Private Scandals

and toss them in. It’ll look great,” she said desperately. “Natural.”
    “You bet. We’ve got less than an hour.” She winced at the sound of a crashing folding chair. “If anyone actually shows up for the audience, we’re going to look like idiots.”
    “They’re going to show up.” Fran attacked the gladiolas. Her hair stood out in corkscrew spikes, like an electric halo. “And we’ll be fine. Between the two of us we contacted every women’s organization in Cook County. Every one of the fifty tickets is spoken for. We could have managed twice that if we’d had a bigger studio. Don’t worry.”
    “You’re worried.”
    “That’s a producer’s job. Go change, do your hair. Pretend you’re a star.”
    “Oh, Miss Reynolds? Deanna?” The fashion consultant, a petite, perky woman with a permanent smile, waved from offstage.
    “I want to kill her,” Deanna said under her breath. “I want it bad.”
    “Stand in line,” Fran suggested. “If she’s changed her mind about the running order again, I get first shot.”
    “Oh, Deanna?”
    “Yes, Karyn.” Deanna fixed a smile on her face and turned. “What can I do for you?”
    “I just have a teeny little problem? The walking shorts in pumpkin?”
    “Yes?” Deanna gritted her teeth. Why did the woman have to make a question out of every statement?
    “They just don’t suit Monica. I don’t know what I was thinking of. Do you think we could have someone dash overto the store and pick up the same outfit in eggplant?”
    Before Deanna could open her mouth, Fran eased forward. “I’ll tell you what, Karyn. Why don’t you call the store, have someone dash over here with the outfit.”
    “Oh.” Karyn blinked. “I suppose I could, couldn’t I? Goodness, I’d better hurry. It’s almost show time.”
    “Whose idea was it to do a fashion show?”
    Fran went back to dismantling the funeral wreath. “It must have been yours. I would never have thought up something this complicated. Go put yourself together. You won’t make much of a fashion statement in sweats and with curlers in your hair.”
    “Right. If I’m going to bomb, I might as well look my best doing it.”
    Deanna’s dressing room was the size of a closet, but it boasted a sink, a john and a mirror. She grinned when she saw the big gold star Fran had taped to the door.
    Maybe it was just a symbol, she mused as she ran a fingertip over the foil, but it was her symbol. Now she was going to have to earn it.
    Even if everything fell apart, she’d have three weeks’ worth of incredible memories. The rush and thrill of putting the show together, the fascination and strain of handling all the details. And the knowledge, the absolute certainty that this was exactly what she wanted to do with her life. Added to that, astoundingly, was the fact that so many people believed she could.
    There had been tips from the floor director at CBC, advice from Benny and several others on the production end. Joe had agreed to head up the camera crew and had persuaded a few of his pals to help with the sound and lighting end. Jeff Hyatt had arranged for editing and graphics.
    Now she would either earn their faith in her—or blow it.
    She was fastening on an earring and giving herself a final pep talk when the knock sounded on the door.
    “Don’t tell me,” she called out. “The eggplant won’t do either, and we have to dash back for tomato.”
    “Sorry.” Finn pushed open the door. “I didn’t bring any food.”
    “Oh.” She dropped the back of her earring and swore. “I thought you were in Moscow.”
    “I was.” He leaned against the jamb as she retrieved the little gold clasp. “And look what happens when I go away for a couple of weeks. You’re the top story in the newsroom gossip pool.”
    “Great.” Her stomach sank as she fought the earring into place. “I must have been out of my mind to start this.”
    “I imagine you were thinking clearly.” She looked fabulous, he realized. Nervous, but revved and ready. “You saw an open door and decided you could walk through first.”
    “It feels like an open window. On the top floor.”
    “Just land on your feet. So what’s your topic?”
    “It’s a fashion show, with audience participation.”
    His grin broke out, dimples winking. “A fashion show? That kind of fluff, with your news background?”
    “This isn’t news.” She elbowed past him. “It’s entertainment. I hope. Don’t you have a war to cover or