Page 120 of Dropping the Ball

A few minutes after the official event starts, our first guests appear at the top of the stairs, looking delighted by their entrance experience then stunned by the venue. They come at one- to two-minute intervals after that, the space quickly filling. The waiters begin passing hors d’oeuvres, and when a tray of deviled eggs reaches us, I discover the filling has been piped in the shape of marigolds. I take one and smile, mentally increasing the caterer’s bonus.

I expected to be in high demand because of currently running Threadwork, and I am. All the Armstrongs are. But it’s not long before Micah is drawing more attention than anyone, so many of the jaded millionaires and business barons wanting to meet the architect behind the art installation that has surprised them for the first time in a long time.

When the tables have filled—and the wineglasses too—the deejay fades out the music and announces the host for the evening, bringing up Sara Elizabeth. I exchange a smile with Madi at the next table, because she knows what I know when she hears the thunderous applause: we are going tosmashour goals.

Sara Elizabeth welcomes everyone, thanks them for their time, and introduces a short video about the work the organization has done in Bangladesh. It’s followed by supportive applause, but when it dies down, she announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, this will be an evening full of surprises, and we’ve reached our first one. Threadwork is thrilled to announce the Marigold Austin Initiative!”

The next video plays, overviewing the plans for this space in the new year, and ends to even more enthusiastic applause, and I smile. Funny that Micah and Drake, two ends of the spectrum, are the reason we found our way to Marigold Austin.

“If you’ll direct your attention to the right of the stage,” Sara Elizabeth is saying, “you’ll notice that like the overcrowded tourist trap called Times Square, we have our New Year’s ball. Except it’s gorgeous. And as you drink more and spend more throughout the evening”—the audience laughs—“your generous donations will be tallied. It will drop at midnight, but how far depends on whether we meet our goal. If we reach it, that ball will drop all the way down, and we’ll ring in the New Year right!” More applause. “Now please enjoy your dinner and be prepared for more entertainment and surprises throughout the evening.”

She leaves the stage, the servers bring in plates of spicy sweet bruschetta, and the volume of conversation and laughter rises against the instrumental jazz the deejay keeps low in the background.

Sara Elizabeth takes the stage after the salads are served. “Ladies and gentlemen, we thought we’d make the wait for the incredible roasted duck entree coming your way a little easier by providing you with some dinner music. Fresh from certifying their first platinum album, please welcome Austin’s own Pixie Luna!”

Sami and the band take the stage and play their five-song set, four of their own songs plus a haunting cover of Tom Petty’s “Wildflowers.” They finish to thunderous applause and take several bows, before Sami gestures for quiet.

“Y’all, you probably saw in your programs that someone will have the opportunity to bid for a chance to perform an old holiday classic with me. Well, that time has come!” she says to whoops and whistles. “I hope y’all have been practicing, becausewe have, and we’re ready for you! The bidding starts at ten thousand dollars. Do I hear ten thousand?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” says another female voice over the PA system.

Sami blinks, confused, and looks behind her, but the guys in her band look confused too.

“That auction guide said the buy-now price is fifty thousand dollars,” the voice continues, “so I’m going to double it to make sure I win.”

Micah looks at me, and I look over to Madison, who does not look confused. She looks smug.

A strangled squeak comes from Sami, who is watching someone approach from the perimeter of the tables, and a spotlight lands on the woman.

“Is that . . .” Micah squints. “That’s Brandi Carlile.”

My mouth drops open. That is Sami’s absolute idol. “Oh no.”

“Is that bad?” Micah asks.

“Sami is never going to make it through this song,” I say. “She’s going to die.”

Sami is, in fact, standing there looking like a deer in the headlights as Brandi Carlile climbs the few stairs to the stage. She holds out her hand, and says, “Hey, I’m Brandi Carlile, and I’m a huge fan. It’s nice to meet you.”

When Sami still stands there, staring, saying nothing, Brandi leans over to pick Sami’s hand up from her side and shake it.

This finally gets through to Sami, who yells, “Madison Armstrong Locke!” and bursts into tears.

Madison, of course, looks unfazed. Sami’s husband is sitting next to Oliver, and both of them look suspiciously unsurprised.

The crowd is going wild, which is saying something for so many middle-aged guests in evening wear, but they are completely won over that a star as big as Sami is starstruck by one of her own heroes.

When Sami pulls herself together, she and Brandi Carlile do a blues-rock version of “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?” that has couples up and dancing in the spacious aisles between the tables. And when Brandi asks Sami if she wouldn’t mind doing Pixie Luna’s biggest hit together, I think the guys in the band might pass out too. But they do it and bring everyone to their feet at the end.

The whole night goes like that. One of the highlights is when the designers who accepted our invitation to the gala take the stage and the women go wild. The men might have been quieter on that one, knowing how much the gowns cost them.

The bidding on the auction items is fierce, and I laugh outright when Mom breathes a sigh of relief as Dad loses the bid for the Formula One experience.

Micah says, “When should I tell him I can get him VIP access anyway?”

“Let him suffer for a day or two,” I say. “He gets his way too much.”

The Gabriela Juarez chandelier commission goes for fifty thousand more than I’d projected, and the Mustang GT500 goes for double its cost when the video reveals the UT interior.

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