Accidental Cinderella. Nancy Robards Thompson
awkward uncertainty bubbled to the surface. Carson Chandler hadn’t invited her to a party. So it wasn’t as if she needed to RSVP, but he’d offered her a good opportunity. And she was the only one they were seeing at the St. Michel audition. Surely they’d have to arrange a camera ahead of time. It was rude to not call and tell them she wouldn’t be there Monday.
The pang of missed opportunity pierced her, as she decided to call. If she’d learned one thing this month in St. Michel it was when in doubt, err on the polite side.
Lindsay pulled her cell phone out of the bag and switched it on. It had been off the entire week of the wedding when the battery had died, and she’d been too busy to worry about recharging it. She wasn’t expecting any calls.
This morning, she’d remembered it needed charging and plugged it in, an afterthought as she prepared to leave. But she’d only bothered to turn it on now. And what she saw made her flinch: thirteen missed calls had gone to voice mail. All from her boss Mary Matthews over the past two days, Lindsay discovered, as she flipped through the call log.
Undistilled dread coursed through her as if someone had uncorked a bottle of something bitter and upended it into her system. What did Mary want? What was so darned urgent it couldn’t wait until Lindsay was back in the office?
A multitude of possibilities sprang to mind, ranging from Mary wondering where she could find fresh file folders to her asking, “what’s the phone number of that little sandwich shop that delivers?”
To Mary Matthews, a paper clip could be urgent if she couldn’t put her fingers on one when she needed it.
Lindsay tapped a French manicured nail on the phone, debating whether to pick up the messages now or wait until tomorrow morning. When she was back on the clock.
After all, what could she do from this side of the Atlantic?
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
But what if it truly was an emergency?
She struck the key that connected her to the voice mailbox.
The first message contained no greeting. No I’m-sorry-to-bother-you-on-your-vacation-but to-bother-you-on-your-vacation-but niceties.
It simply consisted of two words: “Call me.”
After not hearing Mary’s voice for so long, it was both familiar and strange, grating and startling in Lindsay’s ear. It reminded her of how long she’d been away, and worse yet how she hadn’t even missed home.
Not once.
The second call was a bit more forceful: “Lindsay, did you receive my message? I need you to call me.”
Followed by: “Lindsay, this is the third time I’ve called. I don’t understand why you’re not returning my calls.”
Which was followed by: “Lindsay, I am furious. We agreed you could take a month off as long as you remained available to me. You’re not upholding your end of the bargain. Call me ASAP or—”
Lindsay clicked off the phone.
Call me ASAP or—or what?
How like Mary to call before Lindsay’s vacation was over, assuming it would be no bother, no imposition to drop what she was doing and serve her.
Mary’s voice had been adamant and crackling in that last call, like a live wire one wouldn’t dare cross. But it was that call, that self-righteous tone of voice that suddenly shocked some sense into Lindsay.
Like a bolt out of the blue…
Shining a bright, hot spotlight on her cold, pathetic life.
This was what Lindsay was going back to. No family, a handful of lukewarm friendships, Mary Matthews and an unfulfilling office manager job that she’d fooled herself into believing was important. Rather than the dime-a-dozen job it was.
And if that realization wasn’t enough, then…
She didn’t waste time thinking about the consequences of ignoring this epiphany. As the limo driver turned left onto the runway access road that led away from the public portion of the airport back to the private hangars that housed the royal jet, Lindsay dialed the number Carson Chandler had written on the card.
Chapter Three
Never before had Lindsay landed a job that fast. After placing the call on Sunday, she went in the following day for a test taping. Now, here she was on Tuesday morning, standing amidst a maze of white tents that an army of workers were busily erecting on the St. Michel Parc Fête green.
She’d called Ida May, who had graciously agreed to continue looking after the house. And with that squared away, she was the new host of Chandler Guide’s Diva Dishes. Rather than sitting behind the Trevard Social Services reception desk taking orders from Bloody Mary, she was on assignment at the St. Michel Food and Wine Festival.
Oh. My. God.
She shuddered as a giddy sense of possibility seemed as if it might lift her off the ground.
In the distance a symphony of hammers and power tools rang out a determined song. Drawing in a deep breath, she inhaled the scent of lumber, freshly mowed grass and the odor of the hard work that was happening all around her.
Tomorrow the place would be filled with epicures and delectable aromas from the various booths and cooking shows and demonstrations, but today the place more closely resembled a construction site.
Lindsay watched in wonder, trying to imagine how they would pull it off and have everything ready in time. Or, more aptly, tried to imagine how she would be ready for her first show by tomorrow.
She’d seen several of the previous Diva spots that had aired last year with the former host whom, Chandler proclaimed, came across like a cold fish. He was depending on Lindsay to breathe new life into the show, to deliver an edgier, more provocative performance that would boost recognition and sales of Chandler Guides. They were going for a younger, hipper image. And, he added, almost as an afterthought, he wanted her to be the sand in the oyster that produced a pearl. How was she supposed to accomplish that? By simply being herself, Chandler said.
Herself?
Edgy? Provocative? Gritty?
Oh, boy.
Quite frankly, the thought made her head spin. It felt as if she were on a wild ride, hanging on for dear life. She didn’t dare loosen her grip or risk being flung out into the stratosphere. Only, for once in her life, she felt as if she just might be on a ride that would actually take her somewhere.
“There you are. Okay, here’s what I’ve got.” Paula English, Diva Dishes segment producer, rushed into the press tent, talking as she scribbled notes on a clipboard. The woman elevated multitasking to a new level. “We can talk with a French vintner or a local cheese maker….”
As her words trailed off, Paula frowned and gnawed her bottom lip, continuing to write notes to herself.
“Those are two of the most boring ideas I can think of,” said cameraman Sam Gunn, who had trailed in behind Paula. Sam rounded out the three-member Diva Dishes team. It was a lean operation, and Paula pulled no punches upon their introduction when unsmiling, she sighed and said, “Oh goody. I get to train another new host.” Then she promptly informed Lindsay that each person, especially Lindsay, was expected to pull his or her weight.
“There’s no room for slacking and no time for learning curves,” she’d said. “You’ll have to hit the ground running if we’re going to make our deadline.”
Lindsay couldn’t tell if Paula’s brusqueness was simply business, or if it was passive-aggressive resentment toward the new girl.
Whatever. The vacation was over, and the pressure was on Lindsay to not only show Chandler he’d made the right choice in hiring her, but to prove to herself she hadn’t made a fatal error by quitting her job back in Trevard.
“So