“Mark Walton, with the Ross Jackson Agency, for his contribution to St. Charles Brewery’s Autumn Days/Autumn Nights campaign.”
A swell of applause from a table directly in front of the stage intensified as the nominee stood and waved politely at the crowd.
“Jess Summer, also with the Ross Jackson Agency, for her work on Dr. Wyatt Morgan’s Perfect Smiles campaign.”
A second, louder swell of applause rose up behind me and I turned to smile at the petite brunette who rose up on shaky legs.
“Tim Dalton, with the Beckler and Stanley Agency, for his work on the Davidson Clinic’s Healthy Lives campaign.”
I traded glances with Carter as my former boss slapped his nominated photographer on the back so hard the man literally winced.
“And Sam Wazoli, with Tobias Advertising Agency, for his work on the Pizza Adventure campaign.”
In the interest of professionalism, I tried my best to curb my desire to hoot and holler, but even if I’d failed, I’m pretty sure it hadn’t been noticed anyway. Because really, anyone looking at our nominee at that moment was likely wiping their eyes over the way he pulled Mary Fran in for a hug. After a few seconds, he stepped back and nodded appreciatively at the crowd before taking his seat once again.
For a moment, I just watched him, marveling as I always did, at the maturity and class the teenager exuded twenty-four/seven.
“He’s really loving every minute of this,” Andy whispered in my ear.
“As he should,” I whispered back. “I’d be willing to bet he’s the youngest person to ever be nominated for one of these awards.”
“And that’s because of you.”
I pulled my attention off Sam and fixed it, instead, on Andy. “Sam is here for one reason and one reason only—his ability, his talent.”
“Oh, I’m not minimizing that in any way, shape, or form. I know Sam is good. He’s proven that again and again for Zander, as you well know. I’m just saying you gave him an opportunity to showcase that talent.”
“It’s been a win-win for me, as—”
“And this year’s winner for Best Photograph in a Print Ad is…” The woman stopped, slit the envelope’s seal with her index finger, and then cleared her throat as she pulled out the slip of paper. “Sam Wazoli!”
This time, I didn’t care about professionalism or volume or anything like that. I simply pushed back my chair and ran around the table for the hug I’d imagined more than a few times since word came of Sam’s nomination. He returned the hug, added a kiss on my cheek, and then trotted up the center aisle and onto the stage to receive his golden briefcase. When he took his spot behind the podium and the applause finally stopped, he looked down at the award and then back up at the audience.
“Some of you are probably wondering why I’m up here. And honestly, there’s really only one reason. Your colleague and my friend, Tobi Tobias, believed in me. She saw something in my work that wasn’t negated by my age and she gave me a chance to show that to all of you. Thank you, Tobes. For giving me a shot…for believing in me…for trusting in me.”
I sank down onto Sam’s chair and stared at my friend’s son—a young man who was wise beyond his years in so many ways. He looked so poised and so mature, and I couldn’t have been prouder if I’d given birth to him myself.
“I’d also like to thank Andy Zander of Zander Closet Company for not balking when Tobi brought me on as a photographer for their campaign…and Mr. and Mrs. Poletti for doing the same with the Pizza Adventure campaign that earned me”—he lifted his Golden Briefcase in the air and then grinned as he brought it back down to the podium—“this unbelievable accomplishment and honor. And, last but definitely not least, I’d like to thank my mom. Your love taught me to have faith in myself. I love you, Mom!”
I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a dry eye in the house by the time Sam headed backstage with his award. Somehow though, Mary Fran managed to get herself together enough to locate her phone, text the good news to Drew, and then hightail it toward the lobby to congratulate her son and snap a few photos of her own.
I, in turn, made my way back to my own seat and Andy, the smile on his face mirroring my own. “Wow. Just wow.”
“I couldn’t sum it up better myself.” Andy gestured toward the stage, his voice hushed as the award show continued. “The other night, when you were telling me about past award shows and your category in particular, you mentioned a spiral staircase. Is that what’s behind that red curtain on the right side of the stage?”
Following the path forged by his finger, I felt my stomach churn with excitement. “Yes. And at the very top, behind the platform where the winner stands, is the screen where they will play his or her award-winning campaign.”
“I prefer your.”
“Your?”
He tapped the tip of my nose lightly and followed it up with a soft kiss. “As in the screen where they will play your award-winning campaign.”
I didn’t mean to laugh. And I definitely didn’t mean to snort with that same laugh. But, well, preposterous ideas tended to elicit stuff like that from me. Still, I was glad my fellow nominees and advertising colleagues were either focused on applauding at the appropriate spots or working on their own meals. The last thing I needed was for my propensity for odd noises to become public knowledge.
Andy drew back. “C’mon, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it—about walking up those stairs with your award…about standing in front of the screen while you smile out at everyone…about mentally reviewing the speech you’re about to give in which you break the hearts of every single guy in here by expressing your undying affection for yours truly…”
This time, when I laughed, I managed to refrain from snorting. Instead, I leaned forward, buried my head in his chest for one brief, wonderful moment, and then pulled back to address the obvious. “Yes, I’ve thought about it. Many, many times. But the reality is I’m still a newbie in this field. And honestly, when I say I’m just honored to be nominated, I mean it. As for the part about the broken hearts? That, too, goes without saying.”
The dimples I adored appeared beside his mouth before he swept my attention back to the red curtain. “It’s quite an elaborate set-up for an award, don’t you think?”
“I guess. But there’s not an industry person in this room who hasn’t dreamed of walking up the spiral staircase with their award.”
“I don’t doubt that. In fact, between you and me?” He leaned away from the table to allow the wait staff to replace his salad bowl with his dinner plate, and then continued. “When you first described the whole thing to me on the phone the other day, I actually pictured myself going up the stairs.”
I grinned and then directed Andy’s attention to the table in the front center of the ballroom. “See that table there? That’s the Callahan table. Shamus Callahan passed away years ago, but his wife, Mavis—she’s the woman with the graying hair—and his son, Kevin, have kept the Callahan Foundation going ever since.”
“Why?”
“Well, for starters, Kevin is in the business. In fact, when Shamus passed, Kevin stepped in as president of