Chapter Twenty-One #2
“We need more light from the left side.” The cargo-pants-clad woman behind the camera points to her screen. “Can someone pop a reflector over there to fill the shadow?”
“This is a lot for the news,” I say to Max as a lighting lady zips past us.
“It’s a special segment, so they go all out. Sure you want me on there?”
I nod. The series highlights women business owners, but he’s part of this team, too. This museum wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for him.
I’m so glad Max is here.
Also, I might throw up if I have to do this alone. We’ve gotten publicity for The Mirage before, but that happened via email or phone call. Nothing on camera.
The host, Ysabelle, strides over from the other side of the barn in her sky-high heels. She looks effortlessly glam—far more suited to go get drinks and dance the night away than chat in a two-minute segment with us.
“Sixty seconds,” the camera operator calls, prompting Ysabelle to jump to her mark.
“Remember what Dawn told you,” Max says, rubbing my lower back. It causes my insides to growl. “Be natural. Keep it short and sweet. It comes off more confident.”
I steal a glance at him. He’s probably done this a billion times before.
I’ve even seen some of those interviews over the years, thanks to my internet sleuthing, and he has a way of reeling a viewer in and answering questions that’s patient and kind.
I must look like a child in an elementary school talent show in comparison.
“Ten, nine, eight…”
A horse is galloping in my chest.
“You’ve got this,” Max says with a wink, and for a split second, I’m free-falling. He’s doing this museum thing for him, I know that—but he’s been such a wonderful presence on the property and in my own place. He made me believe that maybe there’s a light at the end of this tunnel.
“Daisy?”
Ysabelle and Max have their eyes on me. I glance around the room to the cameraman, the lighting person, the makeup guy—they’re all staring.
“Um, what?”
“I would be speechless too, in a gorgeous space like this.” Ysabelle giggles, lightening the mood. God, she’s good at her job. “Tell us why you’ve decided to host a pop-up museum at The Mirage hotel.”
“Well.” What did we rehearse earlier? “My mom liked art—the community and all. Max came to me. He’s a curator and he worked at—” Shit. I’m not supposed to mention his old company. “As a curator. He worked as a curator. So it made sense.”
Max picks up my slack. “It wouldn’t have been possible in just any space, though. Daisy has always been very involved in Harlow, like her mother, and she thought this was something the community would love.”
“Yeah.”
“And what do you hope visitors will get from the museum?”
I really wish Max would step in here, but it’s a stupid women-in-business segment after all, so he’s looking at me to take the lead.
“Um, there’ll be lots of art. From all over.
” The lights are scorching, making me feel like I’m out hiking in the height of summer.
My stomach gurgles, and it was probably loud enough to hear based on the jump from one of the audio folks.
“Okaaay.” Ysabelle refers to her note cards and pauses. “So…”
“It’s an incredible space, as you can see,” Max says.
“And the outdoors.” He whistles, as if catcalling the very land we stand on.
“Breathtaking. This is a place where the beauty of the desert and the arts merge—and, of course, guests at The Mirage have it right at their fingertips. Anyone staying here will have exclusive pieces displayed in their rooms.”
I nod halfheartedly as a faintness comes over me. This morning’s coffee—twice as big of a cup as my usual—has turned in my stomach, and I’m ready to finish this interview, stat.
“And Daisy—as a successful female hotel owner, what advice do you have for other women looking to innovate with their business?”
A light laugh plays off my lips because successful isn’t the word I’d use. I’m about to respond when an unmistakable sensation crawls its way up my throat, and my stomach morphs into lead.
“’Scuse me,” I say through a burp.
I panic and race to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and finding the toilet in time to vomit all the coffee from this morning into it. I’m sweating all over, and my heart and head are pounding.
Max says some final words to the newscaster, and I hear someone call out, “That’s a wrap, I guess?” Our best publicity yet, flushed down the drain like my morning caffeine.
After splashing my face with water and rinsing out my mouth, I crawl back out, expecting everyone to look my way. But only two people from the crew remain—Official Clipboard Holder and Ysabelle, who’s enthralled in a conversation with Max.
“You doing okay, hon?” Ysabelle asks.
“Mhmm.” I don’t have it in me to make eye contact with Max yet. “Hey, Ysabelle, think we could maybe reshoot that last bit?”
“Oh.” Her face falls. “Oh no, chica, I’m sorry. We film live.”
Live. How did I miss that?
“Don’t you worry, they didn’t pan to you running, and they adjusted the audio levels so there were minimal gurgly sounds from your tummy. You did so good.” She pats my shoulder, but I know it’s a pity pat. “And he was so clever with that last question.”
“What’d you say?”
Max shrugs. “Just that you’re a big believer in community, and to not be afraid to lean on that community.”
“He knows what he’s doing.” Ysabelle air-kisses us both and says goodbye, wishing us luck and telling us she plans to stop by for the opening.
Once the barn clears, Max turns to me. “Good thing we got the contractor to finish the bathroom, huh?” His attempt to bolster my mood does nothing. I shoot him a pointed look.
“I almost puked on live TV.”
“It’s fine. Maybe you’ll get made into a couple of memes.”
I groan at this, and he laughs.
“Some pregnancy rumors, perhaps? But you know what they say. There’s no such thing as bad press.”
Max wouldn’t remind me that bad press is something he’d especially like to avoid, considering what happened with his last job and all the negative coverage they got. That has to be at the forefront of his mind.
“I let you down,” I mumble. No wonder Max got out of Harlow—he’s nailing every part of this, carrying the whole project on his shoulders, and I can’t even keep my morning coffee down.
“You didn’t.” He steps into my space, and for a moment I don’t know if he’ll lean down to kiss me or just let me exist in his orbit for a while.
He goes with the latter, and I tell myself I’m not disappointed.
I inhale him, the scent settling my stomach.
“We’ll find other opportunities. We’ll get on other websites, we’ll do other features. ”
“We still have the fundraiser,” I say, grasping at straws.
“Exactly. With a bit more public-speaking practice with Dawn, you’ll be set.”
“Okay,” I manage to say, wishing his suggestion made me feel better.
I can’t admit the truth out loud. The success or failure of the pop-up may very well affect whether The Mirage survives, but it affects more than me.
He won’t admit that I’ve let people down, but I did—not just myself and my mom and the hotel, but him.