I’m sorry, baby, but by the time I get finished eating, shower, and change—”

  “The party will be over.”

  This is just like him, Felicia thought, not wanting to hear the rest of his lame excuse. Last month when he’d needed her at that blasted company dinner, where was she? Right by his side, even though she had to catch the red-eye from Los Angeles to be there. And when the senior partner and his wife insisted that she and Trace be their guests for the weekend at their Southampton home, hadn’t she made it, even though it cost her the Bostic account. Now, on the biggest night of her career, where was he? On the goddamn tennis court.

  “Felicia, you know if Curtis wasn’t my biggest client I’d leave right now.”

  �
��Don’t bother. Your biggest client needs you more than I do,” Felicia said, slamming down the receiver and mentally cursing her husband. He knew how important this evening was to her. He knew and simply didn’t give a damn.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Felicia looked up only to see one of the most beautiful women she’d ever set eyes on. The guests can’t be arriving already. She peeked at her watch. It wasn’t even seven o’clock yet.

  “Everything is fine. I just wasn’t expecting any guests so early. Your name, please.”

  “I’m not a guest. I’m Gabrielle Donovan. Stephanie asked me to help out this evening.”

  “Felicia, the caterer needs you, and—” Stephanie stopped in mid-sentence. She stood in wide-eyed, open-mouthed amazement as she looked at the stunning creature in front of her. She couldn’t believe how incredible Gabrielle looked. On the hanger the dress looked like something straight from Elly May Clampett’s closet. Yet, on Gabrielle, it might have been snatched off a Milanese catwalk. With her honey-bronzed hair piled high on the top of her head in a sexy tousle of curls, Gabrielle looked as if she’d stepped off the pages of some fashion magazine. Forced by shock into total honesty, Stephanie had to admit, though never aloud, that Gabrielle Donovan was born to be a model.

  By eight o’clock the gallery was bubbling with the lively chatter of people enjoying themselves. The room was in constant motion, as guests walked around the gallery admiring the fine art. Felicia circled the space, keeping a critical eye out for the smallest detail that might need her attention. She was well aware that the success of this entire Montell Spirits campaign rested on rave reviews from tonight’s affair, from both the press and the positive word of mouth passed along this exclusive network.

  Felicia smiled as she looked around. By all indications the evening was proceeding smoothly. She watched as Phylicia and Ahmad Rashad engaged in an animated conversation with former congressman and now president of the United Negro College Fund, Bill Gray. While actor Wesley Snipes stood solo admiring the sculpture Yahoo, a beautifully detailed bronze piece of two cowboys, their black faces thrown back, mouths open wide, howling at the moon, a gaggle of female fans stood checking out his artistic lines.

  “Ms. Wilcot? Aubree Stephens, Black Entertainment Television. This is quite a history lesson you’ve got here.”

  “Most Americans only know the Old West through stories of cowboys and Indians where whites are the heroes, Native Americans the villains, and black people nonexistent. Peter Montell and his company thought this would be a perfect opportunity to begin to set the record straight.”

  “What do you think the public will get out of seeing this exhibit?”

  “Besides the opportunity to experience some great art, any person seeing this exhibit will walk away having learned that there is a lot more to black history than slavery. Take the Buffalo soldiers over there. There were four black regiments formed after the Civil War to patrol the West. They were called ‘Buffalo Soldiers’ by the Cheyenne Indians because of their heavy winter coats, curly hair, and fierce fighting. They helped capture Geronimo and track down Billy the Kid. Eighteen of these soldiers won Medals of Honor for their actions in the West and the Spanish-American War. They were legitimate black heroes. So if you come see this incredible exhibit, you’re going to walk away with a new understanding of the vast and varied contributions African-Americans have made to this country.”

  Leaving the reporter, Felicia decided to have a quick glass of wine in hopes of calming her nerves. In fifteen minutes she’d introduce Peter Montell, who would make the scholarship presentation.

  “You’re Felicia Wilcot, aren’t you?” asked a well-dressed black woman.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “This is absolutely fabulous. So nice to see our history on display. I’m Ruthanna Beverly from ABW Publishing. I’d love to do a fashion shoot as well right here in the gallery for one of our magazines. The Western look is going to be very big next season. Who could ask for a better backdrop? Let’s have lunch and talk about it. Give me a call,” she said, handing Felicia her card.

  And who could ask for better publicity for the tour, Felicia thought, immediately seeing the public-relations potential. “I’ll call you next week,” Felicia promised, slipping the card into her pocket with the dozen others she’d received.

  “Felicia, there you are,” Stephanie said, rushing up to her boss. “You’d better get up front,” she said with quiet urgency. “We have a little problem.”

  Felicia deposited her wineglass with the nearest waiter and hurried toward the front of the gallery. As she approached, she could hear angry voices that had previously been drowned out by the music and cocktail chatter. She was confronted by a small mob of press people, including a camera crew from the local ABC station. In the middle of the hubbub Lexis Richards, once again dressed in his “I don’t give a damn what the invitation says” uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, stood arguing with an impeccably groomed older man. Felicia had seen him earlier wandering around the gallery.

  “Man, what part of ‘No comment’ don’t you understand?” Lexis asked angrily.

  “You have nothing to say about the fact that two gang members were shot in the theater parking lot where your movie is playing?”

  “Please lower your voices,” Felicia asked, rushing into the fray. “Now, will someone tell me what is going on here?”

  “This jackleg reporter is trying to tell me that because of my picture, some kind of gang war is about to erupt.”

  “You feel no responsibility at all for the violent behavior that your movie is causing? Even though, as I hear it, the picture is just one big shoot-out,” the reporter continued.

  “Man, get out of my face with that bullshit.”

  “Be quiet. I’ll handle this,” Felicia demanded.

  “I don’t need you to—”

  “I said I’ll handle this,” Felicia shot back in a steely voice that left no room for discussion. “Mr.…”

  “Harry Grain. Star Diary.”

  No wonder his name sounded so familiar. Harry Grain was infamous for his weekly gossip column, which one celebrity described as a collection of “something old, something new, something borrowed, nothing true.”

  “You write for that rag?” Lexis asked with obvious disdain. “You’re no reporter, you’re a damn storyteller.”

  Felicia shot Lexis an icy look that resulted in his immediate silence. “Mr. Grain, you just said, as you heard it. Did you see Southeast?”

  The expression of discomfort on Harry Grain’s face, along with his silence, confirmed Felicia’s suspicion. The man hadn’t even seen the film. He was making an uninformed judgment and trashing another man’s reputation based on hearsay and misinformation.

  “You’re talking all this yang and you haven’t even seen my movie?” Lexis asked in disbelief.

  Ignoring Lexis, Felicia continued, “Mr. Grain, I’m sure if you checked your facts you’d find that the incident you are referring to took place not because Mr. Richards’s movie provoked it, but because the movie theater had oversold tickets, causing these kids to congregate in the parking lot, where, unfortunately, tempers got out of hand and the shooting occurred. I’m sure you will agree that to blame Mr. Richards for this unhappy incident is doing him a huge injustice. Why, that would be like blaming Julia Roberts and her movie Pretty Woman for prostitution.”

  There was a twitter of laughter from the small crowd that had gathered. Harry, embarrassed by the absurdity of his allegations and the obvious allegiance of the crowd to Richards, turned and walked out of the gallery without uttering a single word. You bitch. Nobody makes me look like a fool. You haven’t heard the last from me. Not by a long shot.

  “Miss Thing to the rescue.” Lexis smiled. “Go ’head, girl!” he said, congratulating Felicia as he followed her into the curator’s office. He was genuinely impressed by the way she had taken control and quickly defused what could have become an ugly situation.

  F
elicia turned to him, eyes flickering with contempt. “The only thing I was interested in rescuing was my party. No one—not some sleazemonger and certainly no street urchin—is going to ruin my professional reputation.”

  “Street urchin?”

  “And in the future, if you want the media to treat you like an intelligent black man, start acting like one. Your combative attitude does nothing for your image. You might think about that as well when you’re trying to finance your next project,” Felicia hissed as she turned and headed toward the door.

  Lexis followed behind and grabbed Felicia by the arm. “So my ‘attitude’ is why your father and his friends refused to invest in my next movie?”

  “That and the fact that based on your description, your next film, just like your current one, is boring and the worst form of black exploitation.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “If a white director had made Southeast, with its stereotypical black males and blatant disrespect toward women, he’d be branded a racist. But because a black person wrote, produced, directed it, and is making big money off of it, it’s not considered exploitation? I don’t think so.”

  “I’m not exploiting anybody. Southeast is about real life in the ’hood. It’s a story seen and told by someone who’s been there, who’s lived it. Sorry, princess, we all didn’t grow up in the ‘burbs eatin’ grits out of a silver spoon.”

  “True, but now you can afford to roll out of the ghetto in the back of a limousine,” Felicia retorted sarcastically.

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “You’re right. Here’s the point: Why not make a film that glorifies the other side of black life? The good side—the side the evening news never sees fit to show.”

  “Did you see my flick?”

  “I saw enough.”

  “Obviously not, because if you’d stuck it out you’d know that Southeast is about family and self-love. Yeah, there’s a lot of cussin’ and fussin’, but the message is positive.”

  Felicia felt warm as embarrassment replaced the smugness of her earlier posture. “And what about the messenger?”