“Of course we believe that a court-ordered enforcement of the full provisions of both my client’s grandfather’s and father’s wills may result in bad publicity for your client.”
“We shouldn’t argue the case here,” Alligator said. “Let’s save arguments for the courtroom.”
Moving deliberately, Linda set a ream’s worth of printed pages on the table. They were neatly bound with a rubber band. “This is exhibit one. Your copy.”
Her mother glanced at the stack, but said nothing. Alligator looked at Ted, who nodded. “What should we call this exhibit?”
“My memoir.” Linda felt detached but in the right way. She wasn’t helplessly angry right now or lost like a little child, she was simply in control and aware of it. She was conscious. It would take a couple of years of steady work to break old habits and explore the many, many ways her earlier life had left her damaged.
“It’s called Winning at Any Price: the Story of a Daughter and 128
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Mother. Catchy title, I think, especially since I’ll have my full birth name, Lindsey Vanessa Bartok Price, on it.”
“That’s blackmail.” Her mother leaned forward in spite of a restraining gesture from Alligator. “I’ll sue you and the publisher for everything.”
“Truth is truth.” Linda realized she felt powerful for the first time with her mother, that she had true control over the conversation. “It’s not blackmail because regardless of the outcome of the competency hearing, I’m going to publish this. Win or lose, I’m talking. You can’t silence me. You have nothing to offer me that I value.”
Her mother glared. “You’ll never see a penny of my money again and my will is explicit that you get nothing, ever.”
Linda said again, “You have nothing to offer me that I value.”
“I won’t let you ruin our family name.” There it was, at long last—a note of panic in her mother’s voice.
Linda thought, with surprised clarity, I’ll never look like her, not because of the surgeries, but because inside she’s ugly and I’m not. She would have to share that thought with Dr. Kirkland. Certainly, Dr.
K already knew how much the loan of a laptop had meant to Linda.
When Linda said nothing, Ted Jeffers smoothly explained,
“There’s no way of predicting how publishing a detailed memoir will affect the Price family name. But it might encourage other little girls who were tortured and abused in pursuit of beauty pageant crowns to speak out.”
Her mother looked at Alligator, who hurriedly said, “We’ll get an injunction.”
“What a pity, then, that just this morning I dropped off copies of the manuscript to the Herald—both the entertainment and financial editors, as well as posted copies to several publishers.”
Her mother went white. “If this isn’t blackmail, then what was the purpose of this meeting?”
“To prepare for the hearing,” Ted said, with a bland smile. “In the interests of disclosure, Linda is submitting this manuscript as 129
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proof that she is more than capable of completing a project while she holds down a job and maintains her own residence. In addition, it explains for the first time the mitigating circumstances on her unfortunate and deeply regretted suicide attempts, something no judge has ever heard. Her therapist—assigned initially by the last facility her mother committed her to—is also willing to speak on Linda’s behalf. We’re ready for your own psychiatrist’s evalua-tion and this morning—” He handed a paper across the table to Alligator. “This morning we requested the court go ahead and appoint its own evaluator.”
Amazed, Linda watched her mother rise to her feet. “How could you do this to me?”
She hadn’t thought about what kind of response she’d get from her mother, not really. Was that because she no longer cared?
What mattered was how telling her story helped her move on with her life. “My decision is not about you. It’s about me finally letting go of what you did to me.”
“You’ve always told hurtful and cruel lies. I gave you beauty—a body that could rival any supermodel’s. You repaid me by faltering in every competition!”
Huh, Linda wondered. She’d have to talk that over with Dr.
Kirkland. Maybe she had sabotaged her pageant chances subcon-sciously, trying not to give her mother what she wanted. “I know that it hurts you that you couldn’t fill that case you set up in the house for my trophies and tiaras.”
“You can claim you hated it all but I saw you. Don’t forget I was there.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You enjoyed the compli-ments and fawning attention of judges. You enjoyed being the little Lolita. Remember how you used to show your paltry second-place trophies to your grandfather? I knew what you were doing but I only wanted you to be happy.”
Linda guessed she couldn’t keep the puzzlement out of her face, because her mother quickly added, “Don’t look at me like you don’t know.”
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Alligator leaned into the table, holding out one hand. “This meeting isn’t going to achieve anything productive. Let’s schedule the hearing as soon as possible.”
He took her mother by the arm, pulling her toward the door.
“Of course she knows. That’s why he left her all that money, because she was his beautiful little darling.”
The door closed behind them and Linda realized Ted Jeffers was staring at her.
She closed her eyes and searched her memory. What her mother suggested was ugly, ugly almost beyond words. There was nothing in her mind that she shied away from now. She could think about her mother, her childhood, those horrific teenage years and not hide from any of it. She hadn’t known her grandfather very well. True, he’d always asked about her pageants and she’d sometimes shown him the awards. But she felt none of the warning signs—red flags Dr. K called them—that had surrounded her mother, beautiful and food.
“I don’t know what she’s talking about. I don’t mean I can’t remember. I mean I don’t know.”
“Then,” Ted said slowly, “If she repeats it we can counter her libel claims with slander ones on your part. It’s a disgusting suggestion. Your mother evidently believes children are responsible for the actions of adults.”
“There is a part that’s true—sometimes, I did like the attention.
I did like being told I was attractive, sometimes. I would forget for a while all about the pain and the torment and it felt good.”
Ted gave her a thoughtful look. “I don’t know much about this but I don’t think just because something good comes out of the something bad you have to be happy the bad things happened. I had a sadist professor in law school and I still remember him and how awful I felt every time I was anywhere near him. I learned a lot, sure, but my passing the bar didn’t make him less of a son-of-a-bitch.” He shrugged.
“Your daughters are lucky, you know that?” He gave a sheepish 131
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nod and Linda had to laugh. It felt as if years of closely wrapped chains fell away. Inside, teenage Linda wanted to dance. “Is Bartok v. Price spelling full-time employment for you?”
He smiled, looking pleased. “With any luck.”
Marissa swallowed down the last of her soy meal shake with fake chocolate flavor and surveyed the two envelopes—both junk—that had been in her mailbox. Work was hectic, the food tasted bland and she remained afraid to do so much as sprinkle some salt on the boxed dinners for fear of messing with a magic formula of some kind. Ocky wanted to completely overhaul their questionnaire style, her mother still wasn’t speaking to her and Linda could be dead for all she knew.
She was about to throw away both envelopes when she realized that one might not be junk at all. It was from the cruise line—she’d mistaken the splashy logo for an ad. She slit it open and extracted several she
ets of paper. A check fluttered onto the floor. After she picked it up she saw it was a refund for a substantial portion of the cruise price. She’d have to forward it to her mother, since her mother had paid for the trip. She mentally dashed off the note.
Dear Mom,
Thank you again for the lovely cruise. Because of the circumstances, the cruise line has refunded some of your money. The check is enclosed. I am still pursuing a settlement from the trip insurance company and hope at least to get the value of the books, camera and clothes back.
Love, Marissa
P.S. Still a lesbian.
The other pages were copies of press releases relevant to the explosion. There was a technical explanation of the decompression and a complete passenger manifest to aid those with trip insurance 132
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in filing their claims. Marissa glanced down the list and realized that there were very few passengers whose names she’d even known. She scanned it a second time. She had found one very familiar name—but oughtn’t there be two?
Between Cedras, Anthony and Chandler, Susan, was Chabot, Marissa. But Bartok, Linda was not on the list.
Further down was a Price, Lindsey. Lindsey was the only remotely close match to “Linda” on the entire list.
Confused more than anything else, she sat down at her laptop and hit the search engines. “Linda Bartok” brought back hundreds of thousands of pages, the most relevant promising information about classical music. It was exactly the same result as she’d gotten when she’d first thought she might find Linda through the Internet.
Recalling that first exchange of names, she limited the search by adding “Boston.” That resulted in still over a thousand hits and the first few were for real estate. She changed “Linda” to “Lindsey,”
kept “Bartok” and added “Price.” To her relief, she got back only three dozen with all the search terms.
Sometimes, when Marissa wasn’t paying attention, memories of the beach, coconuts, hot sun and cool breezes would well up inside her and for a few moments she would be right there, with Linda nearby. She’d never known such warmth and ease.
But there had been no mess of real life, she reminded herself.
Linda could hate your mother. Linda could hate living in one place. Linda could, upon reacquaintance, decide the everyday Marissa wasn’t nearly as interesting as the shipwrecked one. That last thought seemed so likely too. It probably explained why Linda stayed away. She only made love to you when the lights were out. She only let the fireworks happen when she didn’t have to look at you.
That last thought cut like a knife and the first time she’d considered it she’d been able to shrug it off. But with so many weeks of silence it was harder to ignore. Linda had wanted some sex and Marissa was the only woman in the area who was willing. So very willing and grateful for the attention.
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Stomach churning, she made herself read the first of the articles supplied by the search engine. From Boston, there was local financial news. The estate of John Lindsey Price had finally been settled substantially in favor of his granddaughter, Lindsey Vanessa Bartok Price, over the objections of her mother, Lindsey Candace Price, CEO of Price Investments. This settlement, the article explained, came on the heels of rumors about a tell-all memoir penned by the new heiress, who was currently seeking a publisher for the manuscript.
Heiress.
Marissa sat, lost in the memories, long enough for her screen saver to trigger. The slow-moving tropical fish only added to her confusion.
So, Marissa thought with a shaky sigh, Lindsey Price, heiress, was also Linda Bartok, survivalist wonder woman. All of Linda’s evasions about her appearance, the reference to having things that doctors needed to “fix”—were those the topics of her “tell-all”
manuscript? Marissa could only imagine what kind of surgeries and enhancements money could buy.
There was obviously a lot she didn’t know about Linda—well, that was a big surprise. Duh.
The inner voices of presumed rejection and prudent reality combined in asking the million-dollar question. What could an heiress possibly see in her? Had the phone remained silent and the mailbox empty because Linda had moved on with her life?
Why would a wealthy woman, as it seemed Linda was, not have a cell phone? A mailing address? Oh, you’re a fool, Marissa, she abruptly thought. A big, fat fool. You believed her when she said you couldn’t get in touch with her.
You believed the oldest line in the world after a one-night stand: I’ll call you.
She was surprised to feel the keyboard wet under her fingertips.
Was she crying? She felt too numb for that to be possible.
Yet, later that night, she tucked her hand under her pillow and felt the soft fabric of the T-shirt. As a moment in time, Linda was the most important thing that had ever happened to her. Knowing 134
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Linda had changed everything. It ought to have been enough comfort for her aching heart.
She hurt. She hurt in places that had long been healed over and there seemed nothing to do but cry.
“Beauty queens don’t have muscles. The whole point is to make looking beautiful natural. Muscles aren’t feminine, and they make it appear as if you weren’t born with those sleek lines, you had to work for them.” Linda paused for breath. “Everybody uses spray-on wax to stick their bikini bottoms to their butts, and the judges know it. But they better not see any traces of it. Because that would mean you weren’t born perfect. It’s all such a lie.”
The two men in their navy blue suits nodded in unison. One—
Tom or Dick or Harry, she couldn’t remember—said, “There have been a number of exposés on the beauty pageant circuit. We’re more interested in your personal story. If we were to accept the manuscript we would need the more complete personal angle.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Linda said, even though she did.
“What Harry is trying to say is that what’s of interest to us is your personal story.”
Linda looked at Tom or Dick—had to be one or the other if his colleague was Harry—and slowly said, “Yes, I believe that’s exactly what he said. But I think I need you to be more precise.”
“The details of your own preparations for the pageants, for example. Is what you’ve already written the complete story?”
“Yes, everything is there.” Linda knew where they were going—they wanted the same thing the other two publishers she’d met with wanted: more dirt on her mother.
“We could use more, you see.”
“This is a memoir, not fiction, though lately the line between the two has been blurred.”
Harry gave her a fatherly smile. “What will sell books is the unvarnished truth about how an innocent girl was exploited by her mother all for the sake of a tiara.”
“What is there in that manuscript is the unvarnished truth. All 135
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of the truth. It’s in the context of the rest of my life. This book is not about my mother. It’s about me.” She doubted they would get the difference.
“We want it to be about you, of course, but it needs a hook.”
Linda sighed and gathered her things. “I’m not claiming to be the best writer of all time—in fact, a real writer would probably help. But I’ve told the truth, the complete truth. There’s no more to say. If you change your mind, you have my number.”
They made polite noises about considering it and Linda left as quickly as possible. Okay, so much for making the book a priority.
She wanted to see it in print if only to prove wrong her mother’s accusation that she’d written it purely for blackmail.
Well, wasn’t that just another example of her mother pushing her buttons? Okay, she told herself bracingly, if you are going to get this book in print it has to be for your pur
poses and no other.
You want to tell, get it all out, and move on, and that has nothing to do with your mother.
She stopped at the restroom on her way out of the building and found herself, for the third time in as many days, gazing at her reflection with an odd feeling. A feeling of puzzlement, perhaps.
She arrived early for her next appointment with Dr. Kirkland, giving her time to settle the long overdue bill. Finally, the Lindsey Price on the credit card was really her. Part of the court ruling had been that she repay the credit card bills sent to her mother since leaving Yale. Linda had been fine with that—it severed the last claim her mother could make on her.
She now had the eager attention of the trust department of two financial institutions, as well as the lawyers who had probated her father’s and grandfather’s wills. They were relieved, they said, to finally be able to work with her. Still, it was to Ted Jeffers she turned for advice.
“If you’re not foolish, you’ll never have to work,” he’d explained.
“This wasn’t an enormous sum of money, in today’s world. Your mother is worth many, many times this in her own right.”
“So she wanted to control it simply because it let her control me.”
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He’d nodded and Linda had set about understanding how investments, dividends, fixed income instruments and annuities worked.
“I guess I can self-publish it,” Linda told Dr. Kirkland, after she asked how the meetings with publishers over the last several days had gone. “I would like to move on.”
“How so?”
“I was thinking of going back to Yale. Just to finish those classes and get my MBA. It can’t hurt.” She found herself fidgeting in her seat. The sun was setting into a gray horizon. It might technically soon be spring but not in this part of the world.
“That’s an excellent idea.” Dr. Kirkland smiled her approval.
“You’ve always regretted not finishing.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“I know.”
Linda gazed out of the window and she saw a woman in the glass looking back at her. She leaned closer. The figure was too vague to see the eyes but the general shape of the other woman’s features—the hair, the way she sat—twisted up like a girl who didn’t know what to do with her legs—were clear. Linda felt as if she ought to know who that was but she didn’t.
Finders Keepers Page 14
