And Death Goes To . . .. Laura Bradford

      “I know. Crazy, right?” I let loose an honest to goodness squeal that made Carter jump just a little. “I’m living my dream. I have my own agency, I have real paying clients, I’m a car owner for the first time in almost thirty years, and I’m nominated for the biggest award in the industry! I-I can’t even begin to tell you what an honor it is to have my name alongside the likes of Ben Gibbens, Lexa Smyth, and Deidre Ryan!”

      “And I’d be willing to bet they consider it a dream-come-true to have their name alongside yours, Sunshine.”

      I didn’t mean to laugh, I really didn’t. But I couldn’t help it. “I doubt that. I’ve only been in this business—in this town, in fact—for a few years. Ben and Deidre both interned here during their college days and grew their careers here.”

      “You’re growing your career here, too,” Carter argued like the true and loyal friend he is.

      “Growing, yes. But they’ve grown it.”

      “And the other one? With the trendy name?”

      “Lexa?” At his nod, I picked up the brush that had finally been retired from my face and twirled it between my fingers. “I’m not really sure how she got a nomination other than the fact that she’s now working for the Callahan Agency, but there are probably some who are wondering how I got nominated, too, so…”

      He shook his finger at me. “Stop that. Stop that right now.”

      “Sorry.” I tossed the brush back onto the table and met Carter’s disapproving eyes. “Momentary self-esteem setback. I’m over it. I promise.”

      “Good.” Carter puckered his own lips in demonstration and then, when I mimicked to his satisfaction, he moved in for what I hoped was one final swipe. “If all goes well, we’ll have two winners to celebrate before the night is over.”

      It was hard not to smile as his words redirected my thoughts to Mary Fran Wazoli’s sixteen-year-old son, Sam. Like me with advertising, Sam’s passion for photography had been born before he was ten years old. And while many might have considered me crazy for employing a teenager to shoot my agency’s stills, I never had any doubt. The fact that his work was good enough to earn him a nomination alongside professionals two and three times his age just backed up what I’d known all along.

      My squeal was back. Only this time, it came complete with an echo—Carter’s.

      “Oh, Sunshine…” He capped the lipstick, tossed it into his bag of tricks, and clapped his hands once. “You could be on a runway right now.”

      I parted my freshly colored lips in anticipation of the self-deprecating remarks that were poised to announce themselves like the trusty soldiers they were, but, in the end, I swallowed them back. After all, a promise was a promise, wasn’t it?

      Instead, I took a deep breath, hooked my thumb over my smock-clad shoulder, and smiled up at my best friend. “May I?”

      He started to turn me, but stopped before I’d made it more than an inch or two.

      “Now what?” I asked.

      Reaching behind my neck, he unsnapped the smock and folded it against his chest. “There. Now you can look.”

      I completed my turn until I was face to face with the floor length mirror propped against the back wall of Carter’s living room. My first glimpse sucked the breath from my lungs.

      Whoa!

      “That’s…me?”

      “It sure is.”

      “But—”

      “The makeup may be me, but the gorgeous is all you. Always has been, Sunshine. Now go break a leg.”

      ~Chapter Two~

      On some level, I suppose I was aware of my colleagues milling about the Regency Hotel’s grand ballroom, shaking hands, patting backs, and trying not to talk shop while waiting for the award show to begin. But really, at that moment, all I could truly see were the people seated around me at my table—loved ones who were there to support me in what might very well be the biggest night of my life, career wise.

      Seated to my immediate left was JoAnna Kincaid, my secretary (aka lifesaver) at Tobias Ad Agency. Without her doing what she did on a daily basis, Carter wouldn’t have had any reason to transform me into the princess Andy hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off since he picked me up at my apartment thirty minutes earlier. To Andy’s right was my Grandpa Stu, beaming back at me like the proud grandfather he was. I returned his smile while trying not to shudder at the woman seated next to him.

      Truth be told, Ms. Rapple wasn’t my first (or even my bazillionth) choice for a spot at my table (or anywhere in the ballroom, for that matter), but inviting her had made my grandfather happy. And since Mary Fran’s new boyfriend, Drew, was away on business and couldn’t attend, my grandfather was quick to suggest Rapple for that seat.…

      Mary Fran, in turn, was so beside herself with pride for Sam and his nomination, she wouldn’t have noticed Ms. Rapple if the ornery little shrew was bedded down on her lap.

      “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

      I redirected my focus to the handsome man beside me and answered his smile with one I was pretty sure dominated my entire face. “You have, but it’s okay to repeat yourself on occasion.”

      “You’re beautiful.” He captured my hand off its resting spot on the edge of the table and brought it to his lips. “And I’m so very proud to be here—to be anywhere, anytime—with you.”

      “Wow. I should have Carter do this”—I gestured to myself with my free hand—“to me more often.”

      “You’re beautiful in sweats and a ponytail, Tobi.”

      I felt the familiar pang that was my good fortune at having Andy in my life and quickly blinked away the tears Carter had forbidden me from shedding lest I ruin the masterpiece (his word) that was me. “Thank you, Andy. For being here, for being in my life, for being…you.”

      He opened his mouth to answer, but closed it as Carl Brinkman, local network news anchor and the M.C. for the evening, stepped on stage to a ballroom-wide round of applause.

      Over the next ten minutes, Carl entertained the crowd with advertising-related jokes and puns before moving on to the first award category of the night—Best Fifteen Second Spot. The previous year’s winner came out to the podium, gave a fun description of the category, and then announced each nominee, leaving time between names for the swell of answering applause from both the represented agency and the crowd overall. When the moment of truth came, the presenter ripped open the sparkly gold-edged envelope and read the winner’s name aloud—a name I knew, but a person I didn’t.

      Cheers from a table on the right side of the ballroom led my attention toward the forty-something winner who stood, kissed the woman beside him, and jogged toward the stage with an excitement I felt clear down to my toes. The woman tasked with handing out the evening’s awards gave him his and then gestured him over to the podium for his allotted two minute acceptance speech.

      I tried to listen, I really did, but honestly, I found myself thinking what I might say if the unthinkable happened. Grandpa Stu had encouraged me to write out a speech, but I’d resisted for fear of jinxing myself. Yet now that I was there, listening to the eloquent words of the man holding the first award of the night, I couldn’t help but question my decision just a little.

      Before the mental browbeating could reach a crescendo though, the wait staff came out with salad plates while Carl Brinkman reappeared with a fresh round of jokes—some invoking laughter, others inciting muted groans and more than a few traded eye rolls. Eventually, he announced the next category—Best Photograph in a Print Ad.

      Everyone at my table stopped eating and turned their collective attention on Sam as last year’s winner came out to the podium with a gold-edged envelope in