My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

  A beep sounded from her computer.

  Oh, drat.

  She glanced at the manuscript proposals on her desk. Three people she selected would soon get the biggest Christmas present of their lives. At least she could make somebody happy, if not herself. After all, getting that ‘big call’ from a publisher about your book was a once-in-a-lifetime dream. What better gift was there than that?

  The intern was back with her mail. “Isn’t it time?”

  “For a lobotomy? Hours ago.”

  “He’s not in yet.”

  She glanced over the cubicle for any sign of her boss. He appeared at meetings on the dot; no exceptions. Six more minutes until the monthly meeting with the publishing ice-fish of Fifth Avenue.

  Bells.

  Angels.

  Three lucky authors were about to get their bells. It was Lucy’s job as a manuscript reviewer to read fifty promising books each month and select three to present to the ice-fish for publication.

  Her desk phone jangled. “This is Lucy,” she answered.

  “Hey, gorgeous, there you are.”

  Her toes curled hearing Mark Roland’s sultry voice that would make most women glop into a malleable pile of oatmeal and offer to have his babies.

  “Why are you calling me at work?” she challenged, aware it was her fault since she left him three desperate voicemails after her rejection.

  “You called me, love. I’m beyond thrilled, too.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. We can’t take personal calls here, though.”

  “Well, don’t run now. How have you been?”

  “Terrific. Any minute now I’m jetting off to Hawaii in my private plane.”

  He laughed. “May I join you?”

  “No room. You know I travel with my books.”

  “And, your little book? Still chasing that fantasy?”

  Last night she was prepared to get naked in his bed if it meant her mom’s needs would be met. It was Lucy’s job to make that happen even if it meant selling her humiliated soul to the devil himself. What right did she have to take somebody’s eyesight and leave them to rot while she danced on tables?

  Little book.

  Jerk.

  Lucy avoided confrontation like a lunatic elf gone wild. Her father labeled her as the runner of Brooklyn when she was ten. Yes, she was known for her passivity. Nobody understood introverts.

  “I have to go,” she snipped, suddenly regretting contacting him.

  “But, lover, I miss you terribly. When can I see you?”

  “When a solar flare hits the earth.”

  “As long as you’re in my arms when that happens.”

  “Actually, I was thinking I’d see you after it happens when I’m dead.”

  “You called me back, so you must be thinking about me.”

  “You’re harassing my mom. Hardly the same thing.”

  “Did you hear about my big contract?”

  She gulped down the remainder of her peppermint mocha. “Yep.”

  “And?”

  “And, it’s a contract. So?”

  He chuckled as if enjoying her jealousy. “Babe, I talked them into meeting you.”

  “Why, so they can laugh at my little book?”

  “Ah, you know I’m just kidding about that. But, doll, be realistic here. If you want that thing published, you’re going to need an insider to help you do it. Nobody wants a cheesy novice Christmas story.”

  Her eyes singed from the insult.

  “Choke on a candy cane, jerk.” She slammed the receiver down.

  Then, she dumped the Starbucks into the trash hard enough to pop off the lid. If it’s one thing she learned from working in a publishing house, it was that she needed thicker skin from all the sloppy poop in the world.

  The phone jangled again.

  Oh, gingersnap.

  She answered and poled her spine straight. “I’ll have you know that Jim Carey made millions in a movie that came from a little holiday book by Dr. Seuss that made its way into every child’s library. And by the way, you should know all about the Grinch because your heart’s just as moldy green as his.”

  There was a long silence.

  Then a giggle that could only be Heather holding her tiny waist. “Let me guess, Mark called?”

  Lucy expelled, “Who else?”

  “Did he insult your book again?”

  “It’s my fault, I called him last night.”

  “But, why?”

  “Temporary insanity maybe. I’d rather copulate with a pineapple than Mark Roland ever again. I don’t know what I was thinking. That stupid envelope really did a number on me.”

  “You’re too sensitive to rejection.”

  “Easy for you to say when nobody’s ever said no to you in your life.”

  “Not true,” defended Heather with a waspy sigh. “Just this morning I tried to get a free ticket to Harper’s Bazaar fashion week by offering to model for them at a reduced price. They hung up on me!”

  “They have professional models for that.”

  “I sent them a submission package weeks ago. They probably think I’m fat.”

  Lucy wanted to complain that once again Heather managed to pull the focus back to herself. A little flattery usually nipped that in the bud fast. “You’re too pretty for modeling.”

  “True that, I guess. So what will you do now then?”

  “I’ll find another way that doesn’t involve being Mark Roland’s brainless bread-baking concubine.”

  “One of the biggest publishers in the world took the time to give you feedback and advise you to edit the book and resubmit it. None of the others did that. Why don’t you do it?”

  “My book is perfect as it is.”

  More silence.

  Lucy knew what her best friend was thinking. If it was so perfect, why did nobody buy it? She knew her book was genius, heartfelt, and brilliant, and not in the Mark Roland narcissistic kind of way. She wasn’t about to alter it just to meet an industry standard even if it meant eating pizza crust from a garbage disposal.

  “I can’t talk,” she said, stacking her files. “I have my pitch.”

  “You know, I read the article about William Harcourt in Publisher’s Weekly. Your mom mentioned it to me last week. Yumbo, Lucy, why not hit that cutie up?”

  “Do you think about anything other than hot men?”

  “Sure, all week I’ve been plotting a way for Dolce and Gabbana to sell me a Peruvian silk scarf at a sale price when they never have sales. For some reason they’re beyond stubborn about that.”

  Lucy decided then and there no more Mark Roland. Ever since they met at a writer’s workshop, he made sure she understood her lowly position on the bibliophile food chain. If he had his way, she’d be ringing cash registers at a bookstore instead of writing books.

  “I have my monthly presentation,” Lucy argued.

  “Hey, I know what would fix your life. Why don’t you submit your book instead?”

  “Employees aren’t allowed to submit to our publishing house. It’s against policy.”

  “You’re as good as anybody else.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t even read my book.”

  “Oh, you know I don’t read. But seriously, submit it.”

  “I’ll get fired if I do that,” she retorted, impatiently. “It would drop our ratings, making it look like favoritism if the company published employees. Everybody here loves books, we all write. It’s unethical.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  “I’d get fired with zero job reference.”

  “So, don’t tell them it’s you. Why not try?”

  “They don’t pay as much anyway. That won’t help my mom.”

  “You have the right to success, not just for your mom. Blaming yourself for her accident, you’ll spend your life trying to rectify something that can’t be undone. You have to forgive yourself, Lucy.”

  “Not until she’s taken care of.”

  “Your mom wants you
r life to be about your needs. And, you can’t base your self-worth on the rejection of others. You’re more talented than you know.”

  Another alarm dinged.

  She caught view of her boss parading toward his office. As always, he wore the finest navy-blue suit that looked straight out of a men’s Esquire Magazine, and he wore it in a masculine way that was impossible to ignore.

  She said to the phone, “I don’t deserve success.”

  Then quickly hung up and grabbed the files.

  Moments later, she rapped on the open door frame of the ice-fish’s office. The earlier confidence she felt by quieting Mark Roland in his shoes now leached from her limbs. “I hope I’m on time.”

  William Harcourt pulled up his window blinds for a surrounding view of Manhattan’s polar storm. Hands in his pockets, he walked the length of the windows studying the blanketed streets. “Quite the mess today.”

  “Some people aren’t even here.”

  “We’ll have to work late to compensate.”

  It was hard to concentrate when, as always, he smelled like freshly starched laundry with an equally stiff suit to prove it. She enjoyed hearing his voice; that of a young man trying to sound intentionally severe.

  “Let’s begin, shall we?” he posed.

  Walking into his office always felt like taking a deep breath and praying a hurricane gust didn’t trample her flat on the sidewalk. “Should we go to the conference room?” she asked.

  “Do you have anything worth my time?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  He draped his arms over the back of his chair. “Ms. Carpenter, last month you—”

  “Actually, could you call me by my first name?”

  His lips rounded a wet sound. “I’m not sure I know what it is.”

  “Oh, of course. Never mind.”

  “My apologies. I should know my employees’ names. What is it?”

  She tucked a loose tendril behind her ear from a messy bun. “It’s Lucy.”

  His eyes went to the top of her fiery red hair. “As in I…”

  “Yes, my mom was a fan. Her mother, my grandmother, met Lucille Ball once when she was a teenager. She was in the audience of a live studio recording. The Black Wig episode.”

  “I see. It suits you.”

  “I wrote an essay about her in grad school.”

  “About?”

  “Desilu Productions was her brainchild. She named it after her husband because she was foolishly in love with the cheating louse because he was brilliant. The world thought it was his company. It wasn’t.”

  “I see.”

  “She trail-blazed her way through Hollywood and revolutionized comedy television and gave a green light to produce shows that weren’t typical comedy prototypes. She had a real knack for spotting talent.”

  He nodded. “As do you with new writers.”

  Taking a seat, she relaxed. “Do you have a favorite episode?”

  She doubted the king of cool ever watched a single one. The man didn’t possess so much as a framed picture of a sailboat, much less show an interest in anything outside of work.

  He settled into his chair. “Lucy Writes a Novel. What else?”

  Interesting. Her favorite as well.

  “I’m glad you didn’t say Vitameatavegamin,” she replied.

  “Her book title: Real Gone With the Wind.”

  They both chuckled at the episode, which helped soothe her wracking nerves. She wasn’t prepared for an equally calming laugh that engulfed her like a crochet blanket. A slight dimple appeared in his cheek; cute enough to make her heart flip cartwheels in her chest. The feeling took her off guard.

  “Have you ever read the real book?”

  “Maybe when I retire.” Pen in hand, he changed the subject. “Now, what do you have for me?”

  “It wasn’t easy this month. Fifty-one books total, so I chose three.”

  “Who will make us look the best?”

  “I prefer to choose based on what our readers will like the most.”

  “The concept is one and the same, Ms. Carpenter.”

  So much for her first name. She watched him set down the pen and smooth back both sides of his feathered chestnut hair as if assuring no strand was out of place. Her mind trailed to thoughts about what it would feel like to run her fingers through it. She imagined it was stiff, like an ironing board.

  “We’re here to make money.”

  She opened the file, throat tightening. “First, I recommend a fantasy novel about a boy and his—”

  “Please don’t say owl.”

  “I was going to say squirrel. There’s a real market for—”

  “The world doesn’t need another Daniel Radcliffe. Next?”

  She flipped through her queries and notes. “A love story.”

  “About?”

  “A divorced woman who lost her husband in Afghanistan. She uses his legacy to—”

  “Start a non-profit? That’s original. Next?”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “We want our readers to feel bloody fantastic. War, grief, and loss hit too close to reality. Next?”

  “Good literature is about character transformation. For my graduate work, I earned honors in contemporary literature. I know great books.”

  “I thought your talent was speed reading.”

  “Yes, and during that process, I can identify quality tal—”

  “Do you have anything else?”

  She wanted to respond that she had a book on how to develop a personality when you didn’t have one, attempting to tell herself that his businesslike attitude was due to his role, but then didn’t buy her own rationale. Surely, a man as stern, severe, and good looking as this one must be the real deal.

  “Are we in a hurry?” she challenged.

  “To finally find some real talent, very much. What’s next?”

  “My personal favorite. Three sisters who came across on a ship from Sweden at the turn of the century. Their parents were—”

  His hand flagged up. “Please, no more.”

  “It’s the most beautiful prose I’ve ever read.”

  “Historical novels bring misery. We don’t need more Baudelaire children.”

  “You read a Series of Unfortunate Events?”

  “I’m a publisher, Ms. Carpenter. I know books, good ones especially.”

  “Anyhow, the sisters aren’t children. Their parents died in…”

  An intercom crackled on his desk phone. “Mr. Harcourt, the New York Times is here.”

  He punched a button. “Put them in the interview room.”

  Lucy pushed more adamantly, “Mr. Harcourt, I really think my choices will make best-seller lists. Would you at least read my proposal and report? I’m happy to tell you more about them.”

  “Do you have anything else?”

  “The rest are in slush. My job is to pick the best.”

  “If these are the best, then all the good writers are going somewhere else.”

  “You mean to your father?”

  His dreamy chocolate eyes pierced her severely. “Excuse me?”

  “I heard that your father owns one of the Top Five. That they hit seven figures this year.”

  He popped his knuckles on the desk. “We don’t talk about him here.”

  “Actually, everybody does.”

  “Then they can take their last paychecks and go work for him.”

  “I’m only saying, it’s our job to know the competition.”

  “Ms. Carpenter, I don’t need you to tell me about our competition. What I need is for you to find me new talent that will remove the competition. Understand?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because my job is to make something of this company.”

  “We make books that make people happy.”

  “If that was my goal, I’d have gone to work for Publisher’s Clearing House. Ms. Carpenter, my vision for this company is to become one of Manhattan�
�s Top Five. To push my father’s company into the dirt. How can I do that by publishing flying squirrels and sinking Swedish ships and fiery bomb shrapnel?”

  She raised her chin. “The girls lost their parents to a car bomb.”

  “There you go, my point proven.”

  “The point that you have some kind of a feudal duel with your father?”

  Something about this man made her usual mousy passivity bubble like Mrs. Santa Claus’ soup pot. How could a gorgeous hunk of man have such a disastrous personality with the patience of Rudolph waiting to take his next flight?

  “Forget I said that then. What I mean is no more mediocre.”

  “I’m not sure what you want,” she confessed.

  “I’m looking for the next biggest author who will write us into fame. Somebody who will turn us into the publishing house that birthed a star bigger than Jane Austen or Lemony Snicket or James Patterson. I need a hot sensation, Lucy, and not just another good story. We’re out of time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “For making it in the industry. There are far too many average books in the world and equally too many publishers putting them on paper. We need something fresh, dazzling, lovely.”

  “Lovely?”

  “Something like you,” he added with an upbeat tone.

  Her heart skipped a beat. “You think I’m lovely?”

  Face reddening, he smoothed down his tie. “What I meant, is personable.”

  Lovely.

  Not a word expected from the coldest gill-bearing aquatic craniate in the Arctic. It seemed he slipped into sounding like a human and immediately corrected himself. Her mind raked over the books she skimmed that month for any better options. Usually, he accepted at least two of her proposals.

  “No more second-rate talent,” he stated, back to stoic.

  “I assure you that these novels are wonderful. Two made me cry.”

  He sprang to his feet when a fax machine on a corner table blared. “I don’t want to cry, Lucy. I want to be wiped across the floor speechless, because the book made me feel so good.” Scanning the fax, he came back to the desk and tossed it there. “Do you have anything else?”

  “Such as?”

  “Something fresh and uplifting due to all the misery in the world; a new concept, perhaps.”