Prologue
1973

Trudy Cavanaugh strode from the mahogany paneled boardroom, leaving in her wake seven men looking at each other in astonishment.  She bolted into the women’s room at the end of the hall, pushed open a stall door and leaned over the toilet, allowing the bile to flow freely from her agitated stomach.  Damn! She thought.  When will I ever get used to confronting people without vomiting?  Straightening, she flushed the toilet and emerged from the stall, going directly to the vanity area where she ran water and pumped the soap dispenser vigorously.  Glancing at herself in the mirror, she grimaced at her appearance.  She hoped she didn’t look as sick as she felt.  Cupping her hands under the flow of cold water, she sipped water and rinsed her mouth of the foul taste.  That would have to do until she could get her handbag where she carried a small bottle of mints.  Opening the ladies’ room door, she nodded at her secretary, who handed Trudy her handbag and her full-length mink coat, then motioned to the man who was leaning over the desk.

Her attorney pursued her through the offices of Cavanaugh Enterprises toward the elevators. Leo Powell knew he didn’t have to hurry; even the powerful and wealthy Cavanaugh woman had to wait for the elevator to crawl slowly from the ground floor to the twenty-fifth.

So she’s done it again, he grinned to himself as he walked behind the rapidly retreating figure. Outwitted those old farts on the board and headed this business in the right direction. If Trudy had been merely a figurehead chairman, she would have allowed the members to watch the company die, along with many other publications in this year of change.

Instead, Trudy had held her ground and bullied the old men- Those paunchy, balding, impotent old men in their pinstriped suits--into turning the focus of the business around- towards the woman’s market.

Not the traditional ladies market, though. With the emergence of women into positions of authority and power in the business world, Trudy had recognized their need for publications aimed at their work-world. No recipes for her. No fashion commentaries or movie-star profiles, but articles related to work experience, how to juggle appointments with babysitters...that’s what Trudy Cavanaugh wanted.

And that’s what she’ll get, Leo knew. He slowed his pace and stood silently beside his employer by the elevator.

“Leo,” she said without turning to him, “What were those old geezers doing when I left?”

“Babbling amongst themselves.  Having strokes and heart attacks.”

She chuckled.  “Good.  I want a meeting with the editors of all our publications tomorrow morning. I want to tell them all personally, before the Board has a chance to do any more damage.”

The elevator arrived and they stepped inside, its brass doors closing silently and firmly.  They rode in silence to the garage floor where Trudy’s limousine waited.

Leo assisted her into the back seat, telling the driver; “We’ll go to Mrs. Cavanaugh’s home, now.”

Trudy settled herself against the car’s soft leather, pulling off her kid gloves and shrugging off her mink coat.

Leo pulled his cigarette lighter from his coat pocket and held it as she put a cigarette to her lips.

“Thank you.”  She inhaled deeply and stretched her long legs straight out, flexing her tense leg muscles.

Leo wisely withheld his questions, as Trudy was seemingly absorbed in looking out the window at the changing autumn scenery.

Glancing out the window every so often, he studied her.

I know her like a book, he thought.  In fact, Leo had been offered a great deal of money to write a book about the Cavanaughs, all of them, with Trudy as the focal point, but he had declined. Leo was above all else, loyal to the family. But what a book he could write. The Cavanaughs were newsmakers and this lovely member of the family was the most sensational of them all.

He found himself appraising her: Tall, rather an angular woman, with strong features and a certain boyish stride. Her hair was blond with sun-streaks, unaided hairdressers, as far as Leo could determine, and he knew well how her emerald—green eyes could turn from warm to stone cold. A line or wrinkle there, he admitted, but the woman was approaching fifty, and the strain of simply being a Cavanaugh was enough to age her—

He shook his head.

Trudy had said something.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I said I want to give a party.” She ground out her cigarette and turned her luminous eyes on him. They were not warm.

“I’ll get your social secretary--” he put his hand on the telephone.

“No.” She put her hand over his, stopping him.  “No, Leo.  I want do this one myself. But I need your help. Give me your legal pad and a pen, would you?”

He pulled them from his briefcase and she began writing in her illegible scrawl.

“I want you to find these people-- “

“Is this what I think it is?” His eyebrows knitted in a frown. “Your friends from Korea?”

She continued scribbling. “We promised twenty years ago that we’d all meet again, and it’s time. Or it will be, soon.”

She tore off the page, handing it to him. “Do what you can, will you?”

It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

Leo looked at the list in dismay. About twenty names, ranks, a few last-known addresses. He looked up at her, but Trudy was looking out the window again.

“I’ll find them. When do you want them?”

“I’ve wanted them for a long time, Leo.” Her chin trembled and tears welled in her emerald eyes.  

Leo had never, in all the years he had been around the family, seen Trudy Cavanaugh cry.  Never. Not when she and Philip returned from Korea, his body mutilated, then his soul, nor when Philip died.  Not even when the Old Man died - but now--- now, the woman was about to cry.

The driver slowed as he turned to question his employer with his eyes.  They were nearing the turnoff to the cemetery. 

Trudy nodded, slowly, as she bit her lip to control the tears that had spilled over onto her cheeks.  Yes, she would stop at the cemetery, as was her usual custom after haggling with the Cavanaugh Enterprises board members over one issue or another.  She needed to get in touch with her roots, where she came from, more than where she was headed.  And her roots lay with her late father-in-law, who had chosen Trudy over his own son, to assume the Chairmanship shortly before he died. 

Leo helped her into her coat before she stepped out of the car in front of the Cavanaugh Mausoleum. 

She approached the stone edifice with legs that felt like rubber.  Entering, she paused at the casket that contained the body of her father-in-law.  “Colin,” she murmured, “You would have been proud of me today.  I turned the company upside down. And yes, I threw up later.” She allowed herself a somewhat crooked grin, as she stroked the top of the casket.  She could almost imagine Colin guffawing loudly, his eyes sparking with a mischievous glint.   She was silent for a few moments, then turned to her husband’s casket a few feet away. 

“Philip,” she whispered softly as she knelt to touch his casket.  “I’m keeping the pact we all made when we were in Korea.  We will all meet again, as we promised.  Maggie and Jake, BT and Doc, Nell and Evan… and…and…” she could not finish before she was swept away by great sobs.  A moment passed and she composed herself.  “I miss you.”

Wiping her eyes, she straightened and walked briskly to her waiting car.  

“Let’s go home, Leo,” she said. 

***

Now clear-eyed, Trudy allowed Leo to assist her from the limousine, saying, “Come into the study.  We’ll have a drink before we go over those new Ellis contracts.”

Leo followed her from the car into the great hallway and into the massive oak paneled study.  At the sideboard, she poured a drink and sat in a dark green wingback chair.

I feel like a fool, crying in front of Leo, like that.  It must be hormones, she thought.

They’re running full steam, getting in their last gasps-- but Alex doesn’t think I’m too old. The feeling of warmth spread to her breasts as she remembered last evening with Alex. No, there was nothing wrong with my hormones, she assured herself.

She turned her thoughts to her upcoming reunion.  She wondered how her “old” friends had fared in these twenty-five years since they had all had all been Army wives in a military compound so far from home.

Maggie would only be more plump, more brassy, if possible. And Nell.  Nell would be even more of a comfort, an island of sanity in a crazy world. 

And Leah?

She swallowed her drink

Leah should here, she thought.

But Leah was dead.

Leah died in Korea, a voice taunted. 

She stood and mixed another drink, something she rarely did.

The voice nagged at her.  Leah didn’t just die.  She killed herself... 

Her legs became unsteady beneath her and she sank into the chair.  Colin’s chair.  Her breath came in ragged gasps.

She was crying, dammit.

“I really don’t know why I’m crying, Leo,” she sobbed. “ Except, after all these years, I miss those people.  They were special.”

She motioned for his handkerchief. She blew her nose and started to hand the handkerchief back, then laughed self-consciously. “Thanks.  I’ll get this back to you later. I’m sorry you had to see me cry.” She laughed self-consciously.  “ And if word ever gets out that Trudy Cavanaugh cried, I’ll know who to blame…”  

“I’ll find them for you, Trudy. I’ll bring them all back” Leo patted her shoulder awkwardly.

No, you can’t bring them all back, Trudy thought. Not Colin, or Philip-- or Leah. 

Or the past. Never the past.

***

Three months, she thought as she paused in front of yet another modeling agency. She compared the name in the newspaper with the one emblazoned on the building nameplate: Clayton Johnson Modeling Agency.

At least I’m down to the “J’s”, she thought. She felt another faint, dizzy sensation and she braced herself against the brick. She shut her eyes against the sultry haze, which hung like a pall over New York. She waited for the dizziness to pass.

She hadn’t eaten since yesterday. After this interview, she promised herself, she would have a sandwich.

A sandwich was all she could afford. The modest sum she had left Oklahoma with had dwindled rapidly and now she was almost broke.

She couldn’t go home and admit defeat. She clenched her jaws. Go home?

She’d rather die, first.

She opened her eyes to the crowd of people in front of her.  She had never felt so lonely, looking at them jostling each other. Nobody cared about her, here. They didn’t mind pushing past her in subways, doorways and taking the last vacant seat in a cafe just as she was about to sink into it. Tears splashed down her cheeks, streaking her makeup.

Damn! She thought. She peered into her hand mirror and repaired the damage. Better make this a good interview. It’ll be the last one today. And possibly the last one, period. She pushed open the door of the Johnson Agency.

Although Mary Alice Thomason had been considered a beauty in her hometown, she had realized early on that she would find the competition heavy with the likes of these sleek sophisticates who sat confidently in the outer office.

Where she was dark, with a healthy glow about her, these blond, elegantly dressed and carefully coiffed interviewees all had the same look about them that said, “Model.” They sat chatting easily among themselves: sisters of the same sorority.

As she entered, she felt six pair of eyes staring at her, then dismissing her. She thought of turning and running from this place; instead, she approached the receptionist and in a voice that she hoped was steady announced, “My name is Mary Alice Thomason and I’m here to see Mr. Johnson. I have an appointment.”

This last statement was a lie. Of course, she had no appointment, but she had learned one of the finer points of job—hunting-—”always say you have an appointment. It’s part of the game.”

The secretary looked up, accepted her portfolio, and appraised her. Mary Alice thought that this Miss Prince, as her nameplate read, could have been one of the applicants, rather than an employee. She, too, was slender, blond and dressed even more fashionably than the others. She spoke with a voice calm in the assurance that she belonged here.

“Please be seated, Miss——Thomason.” she wrote the name on an appointment pad. “Fill out this form and return it to me.” She handed her a pale blue sheet of paper. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

Miss Prince, too, was playing the game, intoning the changeless litany of receptionists everywhere. Anyone without an appointment, make ‘em wait, a long time. They might get discouraged and leave.

She took a seat and began filling in the endless blanks. She had been here before, with these same people, writing the same information on the same form. She automatically wrote her name, address, age, height, weight, until she thought she would scream. This is definitely the last form I’ll fill out, she thought. I wonder what on earth they do with them?

“Miss Thomason? Mary Alice Thomason?” She looked up, startled at hearing her name. Miss Prince was standing beside the desk, beckoning to her.

She rose as gracefully as she knew how, dropping the blue form.  She bent to retrieve it, feeling clumsy, and followed the receptionist. Behind her she could hear the barrage of comments:

“Who does she think she is? We were here first.”

“A relative, no doubt. She’s certainly no model.”  Followed by laughter.

Miss Prince stopped before a closed door and gestured for Mary Alice to go inside.

She froze.

“Please go right in,” Miss Prince smiled. “Mr. Johnson is expecting you.”

This probably doesn’t mean a thing, she told herself. Still, it was more than she had managed before: getting to see the boss, himself. In only one other agency had she gotten past the receptionist, and that was only because the boss’s assistant was inclined to lechery-

Just go in and get it over with, she repeated to herself. Don’t expect anything.

Her stomach heaved and she swayed against the wall. Not now, she thought. Get a decent meal after this is over. Then admit defeat and go home....

She opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lighted, with dark paneling contributing to the gloom. On the walls were large portraits of women she recognized. All Johnson models.

As her eyes gradually adjusted to the interior of the room, she noticed two large leather chairs, a worn couch and a huge desk with a mountain of papers stacked on top. Behind the desk sat a man who now rose to greet her, looming taller and taller.

The light straining from the small lamp first reflected on enormous bands braced against the desktop. Gnarled knuckles protruded amid dark liver spots.

Her eyes unwillingly traveled from his hands to his chest; Clayton Johnson wore a three—piece suit with the vest open over his barrel chest. Her eyes were drawn irresistibly to his face. Perpetual frown lines were deep, frozen in place, as if the owner never smiled. A large hooked nose jutted between steel—gray eyes, which seemed to pierce right through her.

“Miss Thomason?” The face boomed.

Her head swam. She took a step backwards. A world of black swirled towards her.

“Are you all right?” she heard from a distance.

She nodded.

Then Mary Alice Thomason, formerly of Oklahoma, five feet nine inches tall, with black hair, dark brown eyes, one hundred ten pounds and dressed in last year’s fashion, did the only thing she could possibly have done at that time: she fainted.

***

Clayton Johnson was to remember that day vividly: the day he discovered his new star, out cold on his office floor.

His secretary had buzzed him from the outer office and said, “Clayton, I think I’ve found what we’re looking for.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he’d replied. Still, the tone of her voice convinced him that this girl might be different. Clayton needed somebody new.  Different. Word was out that the Johnson Agency was going down the tubes. He would soon be faced with the dismal prospect of closing the doors and going back to The Island to his nagging wife and fat kids.

That idea alone decided him: he would have a look at this latest applicant.

“Okay, okay, send her in,” he’d replied.

He looked up as the door opened and a scrawny, scared—looking girl crept in. “Then,” he would relate later to associates, “this kid just passed out cold on the floor of my office!”

So, he thought, this is my great discovery? This dead body will save my business?

Even while he doubted Damn! She thought. She peered into her hand mirror and repaired the damage. Better make this a good interview. It’ll be the last one today. And possibly the last one, period. She pushed open the door of the Johnson Agency.

Although Mary Alice Thomason had been considered a beauty in her hometown, she had realized early on that she would find the competition heavy with the likes of these sleek sophisticates who sat confidently in the outer office.

Where she was dark, with a healthy glow about her, these blond, elegantly dressed and carefully coiffed interviewees all had the same look about them that said, “Model.” They sat chatting easily among themselves: sisters of the same sorority.

As she entered, she felt six pair of eyes staring at her, then dismissing her. She thought of turning and running from this place; instead, she approached the receptionist and in a voice that she hoped was steady announced, “My name is Mary Alice Thomason and I’m here to see Mr. Johnson. I have an appointment.”

This last statement was a lie. Of course, she had no appointment, but she had learned one of the finer points of job—hunting-—”always say you have an appointment. It’s part of the game.”

The secretary looked up, accepted her portfolio, and appraised her. Mary Alice thought that this Miss Prince, as her nameplate read, could have been one of the applicants, rather than an employee. She, too, was slender, blond and dressed even more fashionably than the others. She spoke with a voice calm in the assurance that she belonged here.

“Please be seated, Miss——Thomason.” she wrote the name on an appointment pad. “Fill out this form and return it to me.” She handed her a pale blue sheet of paper. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

Miss Prince, too, was playing the game, intoning the changeless litany of receptionists everywhere. Anyone without an appointment, make ‘em wait, a long time. They might get discouraged and leave.

She took a seat and began filling in the endless blanks. She had been here before, with these same people, writing the same information on the same form. She automatically wrote her name, address, age, height, weight, until she thought she would scream. This is definitely the last form I’ll fill out, she thought. I wonder what on earth they do with them?

“Miss Thomason? Mary Alice Thomason?” She looked up, startled at hearing her name. Miss Prince was standing beside the desk, beckoning to her.

She rose as gracefully as she knew how, dropping the blue form.  She bent to retrieve it, feeling clumsy, and followed the receptionist. Behind her she could hear the barrage of comments:

“Who does she think she is? We were here first.”

“A relative, no doubt. She’s certainly no model.”  Followed by laughter.

Miss Prince stopped before a closed door and gestured for Mary Alice to go inside.

She froze.

“Please go right in,” Miss Prince smiled. “Mr. Johnson is expecting you.”

This probably doesn’t mean a thing, she told herself. Still, it was more than she had managed before: getting to see the boss, himself. In only one other agency had she gotten past the receptionist, and that was only because the boss’s assistant was inclined to lechery-

Just go in and get it over with, she repeated to herself. Don’t expect anything.

Her stomach heaved and she swayed against the wall. Not now, she thought. Get a decent meal after this is over. Then admit defeat and go home....

She opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lighted, with dark paneling contributing to the gloom. On the walls were large portraits of women she recognized. All Johnson models.

As her eyes gradually adjusted to the interior of the room, she noticed two large leather chairs, a worn couch and a huge desk with a mountain of papers stacked on top. Behind the desk sat a man who now rose to greet her, looming taller and taller.

The light straining from the small lamp first reflected on enormous bands braced against the desktop. Gnarled knuckles protruded amid dark liver spots.

Her eyes unwillingly traveled from his hands to his chest; Clayton Johnson wore a three—piece suit with the vest open over his barrel chest. Her eyes were drawn irresistibly to his face. Perpetual frown lines were deep, frozen in place, as if the owner never smiled. A large hooked nose jutted between steel—gray eyes, which seemed to pierce right through her.

“Miss Thomason?” The face boomed.

Her head swam. She took a step backwards. A world of black swirled towards her.

“Are you all right?” she heard from a distance.

She nodded.

Then Mary Alice Thomason, formerly of Oklahoma, five feet nine inches tall, with black hair, dark brown eyes, one hundred ten pounds and dressed in last year’s fashion, did the only thing she could possibly have done at that time: she fainted.

***

Clayton Johnson was to remember that day vividly: the day he discovered his new star, out cold on his office floor.

His secretary had buzzed him from the outer office and said, “Clayton, I think I’ve found what we’re looking for.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he’d replied. Still, the tone of her voice convinced him that this girl might be different. Clayton needed somebody new.  Different. Word was out that the Johnson Agency was going down the tubes. He would soon be faced with the dismal prospect of closing the doors and going back to The Island to his nagging wife and fat kids.

That idea alone decided him: he would have a look at this latest applicant.

“Okay, okay, send her in,” he’d replied.

However, he fell to his knees, swiftly appraising the girl’s features as he rubbed her wrists briskly. Good bone structure, he thought; she’ll photograph well.

Not too big in the boobs. Waistline a bit thick, but diet will take care of that. Under all that makeup there could be a clear olive complexion.

Her hair looks thick, even thought’s pinned on top of her head. What these country kids won’t do to dress like the city folks: these tacky clothes were definitely run up at home by loving hands.

Still, he mused, the girl had——possibilities. Yessir, possibilities.

He buzzed his secretary: three sharp rings, the signal for her to come immediately and she came running.

Miss Prince stared at the girl on the floor

“Don’t just stand there,” Clayton yelled.  “Call Dr. Greenberg.

“And send the others away.  There’ll be no more interviews today.”

But he was speaking to a rapidly retreating Miss Prince.

Mary Alice’s eyes fluttered open.

“We’ve called a doctor. You’ll be all right. Do you feel good enough to let me help you to the couch? Now, just lie there.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” she protested faintly.

Now I’ve done it, she thought. How could I have done such a stupid thing? 

Tears spilled over her white face.

“Look here, Miss——Thomason.” He seated himself beside her on the couch. “I really don’t know why; but I’ve decided to take you on as one of my models.

“You’ve got everything against you--” he hurried on as Mary Alice’s eyes widened—— “and not much for you, including this awful name.”

He looked at the blue form that had fluttered to the floor when she had fainted. “Mary Alice? But with a little work— and a new name——you’ll do. You might be just what I’ve been looking for.”

Clayton rose to pace up and down the room, waving his half—forgotten cigar.

She sat up suddenly.  Hired. A new wave of dizziness pushed her back on the couch pillows.

“Still dizzy, huh? I recognize the look. You haven’t been eating, have you? Lots of girls do it, hoping it’ll give them a lean look. But all it does is make them surly.

“And faint.”

He smiled briefly, as though it were an effort. “But I don’t think that was your motive. You’re just about out of money, aren’t you? Trying to save cash by staying at a women’s hotel, not eating except once a day——or less? Waiting for that big break. Well, don’t worry. After the doctor checks you over, you’ll have a couple of days to rest and then we’ll put you to work.

“That is, if you’re willing——we still haven’t talked terms...”

“I’m willing.” Her voice sounded as if she were dreaming.

“Good. Our lawyer will handle everything. Now, a new name. Immediately. I refuse to call you ——Mary Alice.” He shuddered.

He began rummaging on his cluttered desktop, piling blue forms onto the floor, where they lay ignored. He picked up a leather-bound book and thumbed through it muttering under his breath: “What some people will label their children.”

His finger stopped and he jabbed at a name. “Damon! You know the story of Damon and Pythias? Well, that’s your new last name. I like it. Those bonehead photographers will like it, too. ‘Look this way, Miss Damon.’

“Yeah, I like it. Now, for your first name...”

“Mr. Johnson.” The door opened and Miss Prince admitted a short elderly man carrying the inevitable black bag. The doctor was breathing heavily as though he had run several blocks.

“Ah, Doctor Greenberg. Thank you, Miss Prince. Please close up but then get back in here. I might need you.

“Thanks for coming so soon, Doc. But, as you see, our patient here has survived without you.”

“Been abusing your girls again, Clayton?”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so crass in front of the new girl. Of course, I haven’t abused her. She merely came into my office, took one look at me, and fainted dead away. Perfectly normal reaction, I’d say.”

The doctor took Mary Alice’s pulse, heartbeat and looked into her eyes.

“It’s my opinion she hasn’t eaten in a while,” Clayton offered.

“Thank you,” Dr. Greenberg said dryly.

“Well, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’d like to run some tests, to rule out other possibilities, of course….” He stopped, noting the expression on Clayton Johnson’s face:

“No tests. Get her on her feet. Now.”

“Nothing that a bit of rest and a few hot meals wouldn’t cure,” he agreed. “Three meals a day, now, young lady, understand?  No more saving money by not eating.” He patted her hand.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Oh, Doctor. I forgot. This is Miss Damon. We’re trying to find a new first name for her. You wouldn’t have any names in that black bag of yours, would you?”

“Only my medicine, and you wouldn’t want her named after any of that.” He put away his stethoscope.

Clayton continued. “Why is it all these girls come here with such hideous names?  They’re all named Matilda or Bonnie Sue.”

The doctor shrugged. “Perhaps their parents thought their choice of names beautiful, Clayton.”

Clayton dismissed that idea with a wave of his band. “By the way, Doctor, how is Mrs. Greenberg?”

The man hesitated, sadness showing behind his rimless glasses.

“Mrs. Greenberg is somewhat better, thank you. But my wife has yet to recover from the loss of our Leah. It’s been some months ago that we lost——that Leah died,” he said firmly, as though saying the word actualized the event for him.

“She died, and my wife still mourns. I have my work, thank God, but Natalie——she still grieves for little Leah.”

Clayton cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming so soon, Doc. You’ll send the usual bill, of course.”

“Of course.” This time the eyes behind the glasses winked at his patient. “And goodbye, Miss Damon. Remember, eat.”

“Goodbye, Doctor.” Her mind was still reeling. He’d called her “Miss Damon.”

As the door closed behind the doctor, Miss Prince stepped into the room.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“She’s fine, Myrna,” Clayton interrupted. “Damon. How’s that for a last name?”

Mary Alice struggled to make sense of the conversation.  He had called her Miss Prince, ‘Myrna.”  And she was evidently used to it. .

“Very good, Clayton.”

He shook his head, teeth clamping on a fresh cigar. “You pick a first name, Myrna. I’m tired of thinking about it.”

“Miss Prince?”  Mary Alice said hesitantly.

“Oh, call me Myrna”

“But on your desk —the nameplate says Gloria Prince.”

“So it does. That’s my professional name, one that Clayton hung on me, years ago. He usually calls me ‘Miss Prince’, during business hours. But my real name is Myrna Feldman.”

“Anyway, Myrna—-Mr. Johnson.” She swallowed. “I think I have a name for myself. If you like it.”

Clayton’s bushy eyebrows rose in unison with Myrna’s penciled ones.

“I thought about it when the doctor was here; it’s Doctor Greenberg’s daughter’s name. Leah. Leah Damon.”

Myrna shot a questioning look at her boss.

He was silent, then, “Leah. Leah Damon. Yeah, I like it. It’s just right! Why didn’t you think of it, Myrna?”

He pointed his cigar at his new model and intoned, “You are Leah Damon, and you’ll be the hottest thing in modeling since – since –”

“Since Myrna Feldman,” the secretary said dryly.

“Funny, Myrna. Now how about all of us going to dinner? I intend to see to it that Leah here gets three big meals a day, starting right now. Coming?”

He fairly danced his way out the door, plans filling his head. A new ad campaign. Leah would be just right for it. A party with all his competitors there to see this girl, this marvelous new find.

It was my lucky day when this girl walked into my office, took one look at me and passed out.  He conveniently forgot that his secretary had practically begged him to see her. In his mind, he was the one who had found her. This Dark Goddess. That’s what we’ll call her.

“All the other girls are blond, girl-next—door types. –I wanted a dark, exotic gal, one who oozes mystery. And by God, I found her.  I’ll make it big-—”

He extended his arms to the two women.
 
The new Leah clung to Clayton’s arm.

I’ve done it, she repeated to herself. I’ve been accepted by an agency. I have a new name-and a new life.