The Resurrection of Brandy
When Lorraine Conover walked into her chic office, designed by one of the country's top interior designers, the first things she noticed were the streamers and balloons. The second was the enlarged cover of Fortune magazine (which would hit the stands at the end of the week) that stood on an easel in the corner of the room, behind the massive desk. The third and last was the elaborately decorated cake flanked by a dozen bottles of her favorite champagne on the credenza.
"Congratulations!" Iris Kenton, her administrative assistant, shouted as the office staff followed their boss into the room.
"How does it feel to officially be the richest woman in America?" asked Taylor Woolerton, the president of the company, a young man who, after making millions with his own Internet venture, was steering the firm through the evolving twenty-first-century toy market.
"Pretty damn good," she replied honestly.
Then she saw the sculpted figures on the cake. They were all of CiCi, from her earliest incarnation as a high-fashion model, through the hippie and yuppie years and to her current style, that of an exuberant blonde who looked like a cheerleader on her way to the beach.
It's HER they're celebrating, not me, the multibillionaire toy mogul thought, her good humor slightly dampening.
Even on the cover of Fortune, there SHE was, her image magnified tenfold so that it dwarfed Lorraine's own face.
"I'll bet you never envisioned this day when you created CiCi. How old were you then?" Iris inquired as more people came into the office to attend the impromptu party.
"Sixteen."
"Imagine a teenager starting her own toy empire!" exclaimed Taylor. "And I thought I was a prodigy because I made my first million at twenty-one. You beat me by five years!"
"Actually, it was my grandfather's toy company," the CEO admitted. "It was nothing big. He just made toy boats and cars that sold at small, independent toy stores in New England. But the doll was my idea. Since I was the only child of his only child, he humored me and had a prototype of CiCi made, never seriously believing it would sell."
"Boy, was he wrong!" her assistant laughed. "Too bad your grandfather didn't live to see your creation become a global sensation."
"At least he was still alive when the one millionth unit came off the assembly line," the toymaker's granddaughter said.
Her comment opened a door to a precious memory. Although he had no longer been running the company at the time because of his advanced age, the proud grandfather, his widowed daughter (whose husband was been killed on Omaha Beach during the D-Day landing) and his successful granddaughter celebrated that milestone at Boston's famed Parker's Restaurant, where Senator John F. Kennedy proposed to Jacqueline Bouvier. Two months later, the old man breathed his last, dying peacefully in his sleep.
If Grandpa were alive today, he wouldn't recognize his own company, she thought, her eyes misting with tears. Last year's total sales of more than four billion dollars is a far cry from MacDonald's nineteen billion, but it's quite a feat for a girl from Concord.
Despite the early hour of the day (just after nine o'clock), the bottles of champagne were emptying fast. In the midst of the merriment, Iris produced a knife and cut into the elaborate cake.
"Our lady of the hour gets the first piece," she announced, handing her employer a large slice with a sculpted doll on top.
"This is way too much," Lorraine objected.
"Nonsense! Today is a special occasion. Go ahead and enjoy yourself."
She looked down at the blue-eyed blonde with the ear-to-ear smile and grimaced. The icing was not the only thing that was too sweet on her cake.
Another memory came to her—this seemed to be the day for recalling the past—one not nearly as pleasant as the family's celebration at the Omni Parker. Shortly after Robert F. Kennedy was shot at Los Angeles's Ambassador Hotel, the demand for the CiCi doll exceeded Millard Conover's ability to produce it, so he invested money in a new factory and hired Orenthal Pirrie to assist his granddaughter in managing the doll division of the toy company. It was Pirrie who suggested the doll's first makeover.
"That bouffant has got to go. Today's young women are wearing their hair down; only the older ones are still putting it up. CiCi has to change with the times. There's no growing old gracefully for her."
The final say, of course, was Lorraine's since her grandfather left all decisions concerning the bestselling doll to her. Although she had never graduated Harvard Business School as Orenthal had, she was nonetheless a savvy businesswoman who saw the logic of his arguments. As much as it pained her to do so, she approved that first step in the evolution of CiCi.
* * *
With her staff back at work, Lorraine sat at her desk, staring at the uneaten piece of cake. Although she looked twenty years younger than her seventy-six years—thanks to a highly skilled plastic surgeon—like many seniors, she suffered from diabetes. Rather than confide the truth to her employees, she preferred to let them believe she avoided sweets in order to watch her weight. She was about to throw the plate into the wastebasket when she heard a soft knock on her door.
"Miss Conover?" a young woman inquired, her hand still raised in a fist as though to knock again.
"Yes?"
"This is my first day on the job. I just got out of my orientation meeting, and I wanted to introduce myself," she said, walking into the room as though entering a cathedral. "I'm Willow Verlaine, your new head of advertising."
"Aren't you a little young for such a high-level position?"
"Like you, I was a young achiever. I graduated Princeton at seventeen and got my masters at eighteen."
"Won't you come in and sit down, Miss Verlaine?"
"Please call me Willow."
"Would you like a piece of cake?" Lorraine asked, pushing the plate in her direction.
"Isn't it yours?"
"I don't like sweets."
"I love them. I must admit I can never resist temptation. Oh, how cute! There's a CiCi on it made of modelling chocolate."
"Get used to it. She's everywhere in this company. I'm surprised we don't have her face printed on the toilet paper in the ladies' room."
The dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman laughed at the witty comment. Then she quickly finished the cake and tossed the plate and plastic fork into the trash.
"While I'm here," she said, wiping the icing from her mouth with a paper napkin, "can we discuss plans for the sixtieth anniversary doll?"
The company had commemorated the tenth anniversary of CiCi's debut with a limited-edition doll, a replica of the original 1960 design, dressed in one of the first eight outfits available at that time. Since then, they had done the same for the twentieth, thirtieth, fortieth and fiftieth anniversaries.
"Do you want my recommendation on what outfit to use this time?" Lorraine asked. "There are only three left that haven't been used."
"Not exactly. Don't get me wrong. I like the whole nostalgia angle. But I thought we might issue a replica of Brandy this time, rather than another CiCi."
"Brandy! There's a name from the past. I doubt you were even born when we discontinued her."
"Why did you, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I created Brandy in the early sixties as a best friend for CiCi, right about the same time I created her little sister and her boyfriend."
"Yet the company still makes Jody and Lex, so why not Brandy?"
"When Orenthal Pirrie became the president, he made a lot of changes. He gave CiCi, Jody and Lex new looks, and at the same time did away with Brandy."
"Didn't she sell well?"
"It's not that. She was quite popular, in fact. At that time, though, we chose to limit the number of dolls to four and branch out into other products. We came out with the beach house, the sports car, a CiCi board game, coloring books, paper dolls .... Our line continued to grow larger each season, to the point where we stopped making the cars and boats my grandfather used to sell."
"Wouldn't you like to see Brandy back on the market? If only as a limited edition?"
"I don't know how many little girls would be interested in her."
"I'm sure the collectors would, especially if we dressed her in one of the original outfits."
"Let me sleep on it, okay? I'll get back to you by the end of the week."
It was clearly a dismissal, and Willow took the hint. She was never one to put pressure on others and was not willing to start doing so with her new boss.
* * *
That night, when Lorraine entered her penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, she went into her home office where she kept her private collection of vintage dolls. On an eye-level shelf, in a place of honor, were eight first-edition CiCis, each dressed in one of the original outfits. It had been her concept for a child to own one doll and then buy the clothing separately. This idea, like many others, was scrapped by Pirrie when he redesigned the doll in the mid-Eighties. In order to maximize profits, emphasis was placed on selling dolls, not dresses. In order to acquire the elaborate gowns designed by the world's top fashion designers, children and collectors had to purchase them on the doll.
It's ironic, the seventy-six-year-old thought. In the early days when CiCi was a high-fashion model, I designed all her clothes. Since becoming Orenthal's embodiment of the All-American teenager, she's had outfits designed by Dior, de la Renta, Halston, Cassini and other top names in the fashion world.
There were no modern dolls on the CEO's shelf. Frankly, Lorraine was not a fan of the latest version of her creation. In the pre-Pirrie days, with a simple change of outfit, CiCi (available in a variety of hair colors) could go from fashion model to nurse or flight attendant. The current, permanently blond version was a girl still in high school. Her young age was reflected in Beach Day CiCi, Prom Queen CiCi, Homecoming CiCi, Graduation Day CiCi and Babysitter CiCi.
It's all so unfair! she thought, envisioning an image of the doll's perpetually smiling face. She doesn't deserve all that fame. I'm the brains behind her, and yet most people don't even know my name.
It was only in her penthouse hideaway that the toy mogul admitted her jealousy. CiCi was the Mona Lisa of dolls, and she was the Leonardo da Vinci. Yet where was her acclaim? Sure, she was the richest woman in America and her photo would be on the latest issue of Fortune magazine, but why had she never been invited to appear on a television talk show? Why had no one ever wanted to write her biography? Why had there never been a feature about her in Life or Look? Why was she always living in the shadow of that damned doll, like some poor relation?
Throughout her long career, she had been vastly underrated. More credit had always been given to the men who helped run the business than to Lorraine herself. Nearly all the company's products were her idea, not Orenthal's or Taylor's. Yet these men were frequently touted as having turned a single doll into a toy empire. There were people even today who still believed CiCi was created by Millard Conover as a plaything for his granddaughter.
"Maybe now that I'm the richest woman in America, I'll finally get a little recognition!" she said as she shut the door of her home office and headed down the hall.
She often thought of the lavender and ivory colored sanctuary as a boudoir rather than a bedroom since, by definition, the word boudoir meant a woman's bedroom or private room. The French-styled oasis in the middle of Manhattan was certainly that. From the antique French provincial furniture to the floor-length moiré drapes to the designer silk sheets, the room was ultra-feminine. No man, with the exception of her gay interior decorator, had ever entered that sanctum.
There were three photographs on her dresser: one of her mother, another of her grandfather and the last of her father, a man who was killed before he had the opportunity to see his infant daughter. There were no pictures of children or grandchildren because Lorraine never married. Her business had always come first.
Since this was apparently a day for hashing up old memories, the face of Conan O'Hare came to mind. He was the only man she ever loved. At twenty-two, she had fallen head-over-heels for him. They met in Boston at O'Hare's Irish Pub. After the annual St. Patrick's Day Parade, Lorraine went inside for shepherd's pie and a glass of Guinness and wound up leaving four hours later with the owner's son in tow. The two dated for six months and were engaged for two after that. When Conan announced that he expected his future wife to quit work and stay at home to raise a house full of Irish Catholic children, Lorraine reconsidered his proposal. It had never occurred to her that he might resent her success, but he did. His male pride could never abide his wife making more money than he did. As a man, he would have to be the breadwinner.
Conan did not understand that Lorraine had spent six years of her life making CiCi the bestselling doll in the country. Ideal, makers of Betsy McCall, Miss Revlon, Betsy Wetsy, Patti Playpal and the popular Shirley Temple doll, made several offers to buy CiCi. It was her decision, not her grandfather's, to repeatedly turn them down.
And I was right to do so, she thought as she lowered her body into a clawfoot tub filled with hot, scented water and perfumed soap bubbles.
Her grandfather's toy company had grown over the years to be the largest in the world. It was no longer a one-doll moneymaker. It produced toys of all kinds including sports equipment, video and board games, jigsaw puzzles, craft kits, roller skates and educational technology. Furthermore, CiCi and her entourage were not the only dolls offered. The company also produced baby and toddler dolls, action figures and specialty dolls such as the Tea Cup Princesses and Key Ring Cuties. It also offered a line of high-priced collectible dolls for adults in porcelain and vinyl, both modern and vintage, including a collection of celebrity-inspired creations.
And above this kingdom reigns CiCi, not me! That blond bitch usurped the crown that was rightfully mine!
* * *
Two days later, a messenger delivered the newly released issue of Fortune to her office.
"Hot off the presses!" Iris laughed as she laid the magazine on her boss's desk.
After the assistant left the room, Lorraine quickly thumbed to the page featuring the cover story. Two faces seemed to jump out from the pages: those of Orenthal Pirrie and Taylor Woolerton. Her eyes then went to the caption beneath the photograph, which read, "The Men Behind the Doll."
"Where's my picture?"
She turned the page, and there SHE was! A full-page photograph of CiCi, not the original one as she designed her but the bubbly blonde she had morphed into. It was not until Lorraine turned the page again that she saw her own photo, one much smaller than the others. It was the sentence beneath it that upset her most: "Lorraine Conover, now the richest woman in America, owes her good fortune to her grandfather, Millard Conover, who created CiCi as a toy for ...."
Lorraine could not read another word. Fighting the urge to scream, she threw the magazine across the room.
"I ought to sue the person who wrote that damned piece," she cried without bothering to read the article.
In the privacy of her office, she let her tears of frustration roll down her cheeks.
"What good would it do?" she asked herself, letting hopeless despair engulf her. "It would probably only make things worse. I'd come across as a rich bitch who used to be a spoiled child."
Hoping to take her mind off the Fortune article, she opened her laptop and browsed through her email. One from Taylor Woolerton, who was vacationing in Tahiti, caught her attention. He had sent her suggestions for new products to be featured at the upcoming North American International Toy Fair. Naturally, most of his ideas centered on the hi-tech market, but he did not ignore the other toys. For the adult collectible line, he suggested a Lex doll made into Founding Father Thomas Jefferson, a Diana Ross doll and a Jody-sized Alice in Wonderland. As in the past, they would release a brand-new specialty doll collection, this time a set of twelve Birthstone Babies. Lastly, the star of the show, who would be given the place of honor, would be Camping Trip CiCi.
"And, of course," the president concluded his message, "Sixtieth Anniversary CiCi."
"Camping Trip CiCi. Indeed!" Lorraine muttered with a scowl as she perused the other emails. "I hope that dumb blonde gets eaten by a giant grizzly bear!"
When she saw Willow Verlaine's name, she had to stop and think.
"Who's she?" the CEO wondered.
The memory of a young woman with pale skin, dark eyes and black hair came to her, and she recalled that Willow was the new head of advertising.
"What does she want?"
"I thought we ought to meet to discuss my ideas for next year's ad campaign," the email read. "Maybe over lunch?"
As she hit the REPLY button, Lorraine remembered the gist of the conversation from their first meeting. Rather than a retro CiCi appearing as the sixtieth anniversary doll, Willow wanted to resurrect Brandy, the defunct best friend. A smile formed on the old woman's lips. It was not a pleasant sight to behold. Years of envy and bitterness seemed to radiate from the twinkle in her eyes.
Why shouldn't Brandy see the light of day again? For once, let someone other than CiCi be in the spotlight!
Nearly half of the budget earmarked to promote the products that appeared at the toy fair went toward ads for Anniversary Brandy. Dressed in the "Opening Night" evening gown, which looked as though it might have come out of Jackie Kennedy's closet, the retro doll proved to be the sensation of the fair.
"This is incredible!" Lorraine exclaimed when she read Willow's report. "The sales of the anniversary doll are through the roof! Why, our new Brandy is selling better than last year's Holiday Party CiCi."
Taylor Woolerton, who had been dead set against using the long-retired doll for the limited edition, grudgingly acknowledged the ad exec's triumph.
"I still think we should have continued the tradition of using CiCi, but I can't argue with its success."
"I'll tell Willow you said that."
It was common knowledge throughout the upper echelon of the company's management that Taylor and the young advertising genius had butted heads several times since she was hired.
"I know what the rumor mill says about us, but I've got nothing against Willow. We just have different opinions on where this company should be headed."
"I suggest you put your differences aside and remember one thing. I'm the founder, CEO and chairman of the board. As such, I determine where this company should be headed. Although I'm always willing to listen to my employees' suggestions, the final say is mine."
Being put in his place, especially by an old woman, was humiliating. Taylor's embarrassment only served to strengthen his animosity toward Willow Verlaine.
"I'm not likely to forget," he replied, trying to keep the rancor out of his voice.
"Good. Now, tell me this idea you had for a virtual doll customers can play with on their smartphones."
* * *
Although new product development officially fell under the domain of either Taylor or Lorraine, when the CEO took Willow out to lunch so that they could discuss an advertising campaign for the upcoming holiday toy-buying season, the ad exec proposed a permanent addition to the company's doll line.
"It's time to bring Brandy back into the fold," she suggested.
"Like Orenthal before him, Taylor thinks we should limit the number dolls in the CiCi line. She already has a little sister, a boyfriend and three ethnically diverse close friends. All our CiCi products utilize one or more of those six canonical dolls. We simply change the outfits and sometimes the hairstyles to give them new looks. Anniversary Brandy was strictly a one-off deal."
"Why? She sold more units than any other doll we released in the past three decades."
"No doubt it was the novelty of using someone other than CiCi for the anniversary."
"I think if she returned to the line, she would outsell all the other dolls with the exception of CiCi herself."
"And you're basing this opinion on what?" Lorraine asked, willing to listen to Willow's reasoning.
"Years ago, when Pirrie told you bouffant hairdos were a thing of the past, you listened. Your beloved fashion model doll changed with the times. In Bob Dylan's words, the times they are a-changin' ... again. I'm not suggesting we redesign CiCi. She's no longer a doll; she's a cultural icon. But little girls—and that's the bulk of our customer base—don't necessarily want to grow up to be cheerleaders and prom queens anymore. I see Brandy as the intelligent one of the bunch. CiCi can continue to go shopping, sunbathe at the beach, do all those feminine, girly-girl things we associate her with. Brandy will be the alternative; she'll be the anti-CiCi, if you will."
"Anti-CiCi?" Lorraine laughed. "That sounds like something out of a horror movie."
"I envision her as the overachiever. Doctor Brandy. Professor Brandy. Lawyer Brandy. Scientist Brandy. She can be a positive role model to girls who want to do more than get married and have babies after they graduate from high school."
"You have a compelling argument. I'll give you that much."
Willow looked her employer in the eye, smiled and delivered the pièce de résistance.
"After all, you didn't get to be the richest woman in America by playing volleyball on the beach with Jody or going to a sock hop with Lex."
Thus, the redheaded, freckle-faced tomboy, who had been dropped from the production line more than half a century earlier, was resurrected, despite fierce objection from the company's president. As the new ad campaign proclaimed, "She's back. She's bright. And she's bolder and badder than ever." Of the new offerings for the Christmas season, Veterinarian Brandy vied with Snowboarding CiCi for the top spot in the TV commercials. Naturally, Willow put her money on the redhead. After all, the doll was her idea.
Like the bouffant CiCi, Brandy had a makeover. The topknot and ponytail went, replaced by a sleek, short, modern hairstyle that gave the doll's face—which had fewer freckles—the look of a pixie. She was also given a more "boyish" figure, as compared to CiCi's pronounced curves.
"Conservatives are going to hate this doll!" Taylor insisted. "They might wind up boycotting CiCi."
"Speaking of conservatives," Willow teased. "Next election, we ought to release a Republican CiCi and a Democrat Brandy."
The president of the company fumed with anger.
"Aren't you forgetting that you're in charge of the advertising department? Why are you getting involved in product development?"
"The main goal of advertising is to promote the company. What better way to do that than to come up with a hot-selling item?"
"And you think ...."
Lorraine stepped in before things could turn ugly.
"Enough you two! Like Lazarus, Brandy has been brought back from the dead. The doll has already been designed and is going into production so that she'll be on the toy shelves by mid-September."
After the meeting broke up and Taylor stormed out of the conference room, Lorraine took Willow aside.
"Don't worry about him. I'm the only one whose opinion matters here, and I'm behind you."
"Thanks for the support."
"But don't even think about a Republican CiCi," the old woman laughed. "I come from a long line of Democrats, and I'm not about to change now."
* * *
It was no surprise to Willow when Veterinarian Brandy far outsold Snowboarding CiCi. Taylor insisted it was the assortment of cute animals included with the doll that was responsible.
"What kid doesn't like puppies and kittens?" he asked moodily.
"Just wait until Environmentalist Brandy is released. Want to make a private bet that she'll outsell your Field Hockey CiCi?"
"Don't be ridiculous! I don't place bets on the success of our products."
It was a good thing he didn't. Once again, Brandy came out on top.
Taylor, who had once been touted as the Boy Wonder of the toy industry, was not used to coming in second to anyone. He did not take defeat gracefully and was not averse to underhanded practices. After hiring a private investigator to dig up dirt on the company's head of advertising, he got more than he bargained for, however.
When he suggested the two of them meet over dinner, Willow assumed it was an invitation given in the spirit of reconciliation.
"Have you come to bury the hatchet?" she laughed.
"Not exactly."
The malevolent grin on his face was a clear indication of how the conversation would go.
"I was looking over your resume," he began. "It's quite impressive. It says you graduated Princeton at seventeen."
"That's right," she said, without so much as a glimmer of fear in her dark eyes.
Off came the gloves at that point.
"Then how come no one there ever heard of you?"
"Sneaky little devil, aren't you?" Willow laughed.
Taylor had honestly believed at this point in the conversation, his nemesis would be quivering with fear over being revealed as a fraud and facing the loss of her job. Yet, she remained as cool and confident as ever.
"I suppose now you'll deliver your ultimatum?" she calmly asked, pouring dressing over her salad. "Are you going to be a gentleman and ask me to resign so that I can save face, or will you go ahead and spill the beans to Lorraine, affording me no graceful way out?"
"I owe it to my employer to be honest with her."
"I thought so. You're not content to simply win; you want a knockout. Okay. Go ahead and tell her. I never went to Princeton, never attended college anywhere. Hell, I didn't even graduate high school. Now, that the nasty business is over with, can we eat? I'm famished."
It was not going at all as he had planned, and her attitude was spoiling his enjoyment of the victory.
"Don't you even care that I know the truth?"
"Why should I? Just look what I've managed to accomplish in the short time I've been with the company? Do you think any of our competitors would hesitate to hire me simply because I lied on my resume?"
What she said was true. Both Hasbro and Mattel would give her a job on the spot.
There's no way I can win, he mumbled as he rose from the table without even touching his appetizer.
"Where are you going? Sit down and eat."
But Taylor Woolerton either didn't hear her or was not about to listen to her. He left the restaurant, got into his Porsche and drove off into the night.
Sadly, he never made it home alive.
* * *
A week after the funeral, Lorraine Conover named Willow Verlaine as Taylor Woolerton's replacement. Once sitting behind his old desk, in his coveted corner office, the new president continued to push Brandy over CiCi. Even the hi-tech toys, always her predecessor's forte, featured the redheaded doll, not the blonde. One of the company's bestsellers became a downloadable Silicon Valley Brandy app that taught children the basics of computer programming.
As she approached yet another birthday, Lorraine began to think of her mortality.
Most women my age are living in retirement homes in Florida, waiting for their yearly visits with the grandchildren, she thought as she sat in the back of her chauffeur-driven Rolls on the way to her office. And I still put in fifty to sixty hours a week at work.
She never gave a thought to retiring herself. What would she do with her time? Play bingo? Take up golf? Read romance novels?
I'll probably drop dead at my desk someday.
That prospect did not alarm her. It wasn't a bad way to go, doing what she loved most in life.
Fate had other plans for the fashion doll maven, though. The morning Willow entered her office and proudly announced that U.S. President Brandy was unanimously chosen as doll of the year, the CEO clutched her chest in pain and collapsed onto the floor.
As she had when Taylor confronted her with the inaccuracy of her resume, the dark-haired woman remained calm during the ride to the hospital. While emergency room personnel frantically worked to keep Lorraine alive, the president of the company provided the necessary information to the admitting nurse. Once all the forms were filled out and the questions answered, Willow began making phone calls, informing the key people in the company of the founder's heart attack.
"It was touch and go for a while," she told Iris Kenton, the administrative assistant, the next day. "But she's stable now. The cardiologist is going to run some tests, but he thinks a bypass will be necessary."
"Thank God you were with her when it happened! If she had been alone in her office, she might have ...."
The rest of Iris's sentence was lost in a torrent of tears.
When Lorraine was well enough to receive visitors, the first person she asked to see was Willow.
"That was a wakeup call," the frail old woman declared from her hospital bed.
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's time I made a decision on who will replace me when I'm gone."
"You just concentrate on getting better. The company will still be there when you get out of the hospital."
"I sent for my lawyer," Lorraine continued. "It's high time I made a will. I'm leaving all my stock in the company to you."
"You really don't have to do this."
"Nonsense! I want you to run it when I'm gone."
"No."
"But we have to talk about this now. The doctor said I might have another heart attack at any time."
"I don't mean 'no, I don't want to discuss this now'; I mean 'no, I don't want the job.'"
"Why not? Are you afraid of all that responsibility? If you are, forget about it. I have full faith in your abilities."
"Thank you, but I've done what I set out to do. I've brought back Brandy and dethroned CiCi. That's enough for me."
"But don't you care what happens to your precious Brandy after I'm gone?"
"You're not going anywhere. You're going to continue running this company, but not as Lorraine Conover. Your name will be Brandy from now on."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"You created that doll in your own image. She was you, from the fiery red hair down to the last freckle on the bridge of your nose. At first, you were the best friend, living in your CiCi doll's shadow. And then Orenthal Pirrie came along, and you ceased to exist. Well, I've resurrected you. First, the doll and soon the human. Once you die, a will, legally signed and notarized, will be produced, leaving everything you own to the granddaughter of a cousin currently living in a small village in Ireland."
"But I never had any cousins. My mother was an only child."
"You and I know that, but no one else does. This redheaded, freckle-faced young woman will step into your shoes—figuratively and literally. She'll do great things in the years ahead, and you will, at long last, get the credit you were due and enjoy the full life you always denied yourself."
With that, Willow Verlaine, Lorraine's guardian angel, moved her hand over the old woman's face and closed her eyes forever.
Meanwhile, somewhere in Ireland, the resurrected Brandy Conover came into being.
Salem once started a company featuring dolls in historic costumes, but little girls preferred American Girl to American Cat dolls.
