Chapter 5
Ismeralda
Despite trying to keep a brave front, a lump forms in my stomach as I peek out of the reading nook at the long line of fans forming in front of the building. The line snakes out of sight, making me feel euphoric and terrible at the same time. I’m overjoyed that this many people want to meet me. But on the other hand, I’m frightened that my stalker could be waiting in that line. Even though I’ve been giving Gabriel a hard time—the man brings out the worst in me—I do, for some reason, trust him implicitly with my life.
Best Face Forward has been at the top of the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists for two straight weeks. Frankly I’m surprised that my makeup and skin care tips and techniques book is beating a tell-all novel by a troubled child TV star and a guide to excelling at business communications by a well-known CEO. Maybe I need to purchase a copy of that book for Mr. Martin .
One of Barnaby’s employees lugs a stack of my books into the nook and plunks them down on the table with a thunk! I get tingles every time I see my name written in a fancy font across the cover.
A stylish photo of me graces the front of the book. In the photo, my makeup has all the hallmarks of being done by a Hollywood makeup artist, but it was all me who created the elegant look. As the book jacket suggests, my goal is “to teach readers in how to put their best face forward in every situation, from neighborhood picnics to high-brow galas.” My tips range from creating a natural look using minimal makeup to creating a sophisticated look for the most glamorous occasion. The skin care routine, if you follow it daily, will ward off wrinkles and brown spots, helping you look years younger.
“We’ll replenish once you’ve signed this stack, ma’am,” the employee says, then retreats out of the room.
Pulling several brand-new pens from my bag, I arrange them carefully on the table. I’ll probably run through most of these before I’ve signed everyone’s book. I hope I don’t get writer’s cramp.
Just as Uncle Barnaby is preparing to open the front doors, Gabriel slips into the signing area, taking a place beside the opening to the secluded room. Relief pours through me knowing that no one’s going to be able to get to me through his linebacker-sized body.
My heart flips as I take in Gabe’s perfectly fitting charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and red tie. Wowza! The man could stop traffic. He stands quietly, his trained eyes watching everything around us. Apparently my uncle’s two employees assigned to the security team have been relegated to handling bags.
Conversations and laughter fill the store as the crowd surges forward. Gabe put up a series of ropes to cordon off where the signing line should form. A couple eager women scuffle for first place in the line, and I’m relieved when Gabe quickly intervenes, circumventing a fight.
“Ladies, there’s plenty of copies of Miss Harrington’s book. She’ll be happy to sign them for you,” he says, handing the first lady’s purse to the store’s security guard.
“Mr. Henson will watch your bag. Please follow me into the signing nook.”
Gabe smooths over any hard feelings by throwing the second woman a knee-melting smile. When she slips him a piece of paper, I scowl. It’s probably her phone number.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you ever since you posted that video about creating the perfect smokey eye,” lady number one says to me. “I’ve also been working to perfect it even further.”
Swiping a book from the pile, I barely give her a glance. “I’m so glad you enjoyed the video,” I say conversationally as I sign her copy. When I finally look up at her, my eyes go wide. Her version of “perfecting the smokey eye look” makes her look like a deranged racoon. Disguising a laugh as a cough, I wheeze, “Thank you for purchasing my book. I hope it gives you lots of useful tips and tricks.”
She snatches the book from my hand, then peeks at the inside cover. “Do you mind making the book out to my mother. Beverly Nordstrom.”
“Of course,” I say, scribbling “To Beverly Nordstrom” above my signature, then handing the book back. The woman scurries from the room clutching the book to her chest.
“Hopefully her mom doesn’t learn that smokey eye technique from her,” Gabe mutters under his breath.
A giggle slips out as I react to my bodyguard’s commentary. The man’s funny when he isn’t being a grump.
Gabriel keeps the line flowing smoothly. No one protests when they’re asked to leave their purse or satchel outside the room. I guess in today’s world, we’re all getting used to having our bags searched or not being able to bring a bag of any size into a venue.
“Five copies, please,” a man says as he strides up to the table.
“Certainly,” I say with a smile. “Do you want them personalized?”
He bumps his considerable girth against the table with a thud, and I hold my breath as the stack of books rocks back and forth but remains upright. “They’re for my mom and three sisters. Nadeen’s the one who heard you were here on that detection network thingy. Make them out to her, Susan, Natalie, and Mom.”
I quirk an eyebrow. Detection network thingy? Is that some kind of tracking app? I should probably be alarmed by his comment, but I move on and say, “Make it out only to Mom ?”
“Yep. Her name is a tongue twister like yours, Isamarda.”
Gabe’s eyes lock with mine and I count to ten to keep from laughing at the mispronunciation.
“What about the fifth book? Who’s that one for?” I rasp.
“Me,” he says proudly, puffing out his chest. “I figure my ugly mug could benefit from some of your tips and tricks.”
I nod, not sure how to respond to the ugly mug comment. “There’s an entire chapter dedicated to skin care for men and how to cleanse, repair, and moisturize,” I reply.
He smiles and toddles off with his five books. The next person in line immediately takes his place, and I plaster on another smile and repeat my question about personalizing my signature. Some people want to chitchat, and others hardly exchange two words with me.
As the morning rolls on past noon, I keep signing, and I’m amazed at the backgrounds of my fans.
Two identical eighty-year-old twins from Des Moines.
A wannabe makeup artist from Ventura California.
A mother and her six daughters who drove here from Idaho.
The list goes on and on, and everything becomes a blur as I focus on scribbling my name on book after book. My hand starts cramping at the two-hour mark, but I shake it off. Finally, four hours and twenty-two minutes later, I sign the book for the last person in line.
“Who should I make this out to?” I repeat for the hundredth time.
“Valerie,” she says in an excited voice. “I just loved The Martha Manual . You included so much information that I reference all the time.”
Clearing my throat, I say, “I believe that one was written by Martha Stewart.”
The woman squints at me as if I’ve spouted a second head. “Who are you?”
“Ismeralda Harrington,” I reply.
She grabs the book from my hand and stares at the cover. “This book is about skin care and makeup?” she asks with a frown.
“It is.”
Her eyes swivel back to me, hesitation written across her face. There’s a several second pause, then she says, “Can you sign it as Martha?”
Why does this odd request not surprise me?
Exhausted and wanting to get this over with, I relent. “Sure,” I say, taking the book back and signing it. When I hand it back to her, she doesn’t even read what I wrote.
After she strolls off to pay for her purchase, Gabe sidles up to the table and says, “Did you sign her book as Martha Stewart?”
I grin. “Sort of.”
He chuckles. “Izzie, what did you write?”
“To Valerie. I’m not Martha Stewart.”
We both laugh.