Holiday by Design. Patricia Kay

boots with their four-inch heels, then traveled up and over her diamond-patterned black stockings, black miniskirt and tight leather jacket.

      “Hello,” Joanna said brightly. Walking over to the counter where the woman stood with an open catalogue in front of her, Joanna extended her right hand. “I’m Joanna Spinelli. I wrote to you last week about the possibility of showing my work here.”

      The blonde ignored the hand. “And what might that work be?” Still no smile. In fact, her eyes, a frosty dark blue that matched her long-sleeved, high-necked wool dress, were looking at Joanna as if she had wandered into the gallery by mistake.

      “I’m a, um, fashion designer.” Joanna could have kicked herself for the hesitation in her voice. “You may have heard of my label? JS Designs? I did the bridesmaids’ gowns for the Fairchild wedding in the spring. There was a spread in Puget Sound Magazine—”

      “We are an art gallery, Miss...”

      “Spinelli,” Joanna repeated.

      The blonde fingered her double strand of pearls. “Spinelli.” This was said as if the name itself was distasteful.

      “And I know you’re an art gallery,” Joanna said, “but I read an article recently about how you’ll be showing some jewelry by a local artist and I thought—”

      “Yes. Well. That designer is the sister of the owner.”

      “Oh.” Joanna’s heart sank. This was not going well. “Um, then, perhaps I could speak to the owner? I brought my portfolio with me to show—”

      “Mr. Barlow is a busy man and rarely here.”

      Telling herself not to be cowed by this snobby woman, Joanna drew herself up to her full five feet three plus the four-inch heels. “And you are?”

      The blonde’s eyes narrowed as if she couldn’t quite believe Joanna had the audacity to ask her name. For a moment, Joanna was sure she didn’t intend to answer, but finally she said, “I am the manager of the gallery. Brenda Garfield.”

      “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Garfield. Now, if you could just take a look at my designs...”

      Lifting the portfolio to the glass countertop, Joanna opened it to the first photograph. The model, a favorite of Joanna’s, was an ethereal-looking redhead—a Nicole Kidman type, Joanna had always thought—and she was wearing one of Joanna’s hand-crocheted dresses—a pale apricot confection with a swirling skirt, worn over a matching silk slip. The photographer had created the illusion of sun-kissed clouds drifting around her. It had cost Joanna the earth to have these photographs shot, but she figured the investment in her future was worth it.

      The Garfield woman barely glanced at the photo.

      Determined not to give up, Joanna turned the page. This photo featured a willowy, dark-haired model standing on a moonlit balcony. She was wearing a midnight-blue satin evening dress overlaid with ecru lace and held a champagne glass in her hand.

      Brenda Garfield’s eyes briefly skimmed the photograph, then rose to meet Joanna’s own. “I doubt Mr. Barlow would be interested,” she said coldly.

      Joanna would have liked to say what she was thinking, but stopped herself just in time. Never burn bridges. How often had her mother advised that? “I’ll just leave my card,” she said politely. “He can look at my designs on my website.”

      “As you wish.”

      Joanna figured the card would be thrown in the trash the moment she was out the door. Suppressing a sigh, she closed her portfolio and, head held high, said, “Thank you for your time.”

      Joanna waited until she’d walked outside and out of sight of the snooty Brenda Garfield before giving vent to her feelings. I won’t cry, she told herself as the full weight of her crushed hopes and lost dreams bore down on her shoulders.

      “I might as well forget about this damn place,” she said aloud. “She isn’t going to tell the owner about me.” For one second, she almost pitched the album containing the photos into the trash container standing on the curb.

      But something stopped her.

      Maybe the portfolio was worthless. Maybe no one else would ever look at her designs again. Maybe things looked dark right now, but tomorrow was another day.

      And she was not a quitter.

      Besides, these photos were too beautiful and had cost too much to end up in a public trash receptacle.

      * * *

      Cornelia Fairchild Hunt had just finished arranging a large bouquet of fresh-cut flowers in the morning room when Martha, her longtime housekeeper who had come along with her when she’d moved into her new husband’s mansion in the spring, walked into the room.

      “Mrs. Hunt, Georgie’s on the phone.”

      “Thank you, Martha.” Cornelia smiled, always delighted to hear from her oldest daughter. Now that Georgie had married such a wonderful man, and was stepmother to three equally wonderful children, she always had interesting news and funny stories to recount. And soon, to Cornelia’s delight, Georgie would be adding another baby to Cornelia’s growing list of grandchildren. Life was good.

      Cornelia lifted the phone. “Hello, Georgie.”

      “Hi, Mom. What’re you up to today?”

      “Oh, nothing much. Just doing some flower arranging. Thinking about having a toes-up later.”

      They chatted for a while, and then Georgie said, “Mom, I wanted to bounce something off you.”

      “What, dear?” Cornelia listened thoughtfully as Georgie explained about her best friend Joanna Spinelli’s dilemma, finishing up with “I just wish I knew the owner of that gallery so I could put in a good word for Joanna. Unfortunately, he’s older than me, and I don’t believe I’ve ever met him. Do you by any chance know him?”

      “Well, first of all, what’s his name?”

      “Oh, sorry. Marcus Barlow. You might have read about him. He’s the head of Barlow International, that import/export company that’s doing so much business in Asia. Seattle Today did a big feature article on him back in May. I also read somewhere that he was going to appear on 60 Minutes.”

      “Actually, Georgie, I’ve met Mr. Barlow. He was seated next to me at the heart association fund-raiser last month. He’s a really charming young man.”

      For a moment, there was silence. Then Georgie exclaimed, “Mom! That’s wonderful. I can’t believe you know him.”

      “Well, I don’t know him well, of course, but we did have the loveliest conversation that evening. And, in fact, on the drive home, I mentioned to Harry that we ought to invite Mr. Barlow to one of our dinner parties.” She remembered how, even though Marcus Barlow was an attractive, influential, wealthy man, and women had fawned over him all evening, he hadn’t paid them much attention. He’d seemed happier talking to Cornelia, even though she was old enough to be his mother. There was something about him that had really touched her that evening. Afterward, she’d thought perhaps she’d sensed a quality of loneliness in him and she’d responded to it.

      “Do you think you could—”

      Georgie didn’t have to finish her question. Cornelia knew what her daughter wanted from her. “I wouldn’t mind calling him and mentioning Joanna, if that’s what you’re suggesting. As I said, I wanted to invite him to dinner anyway.”

      “Oh, gosh, that would be wonderful. But you could never let Joanna know you’d done so.”

      “Why? Do you think she’d be upset?”

      “Oh, you know how she is.”

      “Well, darling, if what you’ve told me is accurate, if anyone needs a fairy godmother, it’s Joanna.”

      Even though thousands of miles