California Dreaming (11 page)

“Definitely. Add twenty percent for your tips.”

“Thank you, Miss Sharpe. We'll find our way out.”

Once the nail techs were gone, Cammie moved to a cluster of genuine 1950s TV dinner trays across the room near Sam's picture window. “How about some food?” A feast prepared by Jackson's weekend chef, the former tour caterer for Faith Hill and Tim McGraw, was set up on the tray tables. His name was Buck, and Buck had had clearly been in a Thai mood today. There was a huge platter of cold peanut noodles laced with slivers of spicy peppers and grilled chicken. Fresh pineapple salad with a savory cilantro and lime dressing. Cold shrimp spring rolls. A hot pot of yellow curry with potatoes—Sam still felt traumatized by Anna's near-crash, which in her mind justified a little carb indulgence—and braised beef. A bottle of Riesling nestled in an ice bucket, and fresh-squeezed orange juice filled a frosted-glass pitcher.

But Sam wasn't hungry. Maybe it was nerves over the wedding, or maybe it was nerves over having both her parents in the same city again. That would traumatize anyone. Jackson had taken Dina to brunch this morning at Shutters on the Beach, and Dina had been brought to the estate by limo before they drove off together in the Jensen. Sam had found them in the outdoor kitchen when she'd come down in her robe for coffee. They were chatting companionably and flipping through various sections of the
Los Angeles Times
before they departed—for her mother, the book review; her father, the calendar section. Her father had been dressed in his tennis clothes from his regular early-Sunday-morning game at the Riviera Country Club. Her mother had been on the verge of fashionable, in black sandals, long black shorts, and a long-sleeved red T-shirt. She looked almost pretty. Neither had said a word about the wedding. Instead, they'd smiled thinly as they said good morning. There was no need for them to say more. Sam knew what they were thinking:
Call it off. Now
.

“Miss Sam?”

One of the new maids stuck her head inside the redwood door. She was petite and olive-skinned, with extraordinarily large dark eyes. “April Bloomfield is here to see you. She wants to know if you want to do the menu tasting down in the kitchen?”

Sam turned to Dee. “April Bloomfield?”

Dee smiled broadly. “One of your possible caterers. She just moved here from Chicago to open a restaurant in Santa Monica.
April Dawn?
”

Sam knew about April Dawn. You couldn't get a reservation at April Dawn less than a month in advance. Well, unless you were Jackson Sharpe's daughter.

“How'd you get April Bloomfield?” Cammie demanded. She was clearly impressed.

“I talked to my dad. He told her he'd do the record launch party for his next big CD at her restaurant. Anyway, we'll see what she can do. There are always other options.”

It was Sam's turn to be impressed. Dee's father was a major music producer, responsible for dozens of platinum records and CDs over his storied career. Every year his clients won the top awards at the AMAs, VMAs, and every other acronymed music award show. In Hollywood terms, he was a player.

“Okay, Dee. You get the gold star for the day.” Cammie beat her to the punch with the compliment. Dee beamed.

“The outdoor kitchen, thanks,” Sam decided. Her father's soon-to-be ex-wife, Poppy Sinclair, had recently had an outdoor kitchen built adjacent to the indoor one, accessible via a sliding glass door. Sam liked the kitchen a lot better than she'd liked her dumb, cheating, not-much-older-than-Sam, soon-to-be-former stepmother. It was good to have her out of the house, but it would be better to read about the official divorce in
Variety
. Poppy and Jackson had decided to share custody of their baby, Ruby Hummingbird, and Poppy would get hefty child support.

“Wait. Let's just finish with this list before we go down,” Dee suggested.

“Fair enough.” Sam smiled at the maid. “Please ask her to wait.”

“Fine, Miss Sam.”

The housekeeper departed; Sam made a mental note to ask for her name next time, as Dee flipped a page in her notebook.

“Let me help,” Cammie declared. She punctuated her announcement with a sip of the Riesling. “Here's what you need to cover. Hair.”

Dee looked down her list. “Raymond. No other option. He's taking the day off from his new salon to do you. His treat. Enjoy.”

“Venue?” Cammie asked. “It's short notice. You can always use Bye, Bye Love. First wedding ever there. Would get a ton of press. I'd close the club for you if you wanted. It's not my call alone, but I'm sure Ben would agree.”

“Tempting. Very tempting,” Sam agreed. If she had her wedding there, it'd be on
Entertainment Tonight
. And in
People
.

“I thought of that. But decided against it. Too much chance that someone could sneak in.” Dee shook her blond head, adamant.

“Are you crazy? We have great security.” Cammie put a hand on her slender hip, obviously taking Dee's decision personally.

“One asshole and the whole night is ruined,” Dee pronounced. “Besides, I've got the perfect location.”

“What?” Cammie challenged, as she put down her wine and turned sharply toward Dee.

“A wedding at sea. That is, on the
Look Sharpe II
. Your dad just bought a new yacht, Sam. It's perfect. There's a helipad in the back to bring people to and from; we can charter some cigarette boats to shuttle people back and forth from the harbor at Malibu; and if the chop is bad—it won't be since it's August, but just in case—the captain can anchor by the Channel Islands.”

Sam hadn't seen the new vessel, but it was supposed to be truly over the top. Jackson had bought it from Laurel Limoges, the cosmetics titan, who lived in Palm Beach, Florida. It had arrived with a full crew and had to be sailed from south Florida through the Panama Canal. Sam had overheard her father talking about it, but she hadn't had a chance to ride up to the yacht club in Malibu where it was anchored to get a firsthand look. Jackson claimed it was twice as large as the previous version of the
Look Sharpe
, and that vessel had handled seventy-five people with ease. This one could comfortably do a hundred and fifty. Dee had talked about a hundred guests, and a waitstaff of fifty. That would be the perfect size.

She nodded approvingly. “I like it. But my dad is against the wedding. My mom too.”

“We'll work that out,” Dee said easily. “Or shall I say, I'll work that out. He's a movie star. He has a public to please. He won't want bad press, so he'll cave.”

“When did you find the time to do all this?” Cammie asked. She forked a chunk of pineapple salad into her mouth.

“It was a busy morning,” Dee quipped.

“I think it's amazing. And I really, really appreciate it.” Sam reached over to squeeze Dee's slender hand.

“I'm having a blast,” Dee confided, snapping her notebook shut in a businesslike manner that was very un-Dee. “Planning your wedding. I always thought I'd be first. Not that I'm ready to get married now. But you know.”

“Yeah.” Sam twirled some caramel-streaked hair around one finger absentmindedly. Wedding. Her wedding. They were talking about
her wedding
. It all felt so unreal. Or surreal. Or something.

Everything was going really well, Sam thought, as she and her friends padded downstairs in their terry cloth pedicure sandals with the individual toe separators. In a matter of days, she'd be walking down the aisle in a beautiful white dress toward her beautiful, loving fiancé. She had everything she wanted. So why did she feel so jittery?

It must be cold feet, she reasoned with herself. Even terry cloth sandals couldn't fix that.

Champagne, Anyone?

Sunday night, 11:15 p.m.

C
ammie slid gracefully up to Champagne and linked arms with her protégée as they stood near the barricades that separated the rest of Venice Boulevard from the area in front of Bye, Bye Love. The younger girl was wearing a black satin halter mini-dress with straps that crisscrossed in the front, wrapped around her neck, and tied in the back. She looked absolutely stunning. Her dress had been designed by Martin Rittenhouse, a prototype for his petite collection. Cammie reminded herself to tell Martin about the interview she'd done with
Entertainment Tonight
—and how on the spur of the moment she'd announced that the new line would be called Martinette.

“This is … amazing.” Champagne was breathless. Her emerald eyes sparkled with admiration as she took in the crowd of A-list and almost-A-list celebrities who made up the clientele of the sizzling new club, in only its third night of operation.

“Amazing, remarkable, and very Champagne-friendly,” Cammie agreed. “And whose inspired idea was it to make night three at Bye, Bye Love a street party? Mine.”

It was later that night, and Bye, Bye Love was in full swing. She and Ben had decided that they'd be closed on just one night a week—Monday—during their first month, which meant a lot more work for both of them. But it was worth it.

For this night's theme, Cammie had the idea to take Bye, Bye Love outside. They'd scrambled to get the necessary permits from the city, and had been able to get Venice Boulevard closed in front of the club. A wooden stage had been erected at the south end of the closed-off street; in front of it was an expansive portable parquet dance floor. Drinks and food stations were set up directly in front of the club for easy access by the staff, and simple Costco-special plastic tables and chairs placed along the perimeter. The kicker was that Cammie had purchased three dozen superking Aero-style beds, had them inflated and then covered in brightly colored Indian silk blankets and oversize raw-silk pillows. Large potted palms had been placed around the beds, right in the middle of Venice Boulevard. Then Ben and Cammie had had the workers paint Moroccan-style tribal rugs on the asphalt, giving the party a mysterious casbah feel.

She'd dressed for it, too, in a sleeveless red silk Dior tent top and Miu Miu houndstooth skirt that barely cleared her lacy La Perla thong.

For a city as dominated by car culture as Los Angeles, the idea of a nighttime party in the middle of Venice Boulevard, a major thoroughfare, was intriguing. The execution of it, on a gloriously cool starry night, with a slight sea breeze coming in off the Pacific a few miles away, was even better.

Oh, there were block parties and street fairs all the time around the city. Cammie knew that. But those were open to the unwashed masses, who inevitably came en masse. Tonight was exclusive. No riffraff. Just fifteen thousand square feet of Venice Boulevard populated by the rich, the famous, the powerful, the beautiful, and the young—almost all of them a combination of at least three of the above. They'd messengered out five hundred invitations, scented with amber and jasmine, as befitted the Middle Eastern party theme, printed on fine gold parchment paper, rolled up and sealed in wax.

“Cammie! Cammie! Over here.”

Cammie turned to see the rusty gold hair and grayish-blue eyes of Dash, the reporter from
Entertainment Tonight
, once again trailed by his cameraman. He was front and center of a gaggle of print and TV reporters. He was looking even hotter tonight than he had yesterday, wearing a gray Ralph Lauren Black Label cashmere T-shirt and worn Levi's, which were so out they were in. She waggled her fingers in his direction.

“Let him in,” Cammie told one of the members of the club security force, an imposing young Russian named Igor, very blond with ice-blue eyes and the square jaw of an action hero. “And his cameraman.”

“Will do,” Igor told her. He had the cutest accent.

“Cammie?” Champagne reached for Cammie's arm and looked anxious. “Isn't that going to piss off the other reporters?”

“That's the whole point. We make Dash really happy, he gives us what we want. That's how you play these suckers.” She smiled impishly. “Besides, he's hot.”

Cammie told Igor that they were going to the outdoor VIP area on the west side of the building, and to bring Dash and the camera guy over there. She led Champagne by the hand. “Just follow my lead and don't talk much.”

“But—”

“Starting now would be good, ’kay?”

Five minutes later, she and Champagne were ensconced in the club's VIP area, which took the casbah theme a step further. Cammie and Ben had erected an outdoor tented pavilion with authentic tribal rugs placed over a floor that had been covered in sparkling white sand, and low antique tables imported from Tangier surrounded by silk pillows. There was a central circular bar with light blond wooden bar stools, and the bartenders were shirtless with full pants that gathered in around the ankle, complete with a sash and boots. The waitresses wore long, heavily embroidered jewel-tone dresses in the lightest of silk, slit up to the waist on either side. Of course, the notion of a VIP area was a bit of an oxymoron, because the only people allowed in Bye, Bye Love would be on VIP lists at any other place in town. But even here, there had to be some sense of hierarchy. L.A. clubs were nothing without it.

Cammie ordered a virgin Mary for Champagne and a pink Flirtini for herself. She was licking muddled raspberries from the finger she'd dipped into her drink when Dash and his portly cameraman arrived. The camera guy wore shorts—TV and movie tech guys always wore shorts, no matter what the weather—and an old Oakland Raiders T-shirt, which pooched out above the waistline.

Dash spoke sonorously into his mike. “We're here at night three of Bye, Bye Love, and the allure of this new Los Angeles hot spot just keeps growing. I'm seeing Jessica Alba, Jessica Simpson, and Jessica Biel to my right. It's Jessica heaven.” He cocked his head at Cammie, then looked back into the camera. “And I'm here with the teen wunderkind who made this all possible—Cammie Sheppard, the club's co-owner. How's it going, Cammie, and who's your gorgeous friend?”

Camera Guy aimed the camera at Cammie and Champagne. Cammie was amazed at how quickly Champagne took the opportunity to pose and preen. Her shoulders went back, her chin up, radiant smile right into the camera. She was a natural.

Cammie had come to see Champagne as a protégée. Starting up the club had been incredibly fun. Starting up this girl's career as a petite model could be just as fun, and maybe even a bigger challenge. For the club, she had her father's showbiz connections. Those connections wouldn't be of much use in turning Champagne into a hot model. This she did on her own. That Champagne was dirt poor—well, that was a big-ass bonus. Cammie loved a good rags-to-riches story, especially when she was the one playing hot fairy godmother.