My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

  “What’s the gag?”

  “No gag, Ms. Carpenter. I’d like you to hire a holiday decorator to transform the top floor into a winter wonderland. The biggest tree that will fit, ceiling lights, the works.”

  She eyed him, skeptically. “You mean it?”

  “I can’t have people dying off because of me, or thinking I hate Christmas.”

  Not only was this woman paramount to his success with Bibi Roquette, he secretly longed for a more festive office environment. Ever since reading the little Christmas book and chatting with Bibi, he couldn’t stop thinking about the holidays of his childhood where everything was happy and bright.

  A nice feeling.

  The trick was holding the illusion of respect while softening like Play-Doh. Why not just bring FAO Schwartz back from the dead and turn Big Apple Books into a toy emporium?

  He slapped his hands together. “Now, shall we move on?”

  Michael finally set down his mug and approached from behind. “I haven’t had this much entertainment since we saw Wicked on Broadway.”

  Lucy yelped, lurching straight into William’s arms.

  He held her by the elbows. “We have company. You never gave me a chance to introduce you.”

  Just as fast, she yanked herself away, which he didn’t like. Her curves were a refreshing change from the rail-thin weeds around Manhattan who constantly starved themselves for love.

  “My dear!” said Mike, clasping her hand for a greeting. “How lovely you are.”

  “This is quite humiliating,” she took it back.

  “You walked right in on our meeting.”

  Her cheeks reddened like a niacin flash. “Please tell me you’re not from The New York Times.”

  William introduced, “This is Mr. Worthington, the owner of the company.”

  “As in, our boss? Oh Lord!”

  “Please, call me Mike,” said the man. Then to William, “You have a real winner here, Will.”

  “She’d make a strong union leader.”

  She tidied up her hair as if preparing for a photo shoot. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “I’ve never seen William give in so easily. I must say, it was fun to watch.”

  William plunked into a squishy chair. “Can we please proceed?”

  Lucy did the same, preparing to take more notes. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mike took the head of the table. “The truth of the matter is that all these years, I had no idea we were killing people. You, my dear, could have just saved dozens of lives and numerous lawsuits.”

  Her jaw sagged a tad. “Um, yes, well, I’m glad, I guess.”

  “I’m only saddened we’ve never met before today.”

  “Yes, quite the shame. I didn’t mean to cause a ruckus.”

  Enough small talk.

  William took his seat at the head of the table. “It’s time to discuss Bibi Roquette.”

  So much for her diversion.

  Lucy dropped the pen, hairs pricking on the back of her neck. The same dread was back that emerged when called to the conference room. This was getting real now. Why did she let it get so far?

  “Why do you need me?” she asked, shakily.

  “I’d like you to be the liaison to make this deal happen. She trusts you.”

  “She told me you’ve been emailing her.”

  “Whenever I start to talk about business, she clams up or signs off.”

  “So, what can I do about that?”

  “We need you to convince her to speak to us in person.”

  “What’s wrong with email?”

  “I need to see her in person, to meet her.”

  She scratched at her chest from perspiration making it itch. “She won’t do that.”

  “You need to convince her.”

  “Why is that even necessary? If you push her, she’ll quit the whole thing and run; withdraw any chance of giving book rights and vanish into outer space like a rocket.”

  “She needs to come to the office and sign contracts.”

  Oh, cinnamon sticks.

  Now what?

  “Email them to her,” she stammered.

  “That will give her too much time to read them without the pressure of our watching.”

  A knot formed at her throat. “I don’t understand.”

  “You and I both know she’ll never sign the contract if she knows what she really has to do. This means I have to act craftily to get her to sign. Understand?”

  “She’s like Mrs. Travers in Saving Mr. Banks when he pushed her too far about Mary Poppins. If it can’t be on her terms, then she won’t do it.”

  Mike added, “Lucy, we can’t publish an author of this magnitude without getting her face into the public. Book tours, book signings, book fairs, social media, radio stations, newspapers, magazines.”

  “So, this is about publicity?”

  “She has social anxiety,” added William with a steely tone. “This makes it beyond difficult.”

  Mike again, “Once she does it a few times, she’ll be more relaxed.”

  “But, she won’t do it!” Lucy cried.

  “She will once she’s contractually obligated and has no choice. We get her to sign without reading the fine print and just leave that part out. Then, once it’s done and the money’s paid, she’ll have to fulfill her duty.”

  Her heart was literally out of her chest now. “You want to deceive her?”

  “Not deceive,” replied the head honcho of the company. “Gradually introduce.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we pull her into this in stages and walk her through it. Clearly, she’s acting from anxiety, which isn’t based on rationality. Once she gets her funds, sees her book come to life, learns of her obligation, then we’ll assign her an agent and a counselor to help her with the rest.”

  “But, that’s dishonest!”

  William interjected, “The future of our company depends on her. We need your help.”

  “Frankly, you’re like that snake in The Jungle Book.”

  Big-mouth alert.

  He ignored that. “We won’t stop her from reading the contract. We just won’t go out of our way to discuss it.”

  If Lucy didn’t care about taking responsibility for her mistake, she’d have slapped them both. She believed in redemption; aware that she had no right to feel aghast at their trickery when she was the mastermind behind the great literary hoax of the twenty-first century. The title of hypocrite didn’t sit well with her.

  “Trust me, it’s well worth the effort,” added Will.

  She flicked the edge of her pad. “It’s just a Christmas book.”

  “Young William here feels that this woman will be the next P.L. Travers, as you chose to reference. While his first name isn’t Walt, I have to say his cleverness is on par.”

  “It’s holiday Utopia, Lucy,” said William.

  She rallied back, “So, you’re Sir Thomas More? Even he got his head lopped off.”

  William Harcourt popped up the tabs on his briefcase. Extracted a fat bundle of papers and set it between them. “This is a financial summary of what we expect from her book. Would you like to see it?”

  “All we need is the author’s signature,” Mike added.

  Lucy set down her pen with gentle tidiness while eyeballing the pages. Every organ in her body twitched with a different emotion that left her numb in the brain. Whatever was typed into the pages was her dream.

  Her salvation.

  Her mom’s future that was Lucy’s responsibility to fix. She’d finally achieve success for her mom. Maybe even be able to breathe again for the first time since the accident. The guilt was now a real beast to carry around, and she’d be more than happy to set it aside.

  “This is her offer?” she whispered, anxiously.

  “Just financials.” He pushed it her way. “Take a look.”

  Touching it would change her forever. Deep down, she knew it was never going to happen. Honesty reigne
d high on her list of values, which at present were lower than the fungus that fed on dirt.

  “See this number?” William tapped a page.

  Pushing her glasses up her nose, she bent forward for a read, spotting a series of digits in red that surely must have been the number of people in the country on food stamps and not a royalty payment.

  “You’re proposing she’ll make the studio this much?” she asked.

  He shared a look with the older man. “Lucy, this will be her salary, which includes an advance and royalties, plus a salary for buying the screenplay rights.”

  A cold chill swept down her arms. She was never any good as an actress. In fifth grade, she played a tree in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. To this day, the tree costume begged for an apology.

  “There are seven digits there,” informed Michael.

  She asked William, “How many years until Bibi earns this?”

  “This is just her first-year numbers. We plan on offering a multiple-book contract, which will mean numerous movies and double and triple numbers with each year. If we build the town, double that.”

  “Um, a town costs gobs of money to build.”

  “I’m already lining up investors for that.”

  “What investors?”

  “Some are banks; others are kings in the publishing or book industry who want dibs on getting a branch of their business started in the town. I have connections, don’t worry.”

  “You need land to build a town.”

  “I have a lead on county land between city limits. We have to hire a surveyor to draw up boundaries for the town. The governor has to get at least fifty-one percent votes from the state to make it happen.”

  She lifted a brow at the idea. “Just like that?”

  “Leave the business part to me.”

  “But, you can’t just start a town. Why not throw up some buildings, get a crazy hairstylist, some tiny cars, and call it Whoville?”

  Michael added, “Will has already spoken to the top architects and designers in the business willing to draw plans for book-themed businesses. One who built an entire street out of recycled materials.”

  Lucy had to admit it sounded intriguing.

  And, ridiculous.

  “I don’t see how this has anything to do with the book,” she said, mostly focused on how this whole scheme would land her in an iron sweat box.

  William explained, practically, “I have lawyers willing to work on the paperwork, a plot of land in mind, political backing in the state, even a proposed form of town government. I know people, Lucy!”

  “Bibi Roquette will be very rich,” said his boss.

  Not just one million.

  Double.

  Triple.

  Just short five-million dollars, which most likely was just the minimum predicted. Five million dollars would mean her mom could have as many surgeries as she needed. Lucy could buy her a house with a live-in assistant who could help her adjust as her eyesight came back.

  Or, if it didn’t.

  Mary Carpenter could do many things with the money. Start her own school for the blind even. Either way, Lucy would make sure she had every dime with nothing left wanting.

  “These numbers…” garbled her tongue.

  “All we need her to do is sign and give us the book. We’re going to get in on an express printing and get it out for Christmas. Every other book will be on the back burner.”

  “But, that’s in three weeks.”

  “Which is why I need to speak with Bibi right away. Can you arrange it?”

  Lucy gripped the edge of the table while thinking fast. “She won’t come in person; I know that for sure.”

  “We can’t make this happen if she’s not willing to do an author’s job.”

  “She has a right to privacy.”

  Impatience thickened his voice. “The truth is, I’ve been fibbing to her.”

  Of course, Lucy already knew that since she was Bibi. What she also knew was that her sympathy for this man cooled her fumes when learning from his emails what drove him to the idea.

  An abusive dad – she got that.

  The emails with Bibi leaked the softie behind the cement. William Harcourt cherished the holidays with a passion. It made sense why he chose a holiday novel. Knowing he possessed a festive spirit, she played on the secret as a diversion when getting called into the meeting with him.

  “The entire fate of the company is up to you,” stated William.

  Her mind was wandering again.

  Drat.

  She could never resist books or dark chocolate or turning up the radio to a classic Christmas carol, but she could totally resist faking her identity one more time. Being the kind of girl who couldn’t resist eating all the chocolate in the house meant she was also the kind of girl who felt guilt over her choices.

  Bad ones.

  “Holy pearls!” was all she said.

  The receptionist stuck her head in the door. “Mr. Worthington? Maxwell Harcourt is here to see you.”

  William sprung up tall. “Why?”

  Mike waved her to go out. “I called him here for a meeting.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “We’re going to negotiate on his offer. I’ll see if I can buy time.”

  Then William pinned her with an intolerant glare. “She has until tomorrow at noon to call me or the deal’s off. She wants to be famous? Then tell her to quit spinning around.”

  A painful silence loomed through the room.

  Michael stretched to a tall stand. “Son, you’ll never fix what’s wrong inside by competing with your father. Your successes are your own; you’ve nothing to prove. Approval and self-love come from within.”

  Lucy felt a stab of sympathy for William. Why didn’t he think he was good enough?

  William’s shoulders drooped as if all the air left him. The firm chin emerged. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

  She touched his arm, eager to ease the awkwardness. “Bibi works during the day. Perhaps tomorrow night she can call you?”

  Why did she say that? There was no way such a call could happen. Yet, her limbs tremored with excitement thinking about the marvelous future her book could provide them.

  One call.

  No more purgatory. Finally, she’d be free

  They both would.

  “Very well,” he agreed.

  Michael shook his hand. “Excellent work.”

  It would buy her time to come up with another way.

  But, a book town?

  Now that was an idea she could live with. Her suitcase would be the first one packed. At least the one full of her own books and holiday cherry-cordial chocolates. And, maybe even a miniature William Harcourt.

  Some thought.

  Chapter 7

  “Choose chocolate over a man, unless he comes with chocolate-covered books.”

  With Love, Vivien

  * * *

  She wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

  “In ten more minutes,” announced Lucy, looking in the mirror. “I’ll never be happy again.”

  Sitting on her vanity stool applying peppermint lip gloss, her mood darkened. Any moment now, and Mark Roland would arrive to pick her up for the date she foolishly initiated.

  Heather’s voice rang out from the speakerphone. “Lots of people marry for money.”

  “Lots of people get constipated. Doesn’t mean they like it.”

  “If I had a man like Mark Roland, I’d roll in the lap of luxury.”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to die today while everything’s still perfect?”

  “What a drably dull thing to say.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Your mom’s blind. How is it perfect?”

  “It would be wonderful to die right now just knowing somebody wants my book. I could die happy without having to stick around and see how things turn out.”

  “If I die, it will be naked with a man close me.”

  “In Hawaii on a bed of diamond
s, right?”

  “Rose petals, actually. I’d be wearing the diamonds. But really, you still have options.”

  “So did Hitler and each one ended horrifically.”

  Yep.

  The frolicking days of Kansas where people were pure and love reined free were gone. Her goal now was to avoid going through with the phone call at all costs, even if it meant marrying Mark Roland. She stayed awake all night thinking about it. There was always the option of divorce once her mom was cared for.

  Or, taking a lover.

  Heather hummed through Lucy’s phone, “What are you going to wear?”

  “The Torrid.”

  “The black cocktail dress? Then you need a flashy belt.”

  “Then I’ll look like an Oompa Loompa.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with curves, Lucy. It’s a thing now, especially in ethnic cultures.”

  “That doesn’t include third generation Irish.”

  “I don’t even get why you haven’t cancelled?”

  “Mark’s my only option now.” Elbows on the dressing table, Lucy flicked on mascara in the mirror. “He’s rich, famous, and wants me. Fast solution, don’t you think?”

  “I thought you detested him.”

  “Just because his heart’s as empty as a stocking with a hole in it, doesn’t mean I can’t focus on his good qualities. He knows how to wine and dine a woman, at least.”

  “So, what about the book?”

  “I haven’t heard anything in days. Probably changed their minds,” she lied.

  Telling Heather about the now-or-never phone call would give false hope that she didn’t want to think about. No doubt her clever friend would jump into a plan. Continuing with the hoax felt unethical.

  William Harcourt had pain; Lucy got that.

  What would his father think when he made the biggest sensational success of his life only to find out it was all an easy slip of wool over his eyes? It would destroy William to itty bitty bits.

  “You think you scared him off in your emails?” asked Heather.

  Lucy pulled curlers from her hair. “Something like that.”

  “At least Mark’s totally into you and willing to take you back.”

  “I’d be the one taking him back, the rat.”