stepped onto the street. Like chicks following a mother hen, five tight-bodied models in the skimpiest of bikinis cat-walked across Fortieth Street behind her. They strolled through the park and into the largest tent.
With the warm Village Blend bags still in hand, I fumbled through my purse for the invitation. The location of Lottie’s display was “Plaza—Bryant Park, Sixth Avenue between Fortieth & Forty-second Streets.” I was here, but where was the “Plaza”?
I corralled one of the young women wearing a Fashion Week badge. “Is there a plaza around here?”
“There are three venues in Bryant Park,” she said by rote. “The largest tent is the Theater, the tent next to it is the Bryant. That round tent in the middle is the Plaza.”
“Thank you.”
A guard insisted I show my invitation at the door. He glanced at the card, smiled when I asked for directions.
“The Lottie Harmon exhibit is in the second wing. Go through the lobby, past the photo display, then make a right. There’s a sign at the door.”
The interior of the tent was as spotlessly white as the exterior—even the plywood interior sections that parceled out the space under the canvas were painted the same virginal color as the tent’s walls and ceiling. Massive fans circulated air, sending the canvas rippling. That movement, combined with the gentle rush of cool, fresh air, made the white tent feel as light and dreamy as the interior of a cloud.
The middle of the Plaza was dominated by a large display on portable standees—a photographic retrospective of past Fashion Week styles, divided by year. Though the tent was crowded, few of the guests were viewing the exhibits. Most were heading toward one of the four wings that radiated out from the central exhibit area, a security guard at each door.
I spied the familiar Lottie Harmon logo—the stretched L and H, tiny handwritten letters spelling out the rest of the brand name. The designer label was still using its original logo, created from Lottie’s own distinctive handwriting a quarter century ago. Inside the white-walled area, I spied Lottie herself, posed within a space filled with hundreds of photographs, large and small.
She’d traded her chocolate brown evening wear for a champagne colored blouse and pants. The outfit was completed by an elegant tawny “maxi-jacket” with cream stitching that fell to her calves. Her bright scarlet hair was piled on top of her head and around her neck hung a glistening necklace of semiprecious stones polished to look like rich, darkly roasted coffee beans.
Lottie was speaking quietly with a Japanese man, whose wizened face was framed by iron-gray hair. The man looked prosperous, a fine pinstripe suit, of the kind tailor-made in London, hugging his compact form. His interest in Lottie’s words was obvious, and he respectfully bowed each time she answered a question. When I entered, Lottie waved to me, but did not excuse herself. A few moments later, the man bowed deeply, then strolled back to the lobby.
Lottie hurried forward to greet me.
“Clare, I’ve hardly had time to breathe, but I so wanted to call.”
No doubt to deliver bad news, I thought. There goes the Blend’s big runway catering gig.
“We still have so much planning to do for the big runway show Sunday. But I’m counting on the Village Blend to serve lattes to the crowd. After your troubles last night, I wanted to make sure you can still do it because, really, there’s just no better way for them to understand the inspiration for my Java Jewelry than if they’re sipping one of your fabulous coffee drinks!”
Lottie laughed just then. It was that high-pitched, forced laugh she sometimes used. I didn’t know if it was a tick to cover her nervousness or something else entirely, but it never failed to unsettle me.
I tried to summon a reassuring smile. “I’m very glad you still want us there, considering all that’s happened…”
Lottie frowned. “Oh, yes, it was terrible. At first, I thought the man was having a heart attack or something.”
“I was looking for you afterwards,” I replied. “I wanted to apologize for ruining your party, maybe hurting the reputation of your accessory line.”
Lottie waved her arm. “Don’t be silly, Clare. In the fashion business, any publicity is good publicity. Back in 1980…or was it ’81?…a well-known lead singer of a superstar band overdosed on stage during a concert. He was wearing one of my Spangle pieces—you could see it clearly in the photos of the man being rushed to the hospital. After that