Eyes half closed, Deanna tried to visualize it. "Right down to shoes and accessories, with a fashion coordinator. Then we choose women out of the audience."
"Exactly. Real women, no perfect bodies."
Warming to the idea, Deanna reached for her purse and took out a notebook. "We'll have to have chosen them earlier. So the fashion coordinator has time to find the right look, the right outfit."
"Then they get, say, a hundred-dollar gift certificate from the department store."
"How to look like a million for a hundred dollars or less."
"Oh, I like it." Fran rocked back. "I really like it."
"I've got to get home." Deanna scrambled up. "Make some calls. We've got to move fast."
"Sweet pea, I've never known you to move any other way."
It required eighteen-hour days, the bulk of Deanna's savings and a surplus of frustration. Because she was able to wrangle only a week off from her duties at CBC, she did without sleep. Fueled on coffee and ambition, she pushed the project forward. Meetings with the promotion people at Marshall Field's, phone calls to union reps, hours of searching for the right set accessories.
The first Deanna's Hour might need to be produced on a shoestring, but she didn't intend for it to look that way. Deanna oversaw every step and stage. A loss or a victory, she was determined that it carry her mark.
She bargained. A set of chairs for on-screen credit. She promised. A few hours' labor for a full-time position if the pilot was picked up. She begged and she borrowed. Fifty folding chairs from a local women's group. Floral arrangements, equipment, bodies.
On the morning of the taping, the small studio she had rented was in chaos. Lighting technicians shouted orders and suggestions as they made last-minute adjustments. The models were crammed into a bread box-size dressing room, jockeying for enough space to dress. Deanna's mike shorted out, and the florist delivered a funeral wreath instead of the baskets of summer blossoms.
""In loving memory of Milo.""
Deanna read the card and let loose with a quick, hysterical laugh. "Oh, Christ, what else?"
"We'll fix it." Firmly, and perhaps frantically, in control, Fran gave her a brisk shove. "I've already sent Richard's nephew Vinnie out for baskets. We'll just pull the flowers out and toss them in. It'll look great," she said desperately. "Natural."
"You bet. We've got less than an hour." She winced at the sound of a crashing folding chair. "If anyone actually shows up for the audience, we're going to look like idiots."
"They're going to show up." Fran attacked the gladiolas. Her hair stood out in corkscrew spikes, like an electric halo. "And we'll be fine. Between the two of us we contacted every women's organization in Cook County. Every one of the fifty tickets is spoken for. We could have managed twice that if we'd had a bigger studio. Don't worry."
"You're worried."
"That's a producer's job. Go change, do your hair. Pretend you're a star."
"Oh, Miss Reynolds? Deanna?" The fashion consultant, a petite, perky woman with a permanent smile, waved from offstage.
"I want to kill her," Deanna said under her breath. "I want it bad."
"Stand in line," Fran suggested. "If she's changed her mind about the running order again, I get first shot."
"Oh, Deanna?"
"Yes, Karyn." Deanna fixed a smile on her face and turned. "What can I do for you?"
"I just have a teeny little problem? The walking shorts in pumpkin?"
"Yes?" Deanna gritted her teeth. Why did the woman have to make a question out of every statement?
"They just don't suit Monica. I don't know what I was thinking of. Do you think we could have someone dash over to the store and pick up the same outfit in eggplant?"
Before Deanna could open her mouth, Fran eased forward. "I'll tell you what, Karyn. Why don't you call the store, have someone dash over here with the outfit."
"Oh." Karyn blinked. "I suppose I could, couldn't I? Goodness, I'd better hurry. It's almost show time."
"Whose idea was it to do a fashion show?" Fran went back to dismantling the funeral wreath. "It must have been yours. I would never have thought up something this complicated. Go put yourself together. You won't make much of a fashion statement in sweats and with curlers in your hair."
"Right. If I'm going to bomb, I might as well look my best doing it."
Deanna's dressing room was the size of a closet, but it boasted a sink, a john and a mirror. She grinned when she saw the big gold star Fran had taped to the door.
Maybe it was just a symbol, she mused as she ran a fingertip over the foil, but it was her symbol. Now she was going to have to earn it.
Even if everything fell apart, she'd have three weeks' worth of incredible memories. The rush and thrill of putting the show together, the fascination and strain of handling all the details. And the knowledge, the absolute certainty that this was exactly what she wanted to do with her life. Added to that, astoundingly, was the fact that so many people believed she could.
There had been tips from the floor director at CBC, advice from Benny and several others on the production end. Joe had agreed to head up the camera crew and had persuaded a few of his pals to help with the sound and lighting end. Jeff Hyatt had arranged for editing and graphics.
Now she would either earn their faith in her — or blow it.
She was fastening on an earring and giving herself a final pep talk when the knock sounded on the door.
"Don't tell me," she called out. "The eggplant won't do either, and we have to dash back for tomato."
"Sorry." Finn pushed open the door. "I didn't bring any food."
"Oh." She dropped the back of her earring and swore. "I thought you were in Moscow."
"I was." He leaned against the jamb as she retrieved the little gold clasp. "And look what happens when I go away for a couple of weeks. You're the top story in the newsroom gossip pool." "Great." Her stomach sank as she fought the earring into place. "I must have been out of my mind to start this."
"I imagine you were thinking clearly." She looked fabulous, he realized. Nervous, but revved and ready. "You saw an open door and decided you could walk through first."
"It feels like an open window. On the top floor."
"Just land on your feet. So what's your topic?"
"It's a fashion show, with audience participation."
His grin broke out, dimples winking. "A fashion show? That kind of fluff, with your news background?"
"This isn't news." She elbowed past him. "It's entertainment. I hope. Don't you have a war to cover or something?"
"Not at the moment. I figured I'd stick around awhile. Then I could head back to the newsroom with the scoop. Tell me." He put a hand on her shoulder to slow her down. "Are you doing this for yourself, or to irritate Angela?"
"Both." She pressed a fist to her stomach to try to quiet it. "But for me first."
"Okay." He could feel the energy, and the nerves vibrating against his palm. He wondered what it would be like to tap it, when they were alone. "And what's the next step?"
She sent him a sidelong look, hesitated. "Off the record?"
"Off the record," he agreed.
"A meeting with Barlow James. And if I manage to get his endorsement, I'm going to Bach."
"So, you don't intend to pitch in the minors." "Not for long." She let out a long breath. "A minute ago I was sure I was going to be sick." She tossed her hair back. "Now I feel great. Really great."
"Dee!" Holding her headset in place, Fran rushed down the narrow corridor. "We've got a full house." She snatched Deanna's hand and squeezed. "Every seat. The three women we picked out from the Cook County Historical Society are psyched. They can't wait to start."