Ripped at the Seams (18 page)

Which didn't mean that Franklin didn't show his affection in other ways. He
was charming, funny, and obviously smitten with her. Unlike Bruce, he seemed to be genuinely impressed with her talent, and he showed his support in the most amazing ways. One of the tokens of his affection was delivered to Beneath the Sheets one morning in mid November.

“What's that?” Lola asked when a box appeared in the doorway.

“It's for Sami,” Nico said as she signed for the delivery. “It's from Franklin.”

Lola looked at the package. “Can't he just send roses like anyone else?” She turned toward the back office. “Sami,” she called out. “Frankie's sent over another overpriced gift, I think.”

Sami walked out of the office. “You know he hates being called Frankie,” she scolded Lola.

Lola shrugged.

“I wonder what it is,” Sami mused as she began to unwrap the sleek black packaging.

“Come on,” Nico urged her. “Speed it up. The curiosity is killing me.” She reached over and began to rip at the paper.

“Wow, its from La Parisienne,” Nico
said, sounding impressed that Franklin would send something from what was quite possibly the most expensive boutique on Madison Avenue.

Sami gingerly opened the lid of the box. Inside was a pale blue multitiered dress. “Wear this tonight. Will pick you up at 8:00 for an adventure.”

“Oooo, that's so romantic,” Nico cooed.

“What makes him so sure you're free?” Lola wondered disparagingly. “Does he think you're just waiting around for his call?”

Sami picked up the dress and held it in front of her. It was the color of her eyes. “Don't you love this dress?” She sighed.

Lola shook her head. “I think you've designed nicer stuff,” she told Sami. “And don't you have a deadline on that bridal trousseau?”

“Ooo, I almost forgot,” Sami admitted, racing for the office.

“I'll hang up the dress so it won't crease.” Nico reached beneath the counter for a plastic hanger.

“Thanks,” Sami called back.

As Sami left the room, Nico looked
curiously at Lola. “You don't like Franklin very much, do you?”

Lola shook her head. “I've seen his type before. He treats women like ice-cream cones. Sami's the flavor of the month right now. Before long, he'll switch tastes and put some other scoop on his cone.”

“I don't know. He seems to really like her. I think maybe Sami's met her soul mate,” Nico said.

“I agree,” Lola replied.

Nico looked surprised. “But you said—”

“She's met him, all right,” Lola finished her thought. “She just doesn't know it yet.”

There wasn't time for Sami to go home and dress after work, so she got ready for her big adventure in the dressing room at Beneath the Sheets. The shop closed at 7:30, which left Sami little time to get out of her work clothes and into the elegant evening dress Franklin had sent over.

As she went into the poorly lit bathroom to put on her makeup, she could hear Lola moving tables around in the front room. Then she heard voices as people entered the store. By the time Sami walked
out into the front room, a full-fledged poker game was under way.

“Hey, Sami,” Jenny, the mousy regular customer with a fetish for leather, called from behind a pile of chips.

“Don't you look adorable,” commented Madame Lexis, a six-foot drag queen in gold lamé. “But you might want to do up your eyes a little more. I have some false eyelashes in my purse if you …”

Sami shook her head. “No, that's okay. I don't know where I'm going, so I don't want to go too heavy on the makeup.”

“Ooo, a surprise!” KC, one of Lola's friends from her more Bohemian days, cooed. “I just love surprises. Lola, do you remember that time you and I popped out of that cake at Bobby Dylan's birthday party? I tell ya, that boy almost swallowed his harmonica. Do you know who Bob Dylan is, Sami?”

Sami nodded. “He's pretty famous where I come from. He was from Minnesota too. Hibbing, I think.”

“Yeah, even if he wouldn't have admitted it in those days. He wanted everyone to think he was a drifter, like Woody Guthrie or something,” KC recalled.

“Enough with the music history lesson,” Lola barked, taking time to slip a cigar between her lips. “Whaddaya bid?”

Sami looked at her, surprised. “Lola, I didn't think you smoked anymore.”

Lola shook her head. “I don't. I quit centuries ago. This is all for effect. It's not even lit.”

Just then, the bells above the door rang out. Sami's heart skipped a beat as the door opened. Her adventure was about to begin.

“Oh, wow!” Franklin said as he walked in the shop. “You look stunning.”

Madame Lexis stood up and curtsied. “Thank you. You look nice too.”

Franklin wasn't at all flustered by Madame Lexis. After being a photographer in the fashion business for several years, nothing could totally surprise him. “Thank you,” he replied. Then he turned his attention to Sami. “I knew that dress would be perfect. Give us a spin, love.”

Sami dutifully spun around, and the multitiered skirt flew up around her like a ballerina's tutu.

“Careful you don't get dizzy,” Jenny warned. “You wouldn't want to get sick.”

“Why not?” Lola murmured under her breath. “I am.”

If Franklin heard Lola, he didn't mention it. Instead, he gestured toward the door. “Your chariot awaits.”

“Where are we going?” Sami asked, as excited as a kid at Christmas.

“It's a surprise,” Franklin teased.

“Oh, please tell me,” Sami pleaded, hugging him tightly and kissing him squarely on the lips.

Franklin laughed. “All right, I surrender. I can't resist you when you get like that. We're going to the Year in Fashion Awards.”

Sami stared at him. “No way.”

“Way.”

“Brilliant conversationalists, aren't they?” Lola remarked sarcastically. She tossed three red chips onto the pile in the center of the table.

Sami frowned at her, but took the teasing good-naturedly. “It was impossible to get tickets for that show.”

“Nothing's impossible, Sami,” Franklin said. “Stick with me, kid. You'll see things you've never dreamed of.”

Sami had never actually walked down a red carpet before—at least not in real life. In her dreams, she'd done it a million times. But this was no dream. Like all the invited guests, Sami and Franklin were taking their turn strolling along the red path to the theater. As they made their way past the crowds of adoring fans and assembled photographers, Sami recognized a few people on the carpet nearby. There was Stella McCartney, accompanied by her famous father, Paul. Sami wished her dad could see her standing not more than twenty feet from a former Beatle. She winced a little, realizing that she couldn't even call him to tell him—they hadn't spoken a word since that morning four months ago, when Sami had gotten on the bus and gone to New York without his blessing. Not that Sami hadn't thought about calling her dad. It's just that every time she picked up the phone, her heart raced so fast that she'd hung up in a panic before she could dial the number.

She quickly struggled to shake all thoughts of Elk Lake from her mind.
Minnesota was thousands of miles away from this place. This was a New York experience. The kind of thing that could only happen in the Big Apple.

“Cindy, darling, how are the kids?” Franklin asked, pulling Sami over toward Cindy Crawford.

“Franklin,” Cindy replied. “Nice to see you. We're all well.”

The cameras flashed in Cindy Crawford's direction, and she turned slightly to give the photographers a better look at her dress.

Rebecca Romijn-Stamos passed by next, waving to the crowd and then posing for the cameras. Franklin, pulling Sami along behind him, stopped for a moment to greet Ralph Lauren, who was speaking to a television reporter. Coming up next, Sami recognized Mollie Mack, who was scheduled to receive a lifetime achievement award.

As Sami passed by Mollie Mack, she heard someone call out her name. “Sami, Sami Granger,” a man's voice, lightly tinged with a Southern accent, called out. Sami turned around and came face-to-face with Ted Fromme.

She wanted to turn away, but there was nowhere to go. She couldn't avoid Ted here. There were lights flashing everywhere and people all around. She looked for Franklin to give her support, but he was busy chatting up a group of models who were standing beside Iman and her husband, David Bowie.

“Congratulations on your success,” Ted said slowly.

“Thank you.”

“Everyone's talking about you,” Ted continued. “You're a rising star.”

“Just like Bruce Jamison,” Sami replied with a touch of venom in her voice.

“Yes, well, that didn't quite work out as I'd hoped,” Ted replied, sounding embarrassed. “He hasn't been able to come up with anything as potent as his first line.”

“Maybe that's because his first line wasn't
his
at all,” Sami snapped.

Before Ted could answer, Franklin took Sami by the arm. “We've got to get inside,” he whispered to her.

As they walked off together, Franklin looked curiously at her. “What were you talking to Ted Fromme for? He's yesterday's news.”

Sami smiled. “You're right,” she said. “Heck, I've already forgotten him.”

Sami didn't wake until late the next morning. She and Franklin had been to the show's after-party, and since Beneath the Sheets was closed on Sundays, she'd opted to take advantage of the extra time for some well-needed shut-eye.

When she finally ventured out into the living room, she found Rain and Vin happily ensconced on the couch, giggling over something in the newspaper.

“Reading the comics?” she asked them.

“Sort of,” Rain replied between giggles. “I mean, it's got pictures and it's humorous, but …”

“Let's just say it's not
Classic Peanuts,
” Vin finished her thought.

“So what's so funny?” Sami asked.

Rain went to hand the paper to Sami, but Vin reached out his arm to stop her. “I don't think it's something she'd laugh at,” he suggested to Rain.

“I don't know about that. Sami's got a good sense of humor. She's dating a clown, remember?” Rain giggled.

Sami reached over the couch and grabbed the paper out of Rain's hands. She looked down at the page. “You were laughing at Page Six?” she said, referring to the notorious gossip column in the paper. Then she took a closer look. The page was filled with behind-the-scenes pics of the previous night's Year in Fashion Awards. There were shots of Cindy Crawford, Mollie Mack, Dick Clark, David Bowie, and Iman. “What's so funny about these?” she asked curiously.

“Look closely,” Rain said. “What do all those photos have in common?”

Sami looked at the page, scanning the pictures for one common thread. And then she found it: Franklin was in every one of the shots. He wasn't the center of attention, of course, but his name was mentioned in each caption.

“He sure gets around,” Vin said as the look of comprehension formed on Sami's brow.

“For a photographer he certainly makes it his business to wind up on the other end of the lens whenever possible,” Rain added.

“Can he help it if he has a lot of friends
in the business?” Sami asked defensively.

“Oh, yeah. I'm sure Dick Clark is a close, personal friend of Franklin Beane's,” Rain countered, pointing to a photo of the seventy-something-year-old entertainment icon who'd produced the show. Franklin was standing just slightly to his right in the picture. Dick Clark didn't appear to notice him at all.

Sami scowled and poured herself a cup of coffee. “You didn't seem so cynical when Franklin offered to take some head shots of you for your portfolio.”

“I didn't say he wasn't a great photographer. I'm just saying he's also an opportunist,” Rain replied.

Sami sat down at the table and looked over the page again. Suddenly, her eye fell on a box at the bottom of the page. It was a blind item—a piece of gossip that didn't use names but somehow let everyone know exactly who the reporters were talking about.

What hotter-than-hot fashion photog was caught snugglin' and sizzlin' with downtown's reigning
princess of lingerie at a dark corner table during the Fashion Awards after-party? We were just wondering, does she wear her own pj's to bed?

Sami blushed as she read the item. “That's not fair!” she moaned. “Franklin just gave me a peck on the cheek at the party. They made it seem as though we were making out or something. And I slept right here, in my own bed … alone.”

Vin shrugged.

“Really,” Sami assured him.

“Oh, I believe you,” Vin said. “But the press writes what people want to believe, not necessarily what's true.”