by Rachel Hauck
No one thought much of An October Wedding until a review appeared in the New York Review of Books. “Her voice resounds with the likes of Gordon Phipps Roth’s.” Then the whispers began.
The author’s voice, the story setting and era, the heart and soul of the characters, felt so very much like Gordon’s. In fact, almost identical.
The article in the Harvard Review made the case Ainsworth merely mimicked Gordon’s voice. It claimed Tenley dishonored her ancestor and American literature by publishing something so blatantly like her great-great-grandfather’s.
Another article revealed Ainsworth’s friendship with Gordon, and speculation of her plagiarism spiked but quickly died down.
Still, in the hallowed halls of universities, symposiums, and conferences, the question remained. Did Birdie steal from Gordon? Or did he steal from her?
The latter seemed so implausible. Ridiculous really. Gordon supposedly didn’t even meet her until the 1920s. Of course he wrote his own books. Suggesting anything else was career suicide.
GPR was a lauded literary genius, and the thought of him hiding behind an unnamed ghostwriter was utterly insane. Even shameful.
His publisher, the great Daniel Barclay, was synonymous with integrity.
Jett exhaled. Once again, his imagination ran away with him.
“I’ll go through it again.” And ignore the tug in his middle to stay after the Gordon rumors. “Submit for peer review—”
Renée looked pleased. “No need for more peer review. Just make your final edits and be done with it. The university press is holding a spot for you in late October. Can you have it to me by the fifteenth? Dr. Hanover wants a printed book in his hand by the first of November. We’ll present the book to Elijah at the reception in exchange for his ten million dollars. This is an enormous honor, Jett. And an incredible financial boost.”
“So you’ve said.” He rocked back in his chair, his attention fixed on Renée. “New York College has never lacked for funds. Our rich alumni leave millions to us in their opulent wills.”
“But this money goes to us, the English department. The readers and writers, lovers of the written word and stories. We almost always lose to engineering, or law, or music.” She pressed her hand on his arm. “Jett, with this money and a school named after Gordon, we will no longer be the junior Ivy League but a full member of the elite universities.”
But what if . . . “You don’t think I need more time to track down the allegations? See if there is any truth to the whispers of a ghostwriter?” he said.
Renée stood and reached for the doorknob. “Just make sure the truth is Gordon would’ve never, ever employed a ghost. Don’t let us down, Jett.” She stepped out with a final word over her shoulder. “Oh, and by the way, I hope your tux is back from the cleaners.”
He narrowed his gaze. “It’s trashed. I need a new one.”
“Then you’d better hurry up and rent one. You’re attending the Gottlieb Gala Friday night on behalf of the university.” She handed him yet another invitation.
“Me? I’m an ugly-sweater, sneaker-wearing, lowly associate professor. I will not impress. They’ll expect Hanover or some other college brass.”
“But we’re sending you to hobnob with Elijah Roth. He’s near your age, interested in literature and everything GPR. You’re the reigning expert.” She wrinkled her nose and grinned. “Have fun. Be at the Starlight Room, Waldorf Astoria. Eight o’clock, this Friday. I hear the Black Tux shop has great last-minute rentals.”
The sound of her footsteps echoed in the hall. But Jett didn’t have time to fume or be angry. He was late for the story society.
He hopped on his bike and headed downtown to the romantic, secluded literary library, the thin breeze swirling his emotions.
As much as he wanted the truth, he feared knocking Gordon off the proverbial white horse. He feared that like every other hero in his life who disappointed—his parents, his brother—Gordon would be the same.
While most young men admired superheroes or star athletes, Jett admired literary giants. He had a poster of GPR, Twain, and Emerson on his wall until his older brother, the incomparable Storm, tore them down.
“Find a picture of Britney Spears or Jennifer Lopez. Geez, you’re a dude.”
A few more blocks and he’d be at the library. As much as he dreaded seeing Lexa tonight, assuming she returned, he rather looked forward to this ragtag gathering and the mystery they shared.
Chapter 7
Lexa
She wanted to leave work early so she could grab the Queen Anne next to Coral at the story society. But Zane detained her, this time with revisions on his speech for Friday night’s Gottlieb Gala.
“Sorry I’m late again.” She took the only open chair. The one between Jett and Ed. “Zane has a knack for catching me on my way out.”
She dropped her backpack to the floor and smiled at the little group.
“He’s not used to you leaving so early.”
She glared at Jett. “Don’t start.”
Separated and divorced two years and he dared comment on her life? If not for Zane and work, she’d have been lost and bereft when Jett let her go without so much as a, “Wait, let’s talk.”
“You two going to nip at each other all night?” Ed said.
“Not me.” Lexa sat back, hands surrendered.
“Nor I,” Jett said.
“Know what we need?” Chuck pushed back in the large wingback so the front legs lifted off the ground. “Food.”
“In this room?” Coral glanced over at him. “It’s too nice. We can’t spill on this rug. It’s antique. Probably worth twenty thousand dollars.”
“We’re not barbarians,” Ed said. “I’ve known how to eat over a plate since I was knee-high to my father.”
“Me too.” Jett raised up to bump fists with Ed and Chuck. “I’m famished.”
“Pizza?” Chuck waved his phone with a glance at Coral. Well, look who had a crush. He seemed more amiable tonight than last week. Not as gruff and . . . mad. “On me tonight.”
“Guess we’re outnumbered.” Coral grinned across the circle at Lexa, and in an instant, she felt like she’d gained a friend.
“Guess so.”
She’d never had lifelong friends. Just seasonal ones. Then Dad would be reassigned and off they’d go.
She was okay with short-term friends until she married Jett and moved to Manhattan, where they were instantly a family, and instantly “couple friends” with fellow graduate students and the younger faculty members.
When the divorce was final, their friends had to choose. And since almost all of them were associated with the college, Jett carried away the spoils.
While Chuck ordered the pizza, Coral checked with the librarian to make sure it was okay, and Lexa inspected the closet in the back corner. Mostly cleaning supplies, but she was surprised to find a small portable table and paper products. Plates, napkins, and cups. She filled her arms with the treasures while Jett retrieved the table.
His arm brushed hers as he moved too quickly through the narrow opening.
“As long as we clean up, we’re good.” Coral reached for the long sleeve of cups tipping from Lexa’s arm.
Lexa and Coral arranged the plasticware, and Ed demanded to know how to write his love-story memoir.
“Start wherever you want, Ed,” Jett said. “You can organize it later. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of your wife?”
“She was the love of my life.”
“And what made her the love of your life?”
Did Jett just send a sideways glance her way?
“One thing. Many things.” Ed cleared his throat and averted his misty eyes. Lexa’s own filled with compassion. “She was full of life, fun, even a bit wild. Didn’t care a whit about social conventions. But it was the sixties, and my generation wanted to do things our way, a new way. She was beautiful too. Couldn’t believe she went for a man like me.”
There
. Jett did it again. Looked askance at her. Stop it. What was he trying to say? Ed’s story was nothing like theirs.
At the door, Chuck listened, arms folded, looking back every few minutes for the pizza delivery.
“I took a memoir class when I was at FSU.” Jett peered pointedly at Lexa, his blue eyes intense. “Remember?”
“No.” Her hard, flat tone rejected his attempt to reminisce.
“How quickly we forget,” he said.
Of course he knew she’d lied. They’d stayed up half the night talking about everything but what caused them pain.
“Narrow the story, Ed,” Jett said. “Focus in on one thing. Don’t tell your whole life but maybe of meeting Esmerelda, some highlights of your marriage, what happened to make you realize the strength and specialness of your love. Use dialog and other fiction tools to bring the reader into your life. And always, always tell the truth.”
“Well of course I’m going to tell the truth.”
“You have to include a few good disagreements,” Coral said. “My great-grandmother wrote a memoir of founding CCW and she spilled her guts. People still buy the book because it’s so raw and real.”
“What about you, Coral?” Jett said. “Will you ever tell your story?”
She shifted around to Chuck. “Pizza here yet? I’m starved.”
Chuck checked the progress on his phone. “Almost.” He disappeared into the main reading room.
Coral busied herself at the food table, rearranging the plates and napkins. Jett glanced at Lexa. Sorry?
“She’ll tell us when and if she’s ready,” Lexa whispered.
A minute later Chuck returned with the rich aroma of pizza pie, and the good smells brought the little society to life. They filled their plates and sat in the circle. Chuck suggested food every week. Ed wanted everyone’s number.
“Why would we do this every week?” Lexa said, wiping the corner of her mouth with a thin paper napkin.
“We still don’t know why we’re here.” Chuck glanced at each of them, his attention lingering longer on Coral than the others. “Don’t you want to know who sent the invitation?”
“What if the invitations were some promotional thing for the library? Sent to five random people. I get stuff ‘to the resident of’ all the time,” Lexa said, the presence of Jett starting to seep into her skin.
Did she want to punch him? Yell at him? Run away and never clap eyes on him again? Hug him? Yes, yes, all of the above.
“Mine didn’t have any address,” Coral said.
“Don’t believe mine did either.” Ed, with a mouthful of pizza.
“Same,” Chuck said. “Just my name.”
“Okay, so what’s the point of our little society?” Jett set his plate with four pizza crusts on the floor by his feet. He never ate his crust. He saved them for Lexa.
“Help me write my memoir.” Ed hammered the arm of his chair with his fist.
Lexa reached over and patted his arm. “Write your scene page. We’d love to hear it.”
“Read it out loud? To you?” He shied away from her touch. “I don’t know.”
He went from a grumpy old man to a timid child. He seemed lost without his Underwood. But that thing had to be a beast to carry on the subway.
“Ed, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want.” Jett’s smooth tone drew the man back into the circle. “We can help more if we read what you’ve written. Does anyone else need help with a story?” He surveyed each face.
“No.”
“Not me.”
“Certainly not me.” Coral stood to collect plates. “What about you, Jett? How can we help you? I think we’re here to help one another.”
“Anyone an expert on Gordon Phipps Roth? I could use some insight into his life and whether he ever used a ghostwriter. I have to submit my dissertation for publication next month. The Roth Foundation is going to use it to quell any suspicions about GPR and give the school a boatload of money.”
The circle had nothing to offer.
“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know,” Chuck said. “I pick up a lot of people from all walks of life during the day.”
“The mystery of this gathering wouldn’t be about you two, would it?” Coral returned to her chair, gesturing to Jett and Lexa. “Pretty weird that exes would end up here randomly.”
“Not about us, no.” Lexa’s protest contained too much force. “I don’t know anyone who wants us back together.”
“I certainly don’t,” Jett scoffed, and she felt it deep in her middle. Heat flashed over her, and her eyes stung.
“Then I guess it’s still a mystery.” Coral picked up a napkin and passed it around, asking for names and numbers. “I’ll have my assistant send you all the list from my phone. Do we want a food schedule? So everyone knows when they’re responsible for refreshments?” She pointed at Chuck. “You can’t bring pizza every time. Or a bag of chips and cookies.”
He laughed. “All right, I’ll bring Chinese.”
Names and numbers turned into ages. Ed was the oldest at seventy-eight. Same age as Lexa’s grandparents in Tennessee.
Coral was thirty-three and Chuck thirty-five. He had twins, a boy and girl, both about to turn six.
“The ex and I waited to have kids. Thought several years together would give us a solid foundation.” He rubbed his palms together as if grinding down his agitation. “Guess not.”
Jett had just turned thirty and Lexa lingered at twenty-nine, the baby of the group.
A soft knock sounded against The Bower’s golden maple door. The smiling, almost glowing librarian peered inside. She was as pretty as Lexa remembered, neat and petite with a mass of wild gray hair. “We’re closing.”
“Thanks, Gilda,” Jett said and faced the group. “I asked her if she knew why we were here and all she did was smile.”
“Well then.” Coral stood. “Next Monday?”
Lexa hesitated before confessing. “I don’t know. What’s the point? And don’t say to help with your memoir, Ed.”
“Does there have to be a point?” Jett slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Can’t we just see where this takes us? Maybe the point is at the end of the journey and not the beginning.”
“I’m in.” Chuck offered a hand to Ed, helping him out of his chair. “I kind of like you guys.”
“Me too,” Coral said. “Lexa, I’d hate to be the lone female among these handsome men.”
Reaching for her backpack, Lexa stepped out of the circle and moved behind Jett toward the door. “I’ll see.”
“Lexa, don’t not come because of me,” Jett said. “I know you’d love to learn from Coral about running a company.”
“Will you stop talking for me, please?”
“You want to learn business?” Coral said. “I can share what little I know.” Her expression both yearned and commanded. Stay with us.
“I’ll see. Good night.”
On the short subway ride home, she mused about her options. Not go, and miss out on something possibly unique, fun, and spectacular. Or go, and possibly have an adventure to tell her friends, children, and grandchildren. Perhaps others would envy her and wonder how she got so lucky.
Or it’d be a bust and she’d have to sit next to her ex week after week, hearing about his life, the one she was supposed to share. Or worse, hear stories of how he met someone fabulous and was falling in love. Or even more devastating, watch him fall in love with the stunning, graceful, and rich Coral Winthrop.
* * *
Coral
Numbers don’t lie. At least in theory. If the ones on her screen were anywhere near correct, her company, CCW Cosmetics, was losing money. Loads of it.
And on her watch. She, Coral Winthrop, with her MBA and lifelong history with the company, was failing.
How? She couldn’t figure it. Where were the stellar sales from a year ago? The promised ten-percent increase from sales and marketing?
Pushing away from her desk, she retrieved a Diet Coke
from the fridge paneled into the office wall and pressed the cold can to her forehead.
She’d launched the preteen lip gloss line, Pink Coral, to glowing reviews. The industry raved about it. But a year later, the sales numbers barely covered the cost of her research and development.
She poured the soda into a glass and took a long drink as she sat on the round leather couch by the window.
From her high perch overlooking the Upper West Side, she was the crown princess to the CCW throne. A reign she inherited with pride and enthusiasm.
But now she was failing. Letting down the family, their history. No one in the Calhoun-Winthrop family had ever failed at this magnitude. Especially the women.
Great-grandmother launched CCW Cosmetics at the ripe age of twenty-five in 1934 after being fired from Elizabeth Arden for using products she’d developed at home on her clients.
She was scrappy, if not ribald, a trailblazer and entrepreneur. This was the kind of stock in Coral’s bones. The kind that dared her to run out on her royal prince on their royal wedding day.
She took another sip of her soda. It was more than Great-grandma’s gumption that prompted Coral to call off the marriage. It was fear. A holy, bone-rattling fear.
She squeezed the memory of that day from her mind, wary that the trembling, shivering, shaking she’d experienced would rev up again if she thought on it too long.
Returning to her desk, she sat in Granny’s chair and reviewed the red numbers on the accounting report once more. Pink Coral was in deep, deep trouble.
“What’s going on?”
Another swig of her warming cola and she opened another report. Where was the money going? Returns? Expenses? Promotions and marketing? Production?
The whole thing made her head hurt. This would be the fifth quarter in a row CCW reported a loss. Their stock prices would plummet.
Her assistant, Matt, set a stack on her desk. “These are the magazines where we advertised Pink Coral. You okay?”
She smiled. “I’m fine.” He was a new hire and she liked him. He was efficient and hardworking, fresh out of college.
“Stop looking at the reports,” he said.
