Button Holed (3 page)

I am self-aware enough to be certain I was better off not knowing exactly what Brina thought of me. Before she could elucidate, I took the phone. “Hey, Hugh.” I tried not to sound too anxious even though I was juggling a handful of buttons—and I knew what he was calling about. “What’s up?”

“The sun, the moon, and the stars! Like the ones in your eyes!” Hugh hadn’t changed from the fast-talking guy who sat next to me in every college theater class I’d ever taken. “Kate’s on her way,” he said, cutting to the chase.

I handed the buttons to Brina and with a shooing sort of wave, instructed her to pick up the pace and whatever other buttons she could find.

“We’ve finished shooting for the morning, and she’s not in any of the scenes we’re working on this afternoon. She just got in the limo. You ready for her, Josie?”

Yes, of course I could have told him about the burglary and admitted that this was a very bad time. Sure, I could have begged him to use his influence to get the appointment rescheduled. But I wasn’t willing to take the chance.

Not when the client who was headed in to see me was going to solidify my reputation as the country’s premier dealer in antique buttons.

Maybe I had learned something from Kaz, after all. I mean something more than just how I was never, ever again going to trust a single word that came out of a man’s mouth. I assured Hugh that all was well, lying like the pro Kaz was at the same time I fished the bits and pieces of a crushed glass calico button out from a tiny crack between two of the oak floorboards.

“You’re not going to let me down about this, are you, baby girl?”

I hated when Hugh called me that. “Hey, I did the costumes for
Trolls
, didn’t I? And you’ve come to me how many times since then for buttons for the costumes in your other movies?” I asked him all this on my way over to the garbage can to get rid of the calico. On the way back, I reminded him, “And Kate Franciscus . . . Thanks to your recommendation, she’s already ordered buttons from me, too. Buttons to match those outlandish stainless-steel stilettoes of hers. And buttons to replace the ones that were missing on that vintage fur coat she found in Budapest and couldn’t live without. Even buttons that matched the exact color and markings on her dog. Come on, Hugh, you think I can’t handle this?”

On the other end of the phone, Hugh grunted. “Don’t get me wrong, honey. I know you’re reliable. Always have been, always will be. Good ol’ Josie Giancola, reliable, dependable, predictable.”

He made me sound like a cocker spaniel. I might have been offended if I didn’t realize the three trays of buttons I’d laid out over the weekend to show Kate first were upended on my desk. I flipped the trays over and hurried to retrieve each glorious antique button I’d chosen to show her just as Hugh was saying, “You’ve always dealt with Kate’s assistant, never with la grande dame herself. You don’t know what you’re getting into. Kate Franciscus in person is nothing like Kate Franciscus in the movies.”

I was pretty sure I realized that, and pretty sure Hugh should have realized I realized it. Before I could point it out, he went right on. “Margot will have the ’66 Dom with her in an ice bucket, and believe me, Kate is going to want a glass of that champagne the moment she steps into your store. Margot has the crystal flute, too, so don’t worry about that. Or the raspberries. Hell, I hope Margot remembered the raspberries! I don’t suppose you could just run out and—”

“No.” I couldn’t be any clearer, so I didn’t even try. “We’ll get by,” I assured Hugh.

“God, I hope so.” I imagined him with his hands folded in supplication and discarded the thought as soon as it formed. Hugh is not the praying type. “It’s hot out today. You’ve got air-conditioning, right? You said your shop was new, and—”

“Earth to Hugh!” I used the old catchphrase I’d had to pull out so many times in college when Hugh the artiste got carried away by whatever new ideas filled his head. “This is Josie you’re dealing with. And Josie is—”

“Reliable, dependable, predictable.”

I resisted the urge to bark. As for being predictable . . .

I was grateful he couldn’t see the chaos that was my workspace. “She’s coming to buy buttons from me, Hugh. Buttons, I can handle.”

“I know you can,” he said, but at this point, I was barely paying attention. A few of the buttons I’d selected for Kate had rolled under the glass display case behind my desk, and I bent to pluck them to safety.

“These aren’t just regular buttons, remember,” Hugh said, ignoring the grunt I made when I braced a hand against the display case and pulled myself to my feet again. “They’re buttons for Kate’s—”

“Wedding gown. Yes, I know. Everyone knows. Every time I turn on the TV or open a newspaper, I see stories about her and that king she’s marrying.”

“He’s a prince.” Hugh wasn’t impressed. “Prince Roland of Ruritania. Blowhard billionaire playboy. Kate is absolutely going bonkers planning this wedding. Why do you think she insists on choosing her own buttons? She doesn’t trust her designers to do it. Or her assistants. Or anybody else. There hasn’t been this much hype about a Hollywood wedding since Princess Grace sailed off to Monaco.”

“And had Princess Grace wanted antique buttons for her wedding gown and had I been around back in the fifties, I could have handled that, too.” I caught sight of more buttons under my desk, and there was no way I was going to let them stay there. “Relax, Hugh,” I told him by way of saying I had to go. “I’ve got everything under control.”

I actually might have believed the fib myself if at that moment I didn’t see a shadow outside the front window. Long, dark, sleek. Either Shamu had decided to make an appearance on the streets of Chicago or a limo had just pulled to a stop in front of the shop.

The blood drained out of my face. A rumba rhythm started up inside my ribs.

Kate Franciscus was here.

Sure, my day had started out as bad as any day can. But things were about to change. Thanks to a Hollywood starlet with a load of glamour, a bigger-than-life personality, and the chops to have the paparazzi following at her heels, my reputation as one of the country’s leading purveyors of antique buttons was about to morph into the stuff of legends.

Chapter Two

BUTTONS STILL LITTERED THE PLACE LIKE SNOWFLAKES.

The gorgeous antiques I’d selected to show Kate Franciscus were still in a jumble on my desk.

My chesnut brown curls were hanging in my eyes; my twinset was up around my hips.

And now, it was too late!

Gulping down a breath to calm myself, I brushed my hair and tugged my twinset. Tugged my hair and brushed my twinset.

In honor of the occasion, I’d worn Grandma Roba’s pearls, and what with all the lifting, bending, and retrieving I’d been up to—not to mention the escaping from bad guys—they were twisted as tight around my neck as Giant #2’s iron grip had been.

Rather than chance thinking about the burglary and risking a full-fledged case of the screaming meemies, I reminded myself that it was time to start acting like the totally together businesswoman I am.

Tell that to the cha-cha-cha going on inside my chest.

I held my breath, the better to quiet the crazy rhythm. While I was at it, I pulled back my shoulders and waited for the biggest star in Hollywood to walk into the Button Box.

But instead of Kate Franciscus, a young woman stuck her head into the shop.

“Are you Josie?” She looked at Brina when she said this, and I was pretty sure if Brina had said
yes,
the girl would have run screeching down the sidewalk, so I took pity on her and stepped forward. When I stomped on a button, I acted like it was no big deal, bent to pick it up, and said, “I’m Josie.”

“I’m Wynona. Wynona Redfern.” The girl took a tentative step inside, and if she noticed the chaos, she didn’t let on. But then, she was too busy looking terrified. She was about Brina’s age, a short, rectangular kid with strawberry-blonde hair, a square jaw, and a flat chest. Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. “I’m Blake’s assistant.”

Button in hand, I gave her a probing look. “And Blake is . . .”

Wynona’s face flushed with color. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” She clutched her hands together at the waist of a suit coat that didn’t quite match her black skirt. “It’s my first week on the job, and I’m trying so hard to keep everything straight, but there’s so much to remember, and Miss Franciscus, she isn’t all that easy to deal with like what I thought she’d be and . . .” Wynona gulped. So not a pretty sound, but then, Wynona wasn’t a pretty girl. “Blake is Sloan’s assistant,” she said. “And Sloan is Margot’s assistant.”

“And Margot is Kate Franciscus’s assistant.” Suddenly, it all made sense. In a weird, Hollywood sort of way.

Wynona was grateful I’d caught on so quickly. Her expression cleared, and her grin revealed teeth that didn’t fit her mouth. They were toppled against each other like tombstones in an abandoned graveyard. “I’m supposed to make sure that everything’s ready.” Most of Wynona’s pink lipstick had already been chewed off. She gnawed at the rest of it. “I’m new and all, but I already know, Miss Franciscus . . . She likes everything to be ready.”

“Oh, we’re ready, all right!” Brina scooted up from behind me, as hopped up as a Mexican jumping bean on a hot sidewalk. “You can tell Miss Franciscus that everything here at the Button Box is shipshape. A-one. Top-notch. Ready as ready can be!” Brina swept out an arm to demonstrate.

Too bad she didn’t look where she was waving. At the same time Wynona stuck her head outside to tell Blake (or was it Sloan?) that it was OK for Miss Franciscus to get out of the limo, Brina knocked against the buttons—those glorious, antique, expensive buttons—that I’d just picked up off the floor.

They went flying.

So did I.

Eager to make a good first impression, I got right to work gathering up those beautiful buttons, and to give her her due, Brina was right there with me, though what with all the muttering and apologizing, she was more of a hindrance than a help. No matter. I was on a mission, and so intent, I hardly even noticed the commotion when it started up outside on the sidewalk.

That is, until my robin’s-egg-blue shop door popped open and Kate Franciscus arrived with a flourish and in a cloud of expensive perfume.

She found me on my hands and knees, searching for the buttons with my butt sticking out from under my desk.

Embarrassing?

It might have been.

If anyone was paying the least bit of attention to me.

The way it was, the world stopped spinning and time stood still. Kate Franciscus, even more gorgeous in person than she was on the silver screen, was suddenly the bright sun in a universe that included nothing more significant than the rest of us—dull, colorless planets whose very existence had no point except to orbit around her.

Yes, she was that impressive. And I was that obligated to stop acting less like a starstruck groupie and more like the recognized button expert I am. In fact, I’m pretty convinced I would have recovered sooner and gotten everything under control if I could see straight. The way it was, in the second between when the shop door opened and Kate swept in, a couple dozen camera flashes exploded from the phalanx of paparazzi out on the sidewalk, and I was blinded. I blinked against the fireworks that popped behind my eyes and, disoriented, sat up and banged my head into my desk.

Heedless of the sound of skull hitting wood, Kate kept smiling and waving to the photographers, who kept snapping picture after picture.

Kate’s assistants kept scurrying. Between shots, Margot set a silver ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it on my desk. Sloan adjusted the azure and amber silk scarf around Kate’s neck, which looked spectacular with her Tabasco-colored silk shantung suit. Blake plastered herself against the library card files to keep out of the pictures, and little Wynona wrung her hands and looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Brina, it should be noted, had been struck dumb (it wasn’t much of a stretch) the moment our guest of honor arrived. She pulled herself to her feet and stood there wide-eyed, openmouthed, and completely in awe at being in the presence of the woman the media didn’t need a surname to talk about. They simply called her Kate the Great.

“You are really too kind. All of you.” Kate’s voice was husky and as seductive as the little wave she threw at the photographers. Her smile was sleek and gracious; her teeth were even and as blindingly white as the pyrotechnics still twinkling in my eyes.

“One more picture, Miss Franciscus,” one of the paparazzi shouted, and as stunningly beautiful as a Greek goddess, she lifted her chin and posed, ever gracious.

That is, until Margot signaled Sloan, who nudged Blake, who told Wynona in no uncertain terms that enough was enough, and it was time to close the door.

Wynona snapped to and did as instructed, and as soon as the door clicked shut, Kate turned away from the front display window and the reporters who had their noses pressed there. Her shoulders fell, along with her smile.

She slid off her sunglasses and tucked them into a leather purse I had no doubt cost more than my monthly rent—on both the shop and my apartment. Combined. Without even looking her way, she thrust the bag at Margot, who took it out of her hands and, without looking, passed it on to Sloan. This was, apparently, where this buck stopped, because Sloan backed against those old library catalog files, wrapped her arms around the purse, and held on tight.