Ripped at the Seams (20 page)

“You know, for a New York boy, you're all right,” Mac admitted as Vin pulled the van up in front of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. “If it weren't for that Brooklyn accent, you could be right out of Elk Lake.”

“Thank you, sir,” Vin said as he hopped out of the van to help Al with the bags.

Sami got out as well. “Look, tomorrow we'll spend the whole day together. I know this great Italian restaurant where the waiters sing opera.”

Mac rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I think you'll like it, sir,” Vin said. “The meatballs are huge.”

“If you say so,” Mac replied, unsure.

“Besides, tonight we're all going to that steak house, remember?” Vin said. Sami smiled at him, grateful that on the way into town he'd volunteered to show her family a great local place for dinner that night.

“How could I forget a big, juicy steak?” Mac asked.

“I wish I could come, but this benefit is very important. It's for the costume collection at the museum,” Sami apologized for about the billionth time.

“It's okay, Sam,” Celia assured her. “Just make sure you stop by the hotel before you leave. I want to see your dress—and that very large male accessory you'll have on your arm.” Her eyes grew playful, and for a moment Sami caught a glimpse of the best friend she remembered.

“I promise,” Sami said. “We'll be there at seven.”

Al put his arm around Celia. “We'd better get settled in our room, sweetheart. You need to take a nap. Remember what the doctor said.”

“What?” Sami asked anxiously. “What did he say?”

“Nothing,” Celia assured her. “I'm just supposed to rest. I'm seven months pregnant, remember? I'm getting to the end of this thing, so naturally I'm a little tired.”

Sami smiled. “I can't believe she's almost here!”

Al laughed. “Auntie Sami.”

Sami wrinkled her nose. “That sounds awfully weird.”

“If you think that's weird, try getting used to being called Mommy,” Celia replied.

“Don't give her any ideas,” Mac interrupted. “Who knows what kinds of people she meets at that store she works in.”

“On that note,” Al said, pushing his father toward the hotel lobby, “we'll see you later, Sami. And we'll meet you at that restaurant around eight o'clock, Vin.”

“Just give the cab driver the address on that slip of paper,” Vin told him. “He'll take you right to the door.”

As Sami and Vin got back in the van, Sami breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Well, that's over,” she said. “It was nice of you to volunteer to have dinner with them tonight. You didn't have to do that.”

“I like them. They're a lot like my family—only with accents.”

Sami laughed. “Excuse me?” she asked him. “Mr. Brooklynese himself thinks
my
family speaks with an accent? How youse guys doin', anyways?” she teased in an exaggerated Brooklyn accent.

“Point well taken,” Vin agreed. “Anyhow, I like them.”

“They like you, too,” Sami agreed. “I only hope they like Franklin half as much.”

Vin coughed a bit, but only grinned.

Sami managed to keep the meeting between Franklin and her family mercifully brief, by arriving at 7:15—giving them less than twenty minutes to meet, greet, and say good-bye. She felt slightly guilty about blowing off Celia that way, but she could already see that Franklin was uncomfortable with her father's questions about whether photography was Franklin's job or just his hobby.

They both breathed a heavy sigh of relief as they stepped out into the New York night and hailed a cab to take them to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the benefit.

“Well, they're all you said … and more,” Franklin said as he got into the cab beside Sami.

“I know,” Sami agreed. “Hopelessly down home.”

“Well, it has a certain charm,” Franklin said.

Sami sat up excitedly. “You really think so?”

Franklin nodded. “They're very Martha Stewart.”

“My dad has actually tried some of her recipes,” Sami answered, unaware of the wry tone in his voice. “They were pretty good, too.”

“Well, she still has lots of fans. There's a whole country of them out there,” Franklin said.

“It's hard to remember that when you live here,” Sami mused.

“I know,” Franklin agreed. “That's why I've always felt Manhattan should secede from the Union.”

They giggled in a conspiratorial way, as only two New Yorkers could. But there was something tentative in Sami's tone. Franklin had made jokes like that before
and Sami had always found them funny. Somehow, tonight, she felt slightly disloyal as she laughed.

As the taxi pulled up in front of the museum entrance, Franklin pulled a small mirror from his jacket and checked his hair. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he placed the mirror back in his pocket, paid the driver, and hopped out to hold open the door for Sami.

“Well, the paparazzi are out in full force tonight,” he said with the same bored, slightly annoyed tone Sami had heard some celebrities use at the Year in Fashion Awards show. “We may as well get it over with.”

Sami shrugged. “They won't be bothering us, anyway,” she assured him. “They're looking for the stars.”

For a moment, Franklin looked as though he'd been punched. Then he gathered his thoughts and stood just a little straighter. “Are you kidding?” he said. “You're Sami Granger. And I'm Franklin Beane. Haven't you heard? We're the next generation of fashion royalty.”

Sami smiled and began to laugh.

The really funny thing was, Franklin wasn't laughing at all. “Come on, Sami,” he urged her as they walked toward the large tent that had been set up as an entranceway for invited guests. “And stop laughing. You don't want to wind up in tomorrow's paper with your eyes all squinty and the inside of your mouth showing.”

Sami had never been inside the Metropolitan Museum of Art before. She'd always wanted to go, but things had gotten so busy that she hadn't had the chance. She wanted to stop and look at some of the statues and pieces of art in the huge entranceway, but Franklin pulled her away. “Nothing's happening out here, baby. We've got to be where the action is.”

Sami followed Franklin through the Egyptian wing of the museum, past the mummies and papyrus paintings and finally into the huge, glass-enclosed room that was home to the Temple of Dendur exhibit. Sami gasped as she entered the room. In her whole life she had never been anywhere this beautiful. The temple itself was a small ancient stone structure that had
been transported from Egypt and reconstructed in the center of the room. At the moment, carefully placed lights bathed the temple and the palm trees surrounding it in a rainbow of colors. A band played on a stage in the front of the room, and waiters walked purposefully throughout, carrying silver trays with magnificently prepared hors d'oeuvres.

“Caviar?” a waitress asked as she stopped and held out a tray of small crackers with a black topping on them.

Sami's eyes lit up. “I've always wanted to try caviar.”

“You've never had it?” Franklin asked, amazed. “Oh, then, you have to!” He picked up a small cracker with a thin layer of fish eggs spread over it and popped it into Sami's mouth. It was a romantic display, something like a groom giving his bride a piece of wedding cake.

But the caviar didn't taste at all like cake. It was salty, fishy, and basically just awful. The flavor was so overwhelming that Sami forgot herself. She spit as hard as she could, desperate to get rid of the taste. The fish eggs flew out of Sami's mouth,
and landed on the back of the dress of a woman standing in front of her.

“Oh, God,” Sami cried out, embarrassed.

Franklin quickly dragged her across the room and away from the woman with the fish egg-stained dress. “Don't worry,” he said, anxious to have Sami regain her composure before someone got suspicious. “She doesn't have eyes in the back of her head. She won't know a thing until she gets home tonight.”

“But that dress must be worth at least five thousand dollars! It's an original Versace!”

“And now that woman has a touch of original Sami Granger artwork to go with it,” Franklin teased. “Lucky her. A few years and she'll want to have it framed and insured.”

“Artwork!”

“Sure.” Franklin laughed. “Have you seen some of the things in the modern art wing? They don't look any different than that caviar stain. Now relax. Look happy. Smile.”

“But that really was awful,” she insisted to Franklin. “So salty. Now I'm terribly thirsty.”

Franklin looked over at the bar. Real estate mogul Donald Trump was standing nearby, chatting with former New York mayor Rudy Giuliani. “I'll get you something to drink,” Franklin volunteered. “Why don't you go over to the buffet and have some fruit? That'll get the fishy taste out of your mouth.”

“Good idea,” Sami agreed.

“What's your poison?” Franklin asked her.

“Oh, I'll just have an iced tea or something,” Sami replied.

While Franklin chatted up Rudy and the Donald, Sami piled melon and grapes onto a small china plate. As she made her way down the cold buffet line, a tall, leggy woman with long blond hair stepped up beside her. “Aren't you Sami Granger?” she asked her.

Sami nodded and studied the woman's face. She didn't look familiar, but it was obvious that they must have met somewhere before, since the woman had so clearly recognized Sami. So where had they met? Was this woman one of Lola's customers? Sami doubted it. She also was
pretty sure that this person wasn't the type to eat the lunch special at Hunan Garden or Pizza Piazza. “I'm sorry,” Sami said finally, giving up on trying to place this woman. “I … well, this is so embarrassing, but I don't recall—”

“Oh, we've never met,” the woman assured her. “But I'm a huge fan of your designs. I'm Lauren Madison. I know it's not right to talk business at these events, but I'm actually a buyer for Bergman Taylor and I'd like to talk to you about setting up a small boutique for your designs in our store.” She slipped Sami her business card. “I suppose you've had oodles of offers, but I think there's a certain cachet to selling exclusively with us.”

“Well, I could never do that. Sell exclusively, I mean. I've been working at Beneath the Sheets and—”

“Oh, that charming little downtown place,” Lauren said. “I've heard of it. Anyway, I'd love to chat with you about doing something with Bergman's. Do give me a call, won't you?”

Lauren turned and walked off, refusing to give Sami a chance to say no. Sami
was standing there, stunned, looking at the card in her hand, when Franklin walked up, drink in hand. “Thank you,” Sami said, taking the iced tea from him. “You wouldn't believe what just happened. A buyer from Bergman Taylor just approached me!”

“What's not to believe?” Franklin asked. “I told you, baby, we're on the rise.” He held out his glass. “To us,” he toasted.

“To us,” Sami agreed, clinking glasses. “Boy, am I thirsty.” She took a huge sip of the iced tea and then placed the glass down on a nearby table.

“Let's dance,” Franklin suggested, taking her around the waist and pulling her out onto the floor.

Franklin wasn't a practiced dancer, and his movements weren't always easy for Sami to follow. Still, she felt confident, even buoyant, as she danced in his arms. His own overwhelming self-confidence was obviously contagious. She smiled brightly into Franklin's eyes. He smiled back at her—just in time for their grins to be captured by one of the paparazzi.

“It's getting hot in here,” she said as
they walked off the dance floor when the band took their break.

“How about another iced tea?” Franklin suggested.

“Perfect,” Sami replied.

“You sit down. I'll be right back with the drinks.”

Sami sank into the plush chair that had been set up near the glass wall overlooking Central Park. As she watched the people around her chat and laugh, she suddenly felt like an outsider; an impostor who didn't really belong. A roving photographer, walking toward her with his camera in hand, apparently didn't agree.

Franklin spotted the photographer focusing his attention on Sami. Within seconds, he was by her side, handing her a tall glass of iced tea.

“How about a picture, Ms. Granger?” the photographer asked.

Sami looked up at him, surprised. “You want a picture of me?”

“Of course he does, honey,” Franklin said, leaning down and draping his arm around her. He looked up at the photographer. “I keep telling her she's a star. But she's so modest.”

The photographer snapped the picture. “Hi, Franklin,” he said. “Haven't seen you in a while.”

“Well, I'm strictly doing fashion work and covers now, Jake,” Franklin answered. “All by appointment. I'll leave the paparazzi work to you. It's too cutthroat for my taste.”

“You used to be part of the paparazzi?” Sami asked him, surprised. She'd only known him as a fashion photographer.

“Now he's apparently on the other side of the velvet rope,” Jake said.

“The view's better from here,” Franklin assured him.

Jake turned his attention to Sami. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Granger. I'm sure we'll see each other again.”

“I hope so,” Sami replied.

“I'm sorry you had to deal with that,” Franklin said soothingly after Jake walked away. “I tried to run over and shoo him away, but …”

Sami shook her head. “It was fine.” She took a sip of her tea.

“Say, I just heard someone say that Lil' Liya just arrived. She's talking to a few
friends in the main hall. Want to stop over and say hello?” Franklin suggested.

“You know her?” Sami asked incredulously. Franklin didn't seem the type to hang out with rap singers.