by Rachel Hauck
Friday when he returned from cleaning up the pizza mess on the sidewalk, her closed door was a clear enough message. It also made him realize something.
He was right to pull back from where their kiss had been leading. But he also realized in that moment how much he loved having Lexa back in his life.
Saturday and Sunday he was part of the faculty advising for the upcoming homecoming festivities, which were a big to-do with NYC alums.
She took an Uber to her stylist for a hair appointment.
Just as he was about to bike home on Sunday, she texted she was at her place, watering plants and paying bills.
Abby’s new boyfriend has a car. He picked me up.
Monday morning rolled around with the usual blur of getting ready. He started to bring up the kiss twice but words failed him.
Then she said it over breakfast.
“We did the right thing. Friday night. Not letting things get out of hand.”
“Yeah, of course. I agree.”
So he copped to a half truth, half lie. While cleaning up the pizza, he’d talked himself into a night of amour if she was willing. He’d deal with the consequences later.
Hitching his backpack over his shoulder, Jett aimed for the library exit but was stopped in the middle of the foyer by the sweet-faced Gilda.
“Have you explored the Bower?” she asked him.
“Explored the . . . what?”
“Explored the Bower. There are some very unique books on the shelves.”
Jett peered down at Gilda. She was five foot nothing but carried the authority and aura of a giant. “Explored? No, not yet.” He started to go, then turned back. “What kind of unique books?”
“So many lovely first editions in here.” Gilda headed for the Bower. Jett followed his pied piper. “More than two hundred. Melville, Cooper, London, and Phipps Roth. Even Ray Bradbury.” The little book curator stood aside for Jett to enter with fresh eyes.
Lowering his backpack into his chair, he scanned the shelves, taking his first good look at the leather-bound editions from the annals of American literature.
“I didn’t realize there were so many first editions.” Seeing a Hawthorne, he pulled it down and read the front matter.
Gold leaf, first edition. Signed.
“There are many signed too,” Gilda said. “But you should see the libraries where I come from. Endless. Stories you cannot imagine. Some told in ancient times. Some waiting to be told. Waiting for the right one in the right time in history.”
Jett glanced back. “What? Waiting? What do you mean? Where do you come from, Gilda?”
“Have you seen this one?” Gilda pointed to Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Another first edition. “Now there was a courageous writer who picked up the baton and ran.”
Jett opened to the front page.
To Joseph,
Sincerely Yours,
Harriet Beecher Stowe
March 1855
“This book challenged and changed American culture. See how much the written word can do? See how truth can set a soul free?” Gilda asked.
Jett returned the book to the shelf with a lingering eye on Gilda. Every word caused the hair on the back of his neck to bristle.
Stepping away from her, he examined the shelves filled with literary greats of the last two centuries.
His book would never be in here. Rites of Mars wasn’t even in the bookstores, let alone a collector’s library. Let alone a story waiting to be told. He was no Bradbury.
Was he destined for literary greatness? Jett didn’t really care for fame and acclaim. He just wanted the rest of the world to know the beauty and power of a story. How truth woven into the prose could change a person.
Without Gordon’s books, he’d have grown up a cynic, never believing in love, much less romance. Not that he was any good at either one. Ask Lexa.
But he still hoped.
Listening to Ed’s story tonight inspired him to believe again. Even if the old man was sugarcoating his story.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Gilda came alongside him.
“Extremely. A little piece of heaven on earth.” In a place like this Jett could feel like himself, not the black sheep of the adrenaline-loving Wilders family. “I know my work will never be in a room like this.”
“Jett, you have no idea where your work will go. You’re such a young man.” He glanced at Gilda. What did she know? “I read Rites of Mars. It was good.”
“You read Rites of Mars?”
“Don’t look so astounded. It’s my job.”
“Then you know I’m not equal to the names on these shelves.”
“I don’t know any such thing. You are far better than you know. Oh, have you seen the Phipps Roth books? We have all of his first editions.” Gilda led Jett to the last stack of shelves tucked against the back corner. “Joseph and GPR were good friends. Winthrop was a patron of Gordon’s during his writer’s block.”
“Winthrop? GPR never mentioned the man in his memoir or diaries.”
“Isn’t it odd? Joseph and Gordon were sparring partners. They loved a good debate. A good many transpired right in this room.” Reaching up, she gently shoved one of GPR’s books back into place, lining it up with the rest of the gilded leather spines.
“Do you think it’s true? What they say about him?”
“That he had a ghostwriter?”
“Yes.” Jett retrieved The House in Murray Hill for closer inspection. “You seem to know a lot about Gordon.”
To Joseph,
My mentor and friend
GPR January 1910
“As I said, it’s my job to know.”
“I’ve done extensive research on him and have absolutely no reason to believe he was anything but honest, true, and genuine.”
“Did you see a marked difference in his earlier work from The Girl in the Carriage?” she asked.
“Of course, but he’d aged a decade by then. I see maturity in Girl. A man who fell in and out of love. A man who navigated a broken heart. No matter how you strike it, the tone, the pacing, and characters are classic—”
“GPR.” Gilda was watching him.
“Yes, very much so.” He returned Murray Hill to the shelf. “What about the years between Girl and his next work? Do you know why there was such a long wait? The book was such a success, but he took five more years to publish.”
“You’re asking me? You’re the professor.” She pulled down Moonlight on the Hudson. “He was busy, traveling and lecturing, becoming a husband and father.”
“And he had a lot to live up to.” A feeling Jett knew all too well.
“I’ve always been curious about this one though.” Gilda knelt and retrieved a manuscript sandwiched between two sheets of cardboard. “An unpublished novel.”
“Of Gordon’s?” Jett reached for the unbound pages. “How long has this been here?”
When she placed the book in his hands, he quivered a little. What a rare treasure.
“Since the early twentieth century, I believe. According to the notes.”
Jett glanced at the chair against the far wall and backed up to take a seat. “This is amazing.” He flipped through the pages. “Gilda, can I take this home to study?”
“I’m afraid it must stay here.” She reached for it and he nearly snatched it back. “Come early next week and you can go through it.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Nothing.”
An unpublished GPR novel? The Roth Foundation would love to hear about this. Or did they already know? But no one had ever mentioned it to him. What of Dr. Paulson at Oxford? Jett’s friend at Stanford? Or Tenley Roth?
“We’re closing up.” Gilda returned the manuscript to its place and beckoned Jett from the Bower. “Until next week. Good night.”
They walked out together and she disappeared behind the door marked Private.
Jett faced the Bower. She couldn’t drop a treasure in his lap like an unpub
lished GPR manuscript and expect him to leave without any initial inspection.
He backtracked for the big Bower door. Just a quick look. But the knob refused to turn. Jett jiggled and tried again. Locked. Gilda had locked him out.
Fine. He’d come back at the first opportunity. In the meantime, he’d reach out to fellow GPR aficionados and see if they knew of this surprising treasure.
Jett locked into his pedals and started his thirty-minute ride home, cutting through Central Park toward Columbus Avenue.
This manuscript could be the very key to quell the nasty rumors and whispers. Besides, anything new of Gordon’s should be celebrated. First, of course, he’d have to corroborate the uniqueness of his find, but how marvelous. Renée would be thrilled to know Jett might have something new to add right before publication.
By the time he arrived home, he’d planned out how to get time with the book later this week or next Monday, how he’d tell Renée and Dr. Levi and Dr. Paulson.
“Lex, you here?” He crossed the living room with a glance down the hall toward the open master bedroom door. “Have I got something great to tell you. You won’t believe it.”
* * *
Coral
Late Tuesday evening, Coral stopped by Dad’s office. The man sitting at his assistant’s desk was new.
Another one? Eric Winthrop III, titan of business and commerce, went through executive assistants like some men went through cars. Or women.
“Is Mr. Winthrop in?” Coral marched toward the massive teakwood double doors.
“Excuse me, miss?” The assistant dashed around the ornate desk that once belonged to their ancestor, Joseph Winthrop’s grandfather. Hand-carved in Bulgaria and shipped to New York for a whopping five hundred dollars. “He’s asked not to be disturbed.” He blocked her just before she reached the knob.
“I’m his daughter.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t need an appointment.” She shoved the skinny, perspiring man aside—he’d be gone by week’s end—and entered Dad’s expansive and bright office. “I see you have a new assistant.”
Dropping her bag on the chair by the door, Coral crossed to her father’s desk. The plate-glass walls overlooked Manhattan southeast while the two interior sides hosted rare, collectible art.
“Did he look nervous?” Dad remained focused on his laptop.
“Overwhelmed.”
“I’m giving him a chance. He just graduated from Wharton.” At last he looked up. “How can I help you, Coral?”
“Can’t a girl stop by to see her father?” She bent to kiss his cheek, patting him on the shoulder before staring out toward the East River.
“Yes, but you only come to my office when you need something.”
“Do I?” Coral sat on the edge of his desk, reaching for the cut of moon rock he bought at a charity auction. “Makes me sound shallow.”
Dad gently moved her hand from his precious stone. “I’m happy to help but I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
She stared at her manicured fingers. She’d rehearsed this speech a hundred times, almost shared it with the story society, but she’d confessed enough in their short time together.
“Did I tell you I’ve joined a story society? We meet Monday nights in the Bower.”
“The Bower? At the Fifth Avenue library? Is this your own venture? I’m glad to see you’re stepping out.” Dad moved to the bar and poured a finger of brandy. “Your mother called after the Gottlieb Gala. She believes the worst of your ordeal is over.” Dad gestured to an empty glass. Coral shook her head. “Is it? You seem in better spirits lately. Have you been going out with your friends?”
“I am better, yes.” But no, she hadn’t been going out with her friends. Not her old ones anyway. “This little society has proved distracting enough.”
“Your mom thinks you and Gus might start over. She was talking to his mother—”
“What? No. Dad, please tell Mom to stay out of it. Stop talking to the queen. I know you don’t understand, but I am confident of my decision.”
“Then enlighten me. Why did you leave?”
It’d been a year since she left her prince at the altar. Surely her parents understood by now she’d talk about it when she was ready.
“I came to talk about CCW.” Spying the fridge paneled into the wall, Coral retrieved a water and took a seat on the imported leather sofa facing the ten-foot windows and stretch of the city.
Dad joined her, legs crossed, arms spread across the back of the couch, the tumbler of brandy dangling from his fingers, and waited.
“Dad.” She pressed her palms together. This was hard. None of her practiced words fit the moment. “CCW is in trouble.”
“Trouble?” He remained calm and took a sip from his glass. “Define trouble.”
“In the red. Bleeding money. I’m flummoxed. Blaire and Dak are sure it’s Pink Coral. But sales are steady on other products. Not where we projected, but not enough to make the bottom line so very, very red.” She twisted the cap from the green glass bottle and took a long drink. “In the marketing surveys and focus groups the lip gloss was popular, Dad. We did so well. Moms loved the product as much as the girls.” She waited for him to reply, struggling to hold his steady, unhanging gaze.
He angled forward. “Is this about Gus?”
“No, Dad, no. Gus? He’s ancient history. I mean it when I say it, so don’t doubt me.” She slipped from the wool-and-tweed-blend suit jacket and folded it over the back of the couch. “It’s about CCW.”
“Coral, if you’re losing money you have to find the bleed and stop it. If it’s the new product, cut it. Are you being honest with yourself? You were out of the country, away from the New York office when you were with Gus. Have you gone over every detail? Reconciled sales with returns and profits? What about overhead, expenses, salaries, and taxes? You hired Blaire and Dak for their expertise and wisdom. Blaire turned Glitter Girl around overnight. I’d trust her if I were you. Or fire her.”
“I’ve gone over everything. I see the sales and then reconcile with profits and it just seems I’ve fallen into a black hole. And I’ve refused to believe Pink Coral alone is the culprit.” She sighed. “Maybe I need to face facts, listen to my team. All of them say the product, the advertising, the marketing, is not working. Returns are higher than expected and apparently the website, which was our main storefront, is hard to navigate. Yet when I try it I swear a two-year-old could order product if she had a credit card. Dad?” Her next question merited her frown and furrowed brow. “Do you think I’m not right to lead CCW? Should I hand it over to you? Can Marybeth or Wilma take it over?”
Aunt Marybeth and Cousin Wilma were a mother-daughter entrepreneur duo. Not versed in the cosmetics world but sharp, clever women running a sportswear company.
“I think the girl who found the courage and fortitude to break it off with her fiancé an hour before the wedding is the perfect girl to run CCW. Find that girl and confront what’s going on.”
“Sometimes I think I lost her forever.”
“What made you break it off? What motivated you?”
He wouldn’t believe her if she told him. He’d scoff. At least at first. Then ask a million questions. But maybe, perhaps, she could return to that source for wisdom.
“Dad, even if I find her, it doesn’t mean I’ll find what’s breaking the company.” The conversation made her head ache.
How she longed to just pack a bag and hop on a plane to the Caribbean or the South Pacific.
“Mr. Winthrop?” The perspiring, nervous assistant entered. “Senator Snead to see you.”
“Ask him to wait, Miles. And you’re sweating again.” Dad raised his drink for a long sip and leveled his attention on Coral. “Then you know my rule. Clean slate. If you can’t figure out the problem with your team, fire your senior leadership and start over. Hard to believe you’re the same woman who convinced me you could run CCW six thousand miles away while fulfilling royal
duties and perhaps producing royal babies. Is the company the reason you left Gus?”
“CCW is not the reason, no. But I’m sort of glad I did now. Who knows where we’d be in a year if I were not stateside.” She reached for her handbag and water. “I will say CCW wasn’t a bone of contention between us. I planned to commute, work long distance with an office set up in Port Fressea. Gus actually supported me. Now I should go. I believe Senator Snead is waiting for you.” Coral aimed for the door. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Are you ever going to tell me? The whole story? Not bits and pieces?”
Coral paused with her hand on the brass knob. “When I’m sure I totally understand myself, yes, I will.”
The senator barged in. “Eric, I’m sorry I’m late. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” His fixed smile only accented the steely ire in his eyes. “Am I interrupting?”
“Stan, you remember my daughter, Coral.”
“Of course, the one who bolted on the Lauchtenland prince.”
“But you can call me Coral.” She shook his hand. “Nice to see you again, Senator. Dad, I’ll keep you posted.”
“You’re a Winthrop,” he said. “Never forget.”
How could she forget? The family name was carved into buildings, molded into plaques, and scattered throughout Manhattan history. Carved into her DNA.
Her grandmother and great-grandmother were courageous, ingenious women. Their blood ran in her veins. All she had to do was believe.
Believe. One simple word, and the truth about how she’d found the courage to leave Gus on a clear blue, blustery September day.
Chapter 18
Lexa
Dr. Haft was pleased with her progress. No surgery required. However, he still recommended she stay out of work another week.
“Your fall makes me nervous. Let’s keep that arm safe.”
Lexa objected but he insisted. And she wasn’t one to rebel against authorities like doctors or police officers.
