details,” she said. “I’ll call him. There’s some miscommunication
here.” Magnolia stood by while Fredericka got him on the line.
“Bonjour, Philippe,” Fredericka said cheerfully, but her face quickly contorted. “Could you speak a little more slowly, please? Vat
happened? Canceled? You just found out? Fuck. Pardon my French.
Never mind, it’s just an expression. Of course, I know nothing about it! Mon Dieu. I totally agree. Yes, of course ve’ll pay. I am so, so sorry. Yes, I already told you ve’ll pay. I agree about protecting your reputa
tion, Philippe. Listen, Philippe, I have to go. I’ll call ven I get to the
bottom of this.”
Fredericka took to a minute to absorb the news. “Felicity canceled
him, just like that.”
They both knew it was too late to book another photographer, and
that after this incident, it would never be easy to book one. Word
would get around. Magnolia explained to Fredericka about the rene
gade photo shoot. “Check into it,” she said.
Fredericka did. There had been a photo shoot: Bebe did it without
hair and makeup, in the studio of a photographer no one had heard
of, who promised the photos in two days. Fredericka explained to the
photographer that she was the art director and asked that the photos
be sent to her directly.
“Someone named Felicity gave me instructions to send them to
her,” the photographer said, sounding more worried than arrogant. So
Fredericka and Magnolia waited. And waited. Two days turned into a
week. When the photos finally arrived, it was Bebe who presented
them, calling Magnolia and Fredericka into her office, where she and
Felicity had the shots—far fewer then usual—laid out on a light box
behind her desk.
“It’s time for Bebe to make a statement,” Bebe said. “The Decem
ber cover was just too sappy.” Granted, Bebe in an apron making cook
ies was a stretch—on that point Magnolia and Bebe concurred. “I
need to be true to myself. And this,” she said, radiating satisfaction,
“is me. Have a look.”
In every shot Bebe’s index finger cocked straight ahead at the reader as if it were a gun. Her small eyes, devoid of makeup, shone
with menace. She looked like a woman who’d fled the double-wide to
take out her whoring, no-good, check-bouncing slob of a husband,
Billy Bob.
“This is what I call taking a stand,” Bebe said.
C h a p t e r 2 2
The Intimidation Card
“Nathaniel Fine, is it?” Magnolia looked across her cluttered desk at the young man sitting soldier-straight in front of her.
“Yes.” He hesitated and cleared his throat.
Magnolia hoped he wasn’t thinking of adding “ma’am.” She was feeling old enough already, which, for someone whom The New York Times just five years ago called a wunderkind, was an unfamiliar sensation.
“So, you’ll be interning with us?” Magnolia said. Natalie had asked Magnolia if Bebe would take him. His parents were her friends, and the Dazzle art department already had four interns.
“Yes, Miss Gold.”
“Magnolia,” she corrected him. “Call me Magnolia.”
He didn’t. In fact, he said nothing at all as he shifted in his chair,
uncrossing a long pair of legs. Magnolia got a glimpse of his powerful
arms and chest. He was almost a man, although from moment to
moment you could still see the Bar Mitzvah boy, an effect enhanced
by a navy blue blazer a quarter inch too short in the sleeves.
“Natalie tells me you play water polo,” she said, stretching for a
topic to put him at ease. Magnolia didn’t typically mind exercising the intimidation card—which in her world was required as often as
AmEx—but she didn’t want to spook a child, even one who looked
twenty-three. Or maybe he looked eighteen, which he actually was;
one sign of getting older, she recognized, was no longer being able to
reliably pinpoint the exact age of a younger person. Magnolia won
dered whether Nathaniel knew yet that he was handsome; he looked
like the secret son of George Clooney. “All I remember about the sport
is that guys wear swim caps with earmuff gizmos.”
Her remark harvested a small smile, which spread across Nathaniel’s
face as he offered Magnolia details of the sport’s finer points. “It’s one
of the hardest games to play,” he concluded proudly, “‘cause you can’t
touch the bottom of the pool—you always have to swim or tread
“Treading water—that skill will come in handy with our little
games here,” Magnolia said, hoping he might laugh. He did not.
“Okay, then.” She stood. “Our art director, Fredericka von Trapp, has
found all sorts of work for you to do. Scanning photos, making color Xeroxes, logging photos—if we lose one, $3,000 gone, whoosh. You might, if you’re very lucky, even get the chance to design a page—if
you’re not busy bringing in pizza for the whole department.”
“I know I’m the bottom of the food chain,” he said, standing as
well. Magnolia estimated his height at five foot eleven. “But someday
I want to run an art department. I appreciate this opportunity, Miss
Gold.” He caught himself. “Magnolia.”
As she ushered him out the door, she noticed assistants to both
Phoebe and Ruthie idling by Sasha’s desk.
“I’m Jordan,” the brunette said, flashing a smile she’d bleached
one shade too white.
“Zoe,” added the zaftig blonde, extending a hand with a hefty sil
ver mesh ring on the middle finger.
“I’m Sasha and if you need anything … ” She pointed to herself.
“Forget those two slackers exist.”
Ready aides for Nathaniel Fine were always going to be in supply.
Elite private school; promising applications to Brown, Princeton, Duke, and—for backup—Wisconsin; intact Upper East Side family:
dad a senior partner at a major law firm, mom an in-demand interior
decorator—Natalie’s, to be exact; designer summer camps; good looks;
even good manners. If this kid had talent to match the rest of the
package, by the time he was twenty-nine he’d be running the art department of GQ and earning in the high six figures.
“Ladies, meet Nathaniel,” Magnolia said.
“Actually, only my mom calls me Nathaniel,” he said.
Magnolia pretended to wince.
“Please call me Polo.”
“For the cologne?” Magnolia asked.
He looked at her as if she were brain damaged. “For the sport you
play in a pool.”
Magnolia marched him into the art department. There were the
usual three designers developing layouts, the photo editor and her asso
ciate examining images on a huge light box, and an assistant answering
the phone. But everything did not sound as usual. All Magnolia could
hear was a Chris Botti CD faintly playing in the background.
She looked into Fredericka’s office and understood the hush. There
was Bebe hulking over Fredericka as the two of them worked on the
upcoming cover. “Make the words huge,” Bebe said. “Put them here.”
Her hand touched a spot on the upper-left corner of the computer
screen, leaving a visible fingerprint. Fredericka will be Vindexing the
minute Bebe blinks, Magn
olia thought. Yet the art director offered no
reaction except to dutifully move the coverline—“Guns: Why Every
Woman Needs One”—exactly where Bebe pointed.
While Magnolia stood outside Fredericka’s open office and debated
whether she should interrupt to introduce Polo, Bebe glanced in their
direction.
“Who have we here?” Bebe asked. If Magnolia wasn’t mistaken,
Bebe was sucking in her gut. “I see you’ve brought me a treat.” Her
gaze nailed Polo’s reddening face.
“Polo Fine, our art intern,” Magnolia said. “Bebe Blake. Freder
icka von Trapp.” Fredericka walked toward them and extended her hand to Polo—
Fredericka was pleased, Magnolia guessed, to briefly escape Bebe’s
intimate scrutiny.
“How’d you get that name, Polo?” Bebe asked.
“For water polo,” he answered.
“I hope you’re going to model your uniform,” she said. He blushed.
“You two, look,” ordered Bebe, still by the computer. “So? Opinions!”
Magnolia and Polo walked to the screen, which displayed an image
from Bebe’s I’m-gonna-blow-your-brains-out series.
“Bebe, you know what I think,” Magnolia said, shaking her head.
“Ditch this idea.”
“Ignore her,” Bebe said, as she rested her hand on Polo’s arm.
“Magnolia’s not a risk taker. You have fresh eyes. Tell Mamma what
you think.”
Bebe’s hand fell to her side as Polo crossed his arms and stepped
back, taking a minute to consider the design. Magnolia watched a
surge of Park Avenue confidence kick in.
“It’s provocative,” he answered. “Grabs my attention. Sends a strong
message. I like how your eyes in the photo lock with the reader’s.”
Magnolia couldn’t disagree with his observations. It would be an excellent cover—for, say, Guns & Ammo. Polo couldn’t be blamed if no one had taught him ground zero of cover design: know and
entice your unique reader, who in this case was a violence-abhorring,
middle-of-the-road American mother/wife/church lady who wouldn’t want Bebe’s emerging cover within a block of her Ethan Allan coffee table.
“You get it, kid,” Bebe said, one hand back on Polo’s arm, the other
fidgeting with her neckline to lower it ever so slightly. “We’re going
to be great friends. Fredericka, see what he can do with the cover.”
Fredericka looked startled. Magnolia knew the art department’s
other designers always campaigned to get a crack at cover design, but
Fredericka trusted no one but herself for that responsibility. A small
wrinkle emerged between the art director’s eyes as she placed her
hands squarely on her narrow hips. “I mean it, Fredericka,” Bebe said. “See what he’s got.”
Magnolia tried to process the situation. If Polo worked on the
cover, Natalie’s friends, Polo’s parents, would be picturing the result attached to his college applications. Hello, Ivy. But if Polo reported back to them that Magnolia Gold had blocked that opportunity,
Natalie’s friends would be less than understanding and Natalie would
be pissed. Then again, this version of a cover would never sell. And
she might get blamed.
How could she protect herself ? She couldn’t.
What the hell. Bebe wanted it. Let her have it.
Magnolia decided now would be a good time to get as far away from
the art department as possible. As she was leaving, Fredericka was set
tling Polo in front of his own giant Mac. “Veel scan in the cover images
and check back vit you in two hours,” Magnolia heard her say in a
quiet monotone, followed by a whoop and a “Hot damn” from Bebe.
“Well, he’s going to be a welcome diversion around here,” Sasha said as Magnolia stopped by her desk to pick up messages.
“Pants on, Sasha,” Magnolia said. “He’s a baby. Who called?”
“Message from Darlene. ‘Glamazon big fat fucking zero’ were her
exact words.” Magnolia crumpled the message and dropped it in the
trash.
“And some woman asking if you could speak to the”—Sasha
checked her notes—“Prairie Press Club. All-expense-paid trip to
nowhere. Needs an answer ASAP.”
Magnolia half-heard Sasha as she watched Bebe saunter down the
hall, arm in arm with Felicity.
“Said she knew you from high school,” Sasha added.
Magnolia perked up. “Oh, really?”
“A Misty Knight,” Sasha said. “And if she’s a stripper, she never
mentioned it.”
Misty Sandstrum, it has to be. Magnolia pictured a red-and-white
cheerleader sweater a size too small to showcase her Miss North
Dakota chest and a graduation speech that made Magnolia want to gag. Misty beat her to that glory by one white-blond hair and then put
everyone to sleep with thirty-two minutes about rainbows.
“Where’s her number?” Magnolia asked, answering Sasha’s you
can’t-be-serious look with her don’t-even-think-of-asking glare before
she entered her office. She closed the door and dialed.
“Misty?” Magnolia said in her best-girlfriend tone. “Sure, it’s me… . Of course, you can still call me Maggie… . You married Bucky Knight? He’s running the Ford dealership? Four kids? All
named with B? Precious … And you … ? You’re a restaurant reviewer at the Fargo Forum?”
Ten minutes passed as Magnolia listened to Misty. Did I ever talk
that slowly, she wondered?
“So what’s this speaking thing?” Magnolia finally asked. Misty
ran down the details. The annual meeting of journalists wanted
Magnolia to be the keynote speaker a week from Saturday. The pride
of the Dakotas, Tom Brokaw, had been the original choice, but he’d
bailed.
“Very tempting—thanks,” Magnolia said. “Someone from my
office will let you know by tomorrow. Promise … It would be great to see you. I’ll bet you haven’t changed a bit either.” Magnolia wondered whether Misty considered this a compliment.
Her first choice would have been a long weekend in Paris. But
for Magnolia Gold, an escape to Fargo would do just fine. Why stay
here? To take the heat when Jock saw Bebe’s gun cover? She’d rather
not.
Magnolia opened the door and returned to Sasha’s desk. “Clear my
calendar—I’ll be gone next Friday,” she said. “We’re going to need to update my Lady PowerPoint to make it Bebe-specific,” Magnolia said.
“Would that ‘we’ be me?” Sasha asked.
Magnolia smiled. “Book me on Northwest Airlines,” she said. “And
call Misty tomorrow at six our time to tell her I accept.”
“What did you ever do to this woman that there’s some return
favor you can’t refuse?” Sasha asked.
“Change of scenery will do me good,” Magnolia said. “What scenery? I saw Fargo twice.”
“It’s just a trip.”
“But it’s forty below. North Dakota is the home page of the wind
chill factor.”
“Sasha,” Magnolia said as she walked away, “that’s why God
invented fur.”
C h a p t e r 2 3
Aw, Heck, What Would Jesus Do?
Magnolia stood with her luggage at the designated meeting place: directly under the vintage airplane hanging from the ceil
ing of Fargo’s industrial-chic airport, Great Plains–style. Flying to
Minneapolis, Magnolia had begun to picture Misty as increasingly
wide and soft. Between Minneapolis and Fargo, she had ballooned in
her mind to at least size 18. By the time she deplaned, Magnolia
sternly reminded herself to be the soul of graciousness and overlook
her childhood friend’s maternal transformation.
The woman striding confidently through the airport could, how
ever, easily pass for Christy Brinkley’s younger sister. Her tall body—
buxom but trim—would be comfortably at home on a black diamond
ski slope, although you’d have to go to Montana to find one. Misty had
tucked her jeans into a pair of Uggs, and under an unzipped white
parka Magnolia could see a pink turtleneck which matched her blush
free cheeks. Her hair hung as long as when she was crowned home
coming queen twenty years ago. Around her enormous blue eyes,
fringed with dark lashes, were fans of delicate crow’s feet but—over
all—Misty appeared as fresh as newly fallen Norwegian snow.
Magnolia despised her on sight. She instantly regretted wearing
her sheared mink. I’m the one who looks matronly, she thought. “Maggie?”
“Misty!” Magnolia didn’t know whether she should greet her, as
she would Abbey or even her top editors, with a kiss on the cheek. Too
New York. She settled for a long hug.
“Gosh, look at you,” Misty said, sizing her up, top to bottom. “I
can’t wait for Bucky to see you, city girl,” She lingered on Magnolia’s
high-heeled suede footwear. “But, jeez, I hope those boots don’t get
ruined.”
You can kiss these Manolos good-bye, Magnolia said to herself.
Misty effortlessly grabbed Magnolia’s heavy duffel and pointed her
toward the exit, where a white Eddie Bauer–logo’d vehicle the size of
a small garbage truck spit swirls of vapor into the crackly air. Magno
lia pulled her Russian hat low over her forehead. The temperature
made her nose run, and as Misty tossed her suitcase in the car’s rear
end—already crowded with a toboggan, two sleds, a shovel, cross
country skis, and a golden retriever—Magnolia turned away to blot
the dripping with her black kid glove.
“Hey, Goldfarb!” Bucky got out of the car and swept her toward
his barrel chest. She’d forgotten how Bucky had always found her orig