And Death Goes To . . .. Laura Bradford

times I’ve pinched myself today alone, just to see if all of this is real.”

      He stepped back, surveyed the canvas that was my eyes, and capped up the mascara. “Oh, it’s real, Sunshine. You’re in that dress, aren’t you?”

      I looked down at the part of my dress I could see and felt the same thrill I felt when I’d put it on in Carter’s bathroom less than thirty minutes earlier. The sparkly silver stilettos he’d gone nearly postal over in the store were simply the icing on the cake that was the princess (read: not normal) version of myself.

      Since the moment the letter announcing my nomination for Best Overall Ad Campaign had arrived via certified mail, my feet had barely touched the ground. Thanks to Andy Zander (my super cute boyfriend), the milestone of being nominated had been celebrated via a candlelight dinner and a horse and carriage ride along the grounds of the St. Louis Arch. Mary Fran (my next door neighbor and best bud along with Carter) had thrown an impromptu dance party on the front lawn when she found out, and even Ms. Rapple, the old biddy who lives in the apartment below Mary Fran’s, had been surprisingly pleasant, though that probably had more to do with her deepening relationship—shudder—withGrandpa Stu. And Grandpa Stu had been so proud of my accomplishment he’d subjected himself to the nearly four hour bus ride between his independent senior living complex in Kansas City and my Central West End digs just so he could be here for my big day.

      “You should see your face right now.”

      I shook myself back to the present and stared at Carter. “You’re kidding, right?”

      “What?”

      “I should see my face right now? Seriously? What do you think I’ve been waiting to do this whole time?”

      “I’m not talking about the makeup and the hair, Sunshine.” Carter pulled out a big wide brush, stuck it into a canister, and brushed the contents across my cheeks. “I’m talking about the part that’s all you. You’re absolutely glowing.”

      I felt my cheeks warm at the praise, but before I could respond, Carter capped up the canister and traded it for our agreed upon lipstick shade. “Validation of your talent obviously agrees with you. You should bottle that; you’d make a fortune.”

      I didn’t need a mirror (although I desperately wanted one at that moment) to know he was right. I was literally living my dream. How could I not be glowing?

      Still, I felt the need to explain said glow. “At the risk of further beating a dead horse, you need to understand these awards are huge. Huge.”

      “You might’ve mentioned that a time or two”—Carter looked up, bouncing his eyes from left to right as he counted silently—“or…ten.”

      “Well, that’s because they are. Shamus Callahan of the Shamus Callahan Foundation was a veritable legend in the St. Louis advertising community and beyond. Remember that commercial when we were kids—the one for that wind-up cat that was all the rage?”

      Carter’s eyes widened. “Ms. Pretty Kitty?”

      I nodded.

      Clutching the lipstick tube to his chest, he slumped back against the wall, a dreamy expression playing across his face. “I loved her.”

      “Yeah, me, too. But do you remember the jingle they played in the background of those commercials? The one that invariably made you beg for a Ms. Pretty Kitty of your own?”

      He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, closed his eyes (no, not long enough for me to sneak a peek at myself), and began to hum a few bars of the ad campaign responsible for making the mechanical cat the top selling toy across the country for its inaugural holiday season. “Ms…Ms. Pre-ty Kitty…love her…pet her…she’s the one…”

      I joined in for the final few lines and then followed them up with a laugh. “Yes! Nice!”

      Carter slowly pulled the lipstick tube away from his body and smiled down at it as if it was something entirely different. “I took her everywhere that year.”

      “And you—or, rather, your parents have Shamus Callahan to thank for that. He made all kids want that toy.”

      Carter walked around to the front of my chair and studied me closely. “So this guy was the real deal?”

      “That’s putting it mildly. And that wasn’t his only national campaign. He had lots. But he never forgot his roots.”

      “His roots being St. Louis, I take it?” Swapping the still unused lipstick tube for the big brush, he added another swipe of blush to my cheeks.

      “That’s right. He was the driving force—and money—behind this award show. And he kept it going for thirty years. And when he died, the foundation created in his honor took it over.”

      “Who runs the foundation?”

      “His wife, Mavis, and his son, Kevin. Kevin is now president of Callahan Advertising.”

      “Is Kevin’s mom in advertising, as well?”

      “Kevin’s stepmom. Kevin was the byproduct of an affair Shamus apparently had forty some odd years ago. And no, Mavis was simply the supportive and dutiful wife from what I’ve been told.

      “Anyway, that first award show was small. Maybe ten categories. But the crowning jewel was the same Best Overall Campaign category I’m up for with my New Town campaign.” I stopped, made myself take a much needed breath, and then dove back in again. “And while the award show has grown and more categories have been added over the years, that category—my category—has remained the most prestigious of them all.”

      He stopping fussing with my cheeks and moved on to my lipstick. “So what does it look like?”

      “What?”

      “The award. Is it a naked bald guy like old Oscar?”

      “I’m not so sure Oscar is naked.”

      “Google an image one day, Sunshine. No man looks like that in clothes—trust me.”

      I must have licked my lips when I laughed, because I got a hand smack and a quick lipstick touch up. “Can I answer the original question, please?”

      “If you can refrain from licking, yes.”

      “All but the big award is a golden briefcase.”

      “And the big one?” Carter asked as he nodded at my face.

      “A Golden Storyboard.” I held my sigh back as I rushed to share the rest of the picture that had been playing itself out in my head for weeks. “It’s the last award of the evening. The nominees are read, just like in all the categories, but as the winner walks on to the stage, a red velvet curtain opens up to reveal a spiral staircase. After the winner is handed the award, he or she gets to walk up the spiral stairs to a special platform. When they reach the top, another velvet curtain opens to reveal a screen. And as the winner and the audience watch, his or her winning campaign is played for all to see.”

      Carter’s answering laugh snapped me back into the moment.

      “What?” I asked.

      “You’re glowing again.”

      I plucked the lipstick from Carter’s hand and set it on the table. “If I am, it’s because I can’t believe I’m nominated for that award. Last year, when Cassie Turner won for the Ross Jackson Agency, I literally had tears running down my face I was so happy for her—and I really only know her by name. And the year before that, when another one of the Ross Jackson crew won, I was so taken by all the pageantry of the award as the newbie that I was, my boss actually threw an elbow when it was time to clap.”

      “I take it this Ross Jackson agency is a powerhouse with two wins in two years?”

      “Make it five wins in the past five years, and yeah, they’re a powerhouse—a powerhouse who was nominated in just about every other category this year except Best Overall.