Searching for Grace Kelly by Michael Callahan Page B

mannequin in the Saks window.”
    â€œOh, bosh,” Vivian interjected. “They’re all going to see you in it soon enough, Cinderella. Might as well whet the appetite.” She pointed to the box. “Let’s have at it, then.”
    Dolly nodded eagerly in agreement, frantically clapping her hands and barely suppressing a squeal. Laura quickly untied the ribbon, lifted the lid, and delicately peeled back the reams of scented mint tissue paper. “Oh my,” she whispered.
    The dress was not a dress, but rather a work of art. A strapless tulle gown in a deep shade of jeweled purple, with a subtly patterned bodice flecked with silver and trimmed with silk cabbage roses, leading down to a flaring ball skirt. Underneath was a filmy stole in a pale shade of lavender and a pair of gray opera gloves. Laura stood, pressing the gown to her body. Never in her life had she seen anything so breathtaking.
    Vivian checked out the label. “Philip Hulitar,” she mused. “Well, I’ve got to say, lout or no, he’s got excellent taste. Or a secretary with excellent taste.” She took an appraising step back. “My, my,” she said, “something tells me you’re going to be a popular lunch date at the office on Monday.”
    Laura was elated. And frightened. And confused. She turned to Dolly, the dress still pressed against her bosom. “What do you think, Dolly?”
    Dolly was looking back toward the desk. “Agnes Ford,” she said.
    Laura and Vivian followed her gaze. “What?” Laura said. “Who’s Agnes Ford?”
    Across the lobby by the entrance, they could see a wispy young woman in a simple shift standing at the reception desk. Her hair was honey blond, her skin as white and flawless as fresh snow. She appeared to be fumbling with some sort of chunky charm bracelet, though it was hard to tell from this distance whether she was attempting to get it on or off.
    â€œThat’s Agnes Ford,” Dolly said, in almost the identical conspiratorial whisper she’d announced the appearance of Box Barnes in the Barbizon coffee shop. “She’s a really famous model. The Ford agency stashes all of its top models here.”
    Vivian knitted her eyebrows. “She runs a modeling agency? She looks barely twenty.”
    â€œNo, no, no,” Dolly said. “Her last name is Ford and the agency’s name is also Ford. It’s just a coincidence. But she’s really famous. And very dramatic. She had a pale blue Thunderbird delivered to the door here. Oscar signed for it.”
    â€œHow do you know that?” Laura asked, still clutching the dress.
    Dolly sighed, exasperated. “How do I—Where do you two live, on some Indian reservation? It was all over the gossip columns! Sheesh!” She turned back to Laura. “She’s been on the cover of
Mademoiselle
.”
    Dolly was about to offer more color commentary—such as the fact that Agnes Ford had grown up in Nebraska, though there were those who thought that had simply been invented to create a rags-to-riches mystique—when a delivery man walked into the lobby and headed toward the front desk. Dolly gasped.
    A bouquet of white gardenias.
    They’d come. He’d sent them.
    Without a word she dashed over to the desk, sidling up next to Agnes Ford as Metzger absently signed for the flowers. “Well, a case of perfect timing,” Metzger said. “These are for you.”
    She slid the bouquet over to Agnes Ford.
    Agnes was still fumbling with her bracelet—definitely trying to get it off, Dolly could now see—and paid no attention to the bouquet. Her bouquet. Dolly knew she should walk away, back to Laura and Vivian. No one would be the wiser. But somehow she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t stop herself from accepting the full, brutal force of the torture.
    â€œYour flowers, they’re . . . they’re beautiful,”