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Grace Lynbrook managed to pull it off. Not only that, her linen overalls—defying the laws of nature—hardly showed a single wrinkle. They wouldn’t dare. Not on someone as beautiful as Grace.
    I reached out to shake her hand, praying that my price tag wouldn’t come zinging out from the rubber band.
    “Sit down,” she said, gesturing to an overstuffed chintz chair.
    Her office, unlike the teak-and-chrome sales floor, was done up country cozy. Her desk was a scrubbed pine table, her chair a white wicker rocker. A back door was open, letting in a cool breeze. It felt like tea time in a Merchant-Ivory movie.
    The only jarring note in the room was a battered mannequin propped up against the wall, dressed in faded bell-bottoms and a tie-dyed T-shirt.
    “That’s Bessie,” Grace said, following my gaze. “She’s from my very first window display. That’s the outfit she was wearing when I opened my shop. I can’t seem to let her go, even though she’s falling apart. Literally. I’ve got her arms Scotch-taped to her body.
    “Poor Bessie,” she said with a laugh. “It’s not fun getting old, is it?”
    I didn’t know about Bessie, but Grace was managing the transition quite nicely.
    “Can I get you something to drink?” she offered.
    I was dying for some coffee, but didn’t want to risk reaching for it and dislodging that damn price tag.
    “No, thanks. I’m fine.”
    She gave me a quick once-over, her electric blue eyes scanning my suit.
    “Prada?” she asked.
    I nodded.
    “Very nice,” she said.
    Thank heavens for Lance.
    “So,” she said, smiling a smile that could have lit up the Hollywood Bowl. “Tell me about yourself.”
    I chatted for a bit about my career as a freelancer, carefully omitting the word Toiletmasters from my spiel.
    “Any fashion experience?” she asked.
    “Oh, yes,” I said, trying to pump some confidence in my voice. “I’ve done fashion copy.”
    “Really? Who did you work for?”
    “Marida.”
    “Marida? I’ve never heard of them.”
    “It’s an Italian company.”
    “Oh? What do they make?”
    “Footwear.”
    Shame on you if you think I was fibbing. It’s true. I did work for a company called Marida. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly Ferragamo. Marida was short for Marty and Ida Facciobene, the owners. And the “footwear” they made was extra-wide orthopedic shoes. But technically I wasn’t lying, so I don’t want to hear any flack about it.
    “Sounds interesting,” Grace said.
    And then she uttered the three words I’d dreaded hearing:
    “Got any clips?”
    Oh, no. She wanted to see writing samples.
    Sighing deeply, I took out a small black portfolio from my attaché case. This was my sample book. In it were several Toiletmasters ads, a Tip Top Dry Cleaners brochure, and a catalogue for Marida footwear, featuring their famous Bunion-Ease Comfort Sandals.
    I handed it to Grace, waiting for the ax to fall. But to my surprise, she laughed.
    “How marvelously campy,” she said, leafing through my portfolio. “Did you really come up with the slogan In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters? I see it in the Yellow Pages all the time.”
    “And Only You Can Prevent Clogged Garbage Disposals, ” I added. “That was mine, too. It won the Golden Plunger award from the Los Angeles Plumbers Association.”
    She finished thumbing through my book and slapped it closed.
    “You’re not exactly what I had in mind,” she said, “but what the heck. Your copy is pretty damn good. Can you come back next week with some ideas for a magazine campaign? I’ll pay you five hundred dollars; five thousand if we use your campaign.”
    Five thousand dollars? I hadn’t seen that many zeros on a check for a long time.
    “It sounds great,” I gulped.
    “Becky can fill you in on the kind of ads we’ve run in the past. But don’t feel limited by what we’ve already done. Use your imagination.”
    My imagination was already in overdrive, just trying to picture me, Jaine Austen, a