fantastic.” Helen kissed her mouth. “Thank you.”
As they nestled, Helen closed her eyes. She muttered, “A farmer. Right.”
Chapter Twelve
Many of Stacey’s friends agreed to a private get-together. Helen was nervous about how they would receive her idea, but the good news was Cory was in town. If the night turned into a shamble, she’d be there to lick Helen’s wounds.
“Your guests will arrive soon.” Among mosaic mounds of living room pillows that surrounded her, Stacey raised her wineglass toward Helen. “I admire your courage, Blondie.”
“Courage?” Helen sipped and leaned against the bar.
“Spunk. Guts. Balls.” Stacey shrugged. “Whatever you call it, you have to convince the cream of the entertainment world to show their true colors. Not an easy task.”
“That doesn’t bother me.” She waved her off and studied her drink. “Reporter and celebrities. That’s a potentially volatile mixture.” Helen laughed. “They’ll probably take one look at me and head out the door.” She motioned a U-turn with her hand.
“I doubt it, Blondie. Otherwise they wouldn’t come.” Stacey pushed herself to her feet and returned to the bar for refills. “They trust me. The only bitchy one will be Blair and, if I funnel her enough Scotch, she won’t care if Rush Limbaugh’s here.” She handed Helen the full glass and made a toast. “Success.”
Helen nearly choked on the wine when the doorbell rang. She checked the position of her belt and tried to smooth her skirt, but static wreaked havoc and the skirt became more like Saran Wrap. She struggled, powerless against the clinging mess.
“Quite a predicament you’re into there. Wet towel, then a gin and tonic,” the guest said and caught the cloth when Stacey flung it from behind the bar. “Let me help.”
Helen’s eyes caught the pitch-black hair of the newly crowned Queen of Broadway, Marty Jamison. Helen had known she would be there, but she hadn’t expected to look so damned silly when they first met.
Marty was talented, for sure, but she was also hot, and had a smattering of freckles right above her breasts. It had always been Helen’s fantasy to connect the dots, one way or another. With that thought, Helen felt two light strokes on her legs and a quick wipe around the inside perimeter of her skirt. Oh, heart be still. The skirt relaxed.
“There you go.” Marty raised herself to Helen’s height and flung the towel onto the bar. She smiled broadly and her blue eyes danced appraisingly over Helen.
Stacey handed Marty her drink. “I think you have to marry her now.”
“You’re Helen Townsend,” she said cheerfully. “I’m an avid reader of your column. I’m Marty Jamison.” They shook hands.
“I admire your work, too,” Helen said, having recovered her composure. “And thanks for rescuing me.”
“My pleasure.” Marty nudged Helen playfully. “You have the most fascinating mouth.” Her eyes lowered to Helen’s lips. “A cute little pout if you aren’t smiling. Very kissable.”
Helen blushed.
To the background music of Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall, the guests arrived in small groups. Helen mingled and, much to her surprise, felt comfortable in the presence of many of the entertainment elite and their image-makers.
“Good God. That bitch is here,” film director Jay Patton ranted to his lover. They dashed to the back of the room and wedged themselves between two ficus trees. Helen looked toward the bar as Blair Whitman ordered Scotch and rocks.
Helen knew the story. Blair was a temperamental hard-ass. Directors hated her, costars wanted to lock her into her trailer, and special effects crews thought seriously about blowing her to bits. Bam! Splat! Cut! Print it! And the cast could call it a wrap.
Blair had power and abused it to the hilt, but box office dollars had piled to mountainous proportions for her last three films and made nearly everyone connected to her work wealthy. She had Hollywood by
As they nestled, Helen closed her eyes. She muttered, “A farmer. Right.”
Chapter Twelve
Many of Stacey’s friends agreed to a private get-together. Helen was nervous about how they would receive her idea, but the good news was Cory was in town. If the night turned into a shamble, she’d be there to lick Helen’s wounds.
“Your guests will arrive soon.” Among mosaic mounds of living room pillows that surrounded her, Stacey raised her wineglass toward Helen. “I admire your courage, Blondie.”
“Courage?” Helen sipped and leaned against the bar.
“Spunk. Guts. Balls.” Stacey shrugged. “Whatever you call it, you have to convince the cream of the entertainment world to show their true colors. Not an easy task.”
“That doesn’t bother me.” She waved her off and studied her drink. “Reporter and celebrities. That’s a potentially volatile mixture.” Helen laughed. “They’ll probably take one look at me and head out the door.” She motioned a U-turn with her hand.
“I doubt it, Blondie. Otherwise they wouldn’t come.” Stacey pushed herself to her feet and returned to the bar for refills. “They trust me. The only bitchy one will be Blair and, if I funnel her enough Scotch, she won’t care if Rush Limbaugh’s here.” She handed Helen the full glass and made a toast. “Success.”
Helen nearly choked on the wine when the doorbell rang. She checked the position of her belt and tried to smooth her skirt, but static wreaked havoc and the skirt became more like Saran Wrap. She struggled, powerless against the clinging mess.
“Quite a predicament you’re into there. Wet towel, then a gin and tonic,” the guest said and caught the cloth when Stacey flung it from behind the bar. “Let me help.”
Helen’s eyes caught the pitch-black hair of the newly crowned Queen of Broadway, Marty Jamison. Helen had known she would be there, but she hadn’t expected to look so damned silly when they first met.
Marty was talented, for sure, but she was also hot, and had a smattering of freckles right above her breasts. It had always been Helen’s fantasy to connect the dots, one way or another. With that thought, Helen felt two light strokes on her legs and a quick wipe around the inside perimeter of her skirt. Oh, heart be still. The skirt relaxed.
“There you go.” Marty raised herself to Helen’s height and flung the towel onto the bar. She smiled broadly and her blue eyes danced appraisingly over Helen.
Stacey handed Marty her drink. “I think you have to marry her now.”
“You’re Helen Townsend,” she said cheerfully. “I’m an avid reader of your column. I’m Marty Jamison.” They shook hands.
“I admire your work, too,” Helen said, having recovered her composure. “And thanks for rescuing me.”
“My pleasure.” Marty nudged Helen playfully. “You have the most fascinating mouth.” Her eyes lowered to Helen’s lips. “A cute little pout if you aren’t smiling. Very kissable.”
Helen blushed.
To the background music of Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall, the guests arrived in small groups. Helen mingled and, much to her surprise, felt comfortable in the presence of many of the entertainment elite and their image-makers.
“Good God. That bitch is here,” film director Jay Patton ranted to his lover. They dashed to the back of the room and wedged themselves between two ficus trees. Helen looked toward the bar as Blair Whitman ordered Scotch and rocks.
Helen knew the story. Blair was a temperamental hard-ass. Directors hated her, costars wanted to lock her into her trailer, and special effects crews thought seriously about blowing her to bits. Bam! Splat! Cut! Print it! And the cast could call it a wrap.
Blair had power and abused it to the hilt, but box office dollars had piled to mountainous proportions for her last three films and made nearly everyone connected to her work wealthy. She had Hollywood by
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