she worked her butt off for this.”
“I wonder who the guy is?” Rory said.
“Our little suitcase charms mean something, as anyone who has ever been in the foster care system knows,” Maureen went on. “Sometimes all you have is what fits in a single duffel bag. Your whole life, all your memories, everything that is unique to you, stuffed inside a single suitcase. Some of you here know what I’m talking about.”
The three women glanced at each other again. Some kids came with a lot of stuff. Some came with nothing. Lauren had been one of the one-bag kids—a gangly fifteen-year-old with nothing to her name but a picture of herself as a baby with her parents, a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts and a battered copy of the Norton Anthology of English Literature that she’d lifted from her last school.
Mikki’s face told her she remembered the same thing and she slid an arm around Lauren’s shoulders.
“Your fifty-dollar cover is not paying for the club or media coverage,” Maureen assured them. “It’s going toward the building fund, to purchase rebar and beams and drywall. This may not seem very glamorous, but I can’t tell you how much it will mean to an eighteen-year-old girl who has just been released from the system and has no idea how to go about starting her life other than taking it to the streets. Baxter House will mean a new start for that girl, and I’m grateful to each of you for coming out to support it.”
Maureen grinned at the crowd and waved behind her at the band, who had been quietly filing onto the stage while she was talking. “But now, we’re going to have fun. So go out, find your key partner and have a good time!”
The band launched into a dance number with a great beat and Lauren’s foot began to tap. Somewhere in the crowded club was a person who had the key that fit her locked charm, but Lauren just couldn’t bring herself to go from person to person, allowing them to try out their keys. Some were having a lot of fun with it. She had work to do.
And she’d better get on with it.
She leaned over to Rory. “I’m going to go talk to people. Are you going to see what’s going on in the kitchen?”
Lavender Field specialized in a dazzling array of breads, rolls and other sinful things. They were so good that rumor had it you could tell how well a company treated its employees simply by the presence of a box with the green-and-lavender logo in the coffee room.
White-gold charms and rolls and pastries from Lavender Field? Maureen knew how to treat her guests—and potential contributors to her project.
Rory tossed back the last of her drink and draped her lavender shawl over the back of her chair. “Hell, no. I’m going to dance.”
Lauren watched her sister tap someone on the shoulder and, on the pretext of trying out the man’s key, invite him to dance. The light from a gold spotlight slid over Rory’s graceful, generous body as she passed under it, and then she and her partner disappeared into the crowd on the black-and-white-checkered dance floor.
Music blasted from the stage, lights flashed and swooped, and from somewhere in the back, a woman screamed with laughter. People laughed and talked over the beat as they danced, the whole crowd bobbing up and down in time with the music.
Lauren scanned the room for her first victim.
She’d already picked Maureen’s brain about the background of the key party and the logistics of setting one up. A woman as driven for her cause as Maureen was didn’t waste her time on angles that didn’t succeed—and a key party was pretty much guaranteed to succeed. But what Lauren needed was the voice on the street who, let’s face it, came to these things not because they were as passionate about the cause, but because deep down they believed—hoped—they’d find true love.
Or at least a date for the evening.
She zeroed in on an Asian girl in turquoise silk sitting in one of the dining alcoves, partially hidden by sound-absorbing velvet drapes. She blinked as the girl turned her head and she recognized the glossy fall of blue-black hair and the sloe eyes of her own roommate. Well, why not? Vivien’s opinions were as valuable as those of a stranger, and it was an easy way to start.
“Sorry, I’m straight,” Vivien Li deadpanned as Lauren slid in beside her on the padded leather-look bench.
“Sure, you are. You’re not getting away from me that easily.” Lauren grinned. “Nice dress, by the way. You didn’t tell me you were coming to this shindig.”
She and Vivien had been roommates since their junior year at Berkeley. Once they’d graduated—Lauren with a degree in communications and Viv with one in computer electronics—both of them had concluded there was no reason to give up a comfortable living arrangement. Besides, Lauren often thought, what sane woman would let go of a roomie who could cook as well as Viv did? So they’d moved across the Bay and Lauren had gone to work while Viv slaved at her post-grad degree and worked part-time to pay her half of the rent.
“Someone at work couldn’t go at the last minute, so he gave me his ticket. It said ‘Unlock the Possibilities.’ What does that mean, exactly?”
Lauren laughed. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. How about I interview you for Inside Out?” She took her minirecorder out of her evening bag, turned it on and put it on the table between them, next to the red glass lamp with dangling crystals that propped up the wine list.
“How come I always have to be your lab rat?” Viv complained. “You know ‘Lorelei’ scares me silly. I always picture her looking like Cruella De Vil. The cartoon one, not Glenn Close.”
Lauren shook her head. “Nope. She looks like Alicia Silverstone crossed with Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary.”
“Ai-ya,” Vivien moaned. “A demented blonde who wants to pick my brain. And probably eat it.”
“No, that would be the Queen of Pain. To her, the word freelancer has no meaning. Every time I go into the office she has her people locked up in meetings, and she tries to suck me into the vortex with them.”
Other than having to endure her editor, working on the Lorelei column and blog for Inside Out was fun. And a regular paycheck, no matter what its size, was nice, too. Realistically, Lauren knew blogging was a phase that, like Bennifer and platform shoes, wouldn’t last. What she really wanted to do was to work for a high-profile magazine, and not just as a contributing freelancer, either. Someday she’d be on the staff at Left Coast, which was based here in San Francisco and ran the kinds of stories that were nominated for major literary prizes.
However, “Lorelei” wasn’t going to get her noticed there. In fact, she was probably more of a liability than an asset. But her press pass got her into more events than not, and it all gave her material she could use.
“I need some insight into this whole key thing,” Lauren said. “I value your opinions. Besides, you’re in my demographic.”
“What’s that? Lesbian Chinese-American master’s candidates?”
“No. Singles. It’s a very broad demographic. So, what brought you out tonight besides the fund-raiser? What’s the attraction in it?”
Vivien considered the question. “It’s more personal than want ads and doesn’t have the commitment factor of dinner and a movie, you know?”
“Commitment
