I start to tell him that I accidentally left it at home when he reaches into his suit coat and pulls the slim box from the interior pocket. He opens it, and the anklet sparkles in the dim interior lighting.
I smile, unreasonably relieved to have it here. “Put it on me?”
He bends to do just that, but he can’t get the clasp to connect. With my ankle so swollen, the bracelet is about half a centimeter too small.
“It doesn’t fit,” I say, stupidly stating the obvious.
“It’s okay,” he says, tucking it back into its box, and then into his pocket. “I’ll keep it safe.”
I nod, but it’s only for form, and I turn away, ostensibly to look at the crowd lining Hollywood Boulevard in front of the Chinese Theater.
In reality, though, I’m fighting a new wave of tears. Because even though I know it’s silly, I can’t help but think that not being able to wear the anklet is a very bad omen.
18
We’re helped out of the limo by two young men in the kind of black pants and red vests that give the illusion that we’re back in old Hollywood and these are eager young movie ushers. Immediately, the questions begin. Shouts about my pregnancy, about fainting in Dallas, about the children’s foundation and the movie and everything under the sun.
Cameras flash wildly, but instead of making me cringe, I simply smile and wave one hand while I hold onto Damien with the other. And as we move down the red carpet, I lean over and whisper, “I’m glad you shared my limo.”
“Did I?” he counters. “Funny. I thought you shared mine.” And then he pulls me close and kisses me as the crowd applauds.
When we pull away, I’m laughing, and the heavy little knot that had appeared in my stomach when Damien had slipped the anklet back into his pocket starts to dissolve.
The red carpet is set in a serpentine pattern so that it heads from the street toward the pagoda of the original Chinese theater for the photo op and on-camera meet-and-greets, then curves around toward the ballroom where the pre-party is being held.
We follow it, pausing when we see Wyatt, who’s set up in front of the step-and-repeat publicity poster with the Stark Children’s Foundation logo. There’s no time for chatting, but I give Wyatt a quick hug after our photo, then promise we’ll see him inside. Then we continue down the path, and everything is so bright and shiny and festive that I feel a bit like Dorothy heading through Munchkinland.
I see Jamie up ahead, and though she’s fighting a grin, I can tell she’s in heaven.
“And here we have Damien and Nikki Stark, looking ravishing as always,” she says, in full-on reporter fashion. She stands by me as she speaks to the camera. “Tonight’s event is sponsored by the Stark Children’s Foundation. Mr. Stark, could you tell us a bit about what this exceptional organization does?”
“Of course,” Damien says smoothly, then gives a succinct rundown of the foundation and its mission to help abused and at-risk kids.
Jamie wraps that up, manages to shift seamlessly from the mission of the foundation to the designer of my dress, and then thanks us both for our time. “And be sure to stay tuned in,” she adds before she lets us escape. “There’s big news in the Stark family, and you’ll get all the scoop in my exclusive interview later this evening.”
She flashes a quick grin and I manage an out-of-camera wink as we continue toward the ballroom, and Jamie turns to Academy Award winner Francesca Muratti, who’s coming up the red carpet behind us.
“This really is an amazing event,” I tell Damien.
“It is.”
“Modest much?”
He laughs. “I don’t have to be modest. It’s not my personal doing. That’s why I hire exceptional people.”
I just grin. I know how hands-on Damien is about all aspects of Stark International. But the SCF is his passion project, and he’s been intimately involved in this event from the get-go.
Lyle Tarpin waves to us from the door, where he’s greeting folks individually as they enter the ballroom for the pre-party. Most are celebrities themselves, but some are civilians who bought or were given the pricey event tickets, and in the few moments it takes for us to reach him, I see two young girls practically swoon as they take in his Midwestern good looks and piercing blue eyes.
“I’m never washing this hand again,” the taller girl says to her friend as they enter the annex, giggling.
I’m fighting a smile as we reach him. “Look at you,” I say. “Reduced to a doorman.”
“It was Lyle’s idea,” Damien says, and I can tell from his tone that he’s impressed. Honestly, I am, too. Most celebrity sponsors just mingle inside this kind of party. They believe in the cause, sure. But they don’t usually work the door.
“I want people to see how invested I am,” Lyle says. “You’ve done good here, Damien. I’m proud to help.”
“We’re proud to have you,” Damien says as Evelyn steps up to join us, a drink in each of her hands.
She hands one to Lyle, who sets it on a small table beside him, keeping his hands free for greeting arrivals.
“It’s the subservient side of my role as his agent,” she quips. “He’s going to be huge after tonight’s premiere. I don’t want him getting any ideas about trading me in for a new model.”
“Never,” Lyle says, shaking hands with an A-list actor whose name I can’t remember.
Damien and I continue inside the ballroom, which is set up with standing bars and appetizer stations, all with different themes. The placement of the food and drink stations gently leads party-goers farther inside toward the jazz band and the silent auction.
The main room is decorated with posters taken at the foundation’s summer and after-school camps, as well as images of the kids when they were first brought into the system, usually after being removed from their homes and put into foster care. The laughing, smiling children in the camp photos stand in stark contrast to the somber, sad-eyed faces from the earlier images, and I squeeze Damien’s hand in silent recognition of what he’d hoped to build—and what he’s truly accomplished.
“Mr. Stark!” An enthusiastic young woman bounces across the room and gives him a rib-breaking hug, then bounces some more. “I got accepted! I’m actually going to MIT!”
I smile, unreasonably relieved to have it here. “Put it on me?”
He bends to do just that, but he can’t get the clasp to connect. With my ankle so swollen, the bracelet is about half a centimeter too small.
“It doesn’t fit,” I say, stupidly stating the obvious.
“It’s okay,” he says, tucking it back into its box, and then into his pocket. “I’ll keep it safe.”
I nod, but it’s only for form, and I turn away, ostensibly to look at the crowd lining Hollywood Boulevard in front of the Chinese Theater.
In reality, though, I’m fighting a new wave of tears. Because even though I know it’s silly, I can’t help but think that not being able to wear the anklet is a very bad omen.
18
We’re helped out of the limo by two young men in the kind of black pants and red vests that give the illusion that we’re back in old Hollywood and these are eager young movie ushers. Immediately, the questions begin. Shouts about my pregnancy, about fainting in Dallas, about the children’s foundation and the movie and everything under the sun.
Cameras flash wildly, but instead of making me cringe, I simply smile and wave one hand while I hold onto Damien with the other. And as we move down the red carpet, I lean over and whisper, “I’m glad you shared my limo.”
“Did I?” he counters. “Funny. I thought you shared mine.” And then he pulls me close and kisses me as the crowd applauds.
When we pull away, I’m laughing, and the heavy little knot that had appeared in my stomach when Damien had slipped the anklet back into his pocket starts to dissolve.
The red carpet is set in a serpentine pattern so that it heads from the street toward the pagoda of the original Chinese theater for the photo op and on-camera meet-and-greets, then curves around toward the ballroom where the pre-party is being held.
We follow it, pausing when we see Wyatt, who’s set up in front of the step-and-repeat publicity poster with the Stark Children’s Foundation logo. There’s no time for chatting, but I give Wyatt a quick hug after our photo, then promise we’ll see him inside. Then we continue down the path, and everything is so bright and shiny and festive that I feel a bit like Dorothy heading through Munchkinland.
I see Jamie up ahead, and though she’s fighting a grin, I can tell she’s in heaven.
“And here we have Damien and Nikki Stark, looking ravishing as always,” she says, in full-on reporter fashion. She stands by me as she speaks to the camera. “Tonight’s event is sponsored by the Stark Children’s Foundation. Mr. Stark, could you tell us a bit about what this exceptional organization does?”
“Of course,” Damien says smoothly, then gives a succinct rundown of the foundation and its mission to help abused and at-risk kids.
Jamie wraps that up, manages to shift seamlessly from the mission of the foundation to the designer of my dress, and then thanks us both for our time. “And be sure to stay tuned in,” she adds before she lets us escape. “There’s big news in the Stark family, and you’ll get all the scoop in my exclusive interview later this evening.”
She flashes a quick grin and I manage an out-of-camera wink as we continue toward the ballroom, and Jamie turns to Academy Award winner Francesca Muratti, who’s coming up the red carpet behind us.
“This really is an amazing event,” I tell Damien.
“It is.”
“Modest much?”
He laughs. “I don’t have to be modest. It’s not my personal doing. That’s why I hire exceptional people.”
I just grin. I know how hands-on Damien is about all aspects of Stark International. But the SCF is his passion project, and he’s been intimately involved in this event from the get-go.
Lyle Tarpin waves to us from the door, where he’s greeting folks individually as they enter the ballroom for the pre-party. Most are celebrities themselves, but some are civilians who bought or were given the pricey event tickets, and in the few moments it takes for us to reach him, I see two young girls practically swoon as they take in his Midwestern good looks and piercing blue eyes.
“I’m never washing this hand again,” the taller girl says to her friend as they enter the annex, giggling.
I’m fighting a smile as we reach him. “Look at you,” I say. “Reduced to a doorman.”
“It was Lyle’s idea,” Damien says, and I can tell from his tone that he’s impressed. Honestly, I am, too. Most celebrity sponsors just mingle inside this kind of party. They believe in the cause, sure. But they don’t usually work the door.
“I want people to see how invested I am,” Lyle says. “You’ve done good here, Damien. I’m proud to help.”
“We’re proud to have you,” Damien says as Evelyn steps up to join us, a drink in each of her hands.
She hands one to Lyle, who sets it on a small table beside him, keeping his hands free for greeting arrivals.
“It’s the subservient side of my role as his agent,” she quips. “He’s going to be huge after tonight’s premiere. I don’t want him getting any ideas about trading me in for a new model.”
“Never,” Lyle says, shaking hands with an A-list actor whose name I can’t remember.
Damien and I continue inside the ballroom, which is set up with standing bars and appetizer stations, all with different themes. The placement of the food and drink stations gently leads party-goers farther inside toward the jazz band and the silent auction.
The main room is decorated with posters taken at the foundation’s summer and after-school camps, as well as images of the kids when they were first brought into the system, usually after being removed from their homes and put into foster care. The laughing, smiling children in the camp photos stand in stark contrast to the somber, sad-eyed faces from the earlier images, and I squeeze Damien’s hand in silent recognition of what he’d hoped to build—and what he’s truly accomplished.
“Mr. Stark!” An enthusiastic young woman bounces across the room and gives him a rib-breaking hug, then bounces some more. “I got accepted! I’m actually going to MIT!”
