by Jean Stone
“He's a man, Josephine,” Marion had said. “Men sometimes do that.”
And so Jo had expected bad behavior from men. Was it any surprise she'd found one to comply?
She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them against her. She thought about Brian's marriage—had there been a wedding with pearl satin gowns and a symphony harpist and cranberry crème?
The pain in her stomach crawled up to her throat, then leaked from her mouth in another small sound.
“Oh,” she cried, as she looked around her apartment and knew that, once again, she was alone, and that, this time, Brian really was gone. No excuses. Not even to her.
She pulled a toss pillow from the end of the couch, clutched it to her cheek, and slowly began to sob for the little girl, Josephine, who'd been abandoned so young, and for little Amanda or Emmett, who had never even had a chance to live.
33
She's not in today? When do you expect her?” Andrew was on the phone trying to get through to Maxine Bardwell, another name on Jo's list. They'd been making calls all Monday morning, following up on the e-mails to the talk-show producers.
Jo had expected at least one response by noon, at least one curious nibble to her message about Second Chances and the opportunity to win a second wedding in the picturesque Berkshires. So far, there had been nothing. Nothing for their business, nothing to take her mind off Brian and Brian's new bride.
Andrew hung up with an apologetic smile. “Maxine Bardwell is out of the country until the end of September,” he said. “All of their programming is booked until then.”
“Bullshit,” Jo said in a sharp show of anger. “This doesn't make sense, Andrew. Every freaking producer can't be out of the country or on vacation or ‘in a meeting and can't be disturbed.'” She knew that Andrew couldn't be expected to agree with any educated knowledge—he was, after all, only an assistant college professor on sabbatical, trying to finish a dissertation so he'd be called “doctor” and make a few bucks more a year.
She stood up and began pacing the showroom. “Maybe we should send the follow-up releases now.”
“Not wait until late in the day so they'll get them first thing in the morning?”
“God, Andrew, don't you get it? We've got to drown them in hype. In order for this to work, we have to secure some decent airtime soon. This week. Next week at the latest. Do I have to remind you that the wedding is going to take place with or without a bride and groom?”
Well, that made no more sense than it did to berate poor Andrew, who was only trying his best.
“I'm sorry,” she said, running her hands across her hair and wondering how long it would be before she had more than a few minutes' sleep at a time. “Oh, God, Andrew. It's not your fault. But you don't understand how the media business works.”
He scanned the list on the desk in front of him. “No,” he replied, “I guess I don't.”
“It's just that this is our chance. Our one chance to make a big splash and get something started before Lily and Sarah decide to do something better with their lives.” Sarah had kept to herself throughout the morning, working at her design table in the back room. Lily apparently was still in her apartment upstairs. Both of them were probably poised, ready to appear if needed, ready to offer a broad shoulder or an understanding heart on the matter of Brian and what he had done.
They all knew now. They all knew about the Boston detective who had found Brian. They all knew about the woman who was Brian's wife.
The phone rang. Jo snapped around. A talk-show producer? Her eyes darted to Andrew. He smiled again. He let the phone ring again, then he lifted the receiver. “Second Chances,” he said. “Andrew speaking.”
“Oh, hi,” he responded to the other end of the line. He looked back at Jo. He shook his head. “What's the matter, Cassie? I'm pretty busy right now.”
Jo returned to her desk. She reread the hard copy of the follow-up release, trying to decide if it was a waste of time. Once, she had known how to do this. Once, she'd had the contacts and the reputation and the chutzpah to do this. Once, the largest and more successful firms in Boston and beyond had entrusted their public relations to Jo Lyons and Associates. But now Jo could not seem to do for herself what she'd once made a fortune doing for others. Made a fortune, then lost it, because she'd been so stupid in love.
“I wonder if she has a lot of money,” Jo said after Andrew had hung up the phone. He did not have to ask “Who?” because, of course, Andrew knew.
“Frank didn't tell you?”
Jo shook her head.
“Her father is the head of TransGlobal Film Studios.”
She paused briefly, then balled up the follow-up release and threw it on the floor. Of course, it made perfect sense. Brian would not have taken up with a woman with less money than Jo. He did not know how to make money, only how to con it. She wondered how long it might take before that woman, too, was as broke as Jo was, or if that might not happen and he would live happily ever after. “Forget it,” she said.
Forget everything, she thought.
Squeezing her eyes tightly, she wondered if she should go find a leftover Sunday Boston Globe and look for a job the way a sane person would do.
The phone rang again. Cassie, no doubt. Or Marion, calling to check on her daughter.
“Yes, we are,” Andrew was saying into the phone. “Yes. Yes. That's correct. Let me put you through to Ms. Lyons.”
Jo blinked. “You're not going to believe this,” Andrew said as he put the caller on hold. “But it's a producer from The View. She wants to talk to you about Second Chances and about having someone come on the show.”
It had been a long time since Jo had been in the city, since she'd breathed the energy that always made her feel as if everything were possible, as if the world could be hers. It was how she felt then, when she paused for a moment so that the producer would not think Jo had been sitting next to the phone, waiting for the call that had miraculously come.
“Jo Lyons,” she said clearly, her voice sounding surprisingly calm, like the woman who had once been in such control, not at all like the woman who had cried herself to sleep last night, hugging her pillow as if it were a teddy bear and she was only six.
“Missy Clofsky from The View.” The clipped words insinuated that Jo should know who Missy Clofsky was, which Jo did not. “We read your e-mail and want to know more.”
“Certainly,” Jo said. “How can I help?” The e-mail had included the teaser followed by the facts, then a brief bio of the three women partners, excluding the part about Elaine who had bowed out.
“It says here you recognized a need for second weddings,” the young woman continued. “Is that from experience?”
“No,” Jo replied. “It was because of a friend. She was trying to plan a second wedding, but the only consultants she could locate, handled first weddings—the Cinderella-type fantasies. Not for mature audiences.” She laughed a light laugh, but Missy Clofsky did not.
“I've been in public relations long enough to recognize a trend,” Jo quickly continued. “My partners and I spoke with several women: No one we spoke with was too thrilled with the choices that ordinary consultants offered, from inappropriate gowns to reception venues that cater to youth. We noticed a niche market; we are filling it.”
“In Massachusetts?” The accent was Brooklyn. The tone was professional, not derogatory.
“The Berkshires have become a destination not only for culture but also for fun. We have some wonderful, romantic settings. But this does not preclude the possibility that we might expand to other New England locations when word gets around. When our business expands.”
“Which is why you want to be featured on The View.”
“We're filling a need, as I said in the e-mail.”
Pause. Damn. Jo hated those pauses, as if Missy Clofsky were examining her fingernails or tapping her pencil, trying to decide if her bosses would think Second Chances was worthy.
“And you wa
nt to give away a wedding.”
“A second wedding. Yes. It's all been arranged. The only things missing are the bride and groom. And the guests, of course. We'll need the guests, too.”
Her eyes darted to Andrew, who sat, unflinching, as if he were a Greek statue in a pink shirt with blond hair.
“October?” Ms. Clofsky asked.
“The ninth.”
The young woman's sigh whooshed through the phone. “Too soon,” she said. “We can't get you on until after the holidays.”
“Excuse me?”
“January. It's the best we can do.”
“But the date has been set. The arrangements have been made . . .”
“Sorry. How about January fourteenth? We could give you a six-minute slot then.”
“Fine,” Jo replied, because she'd dealt with New York often enough to know it was best to take what you could get. She could always cancel if they were no longer in business. She could always cancel if she felt the way she did right now, as if the energy she'd once counted on getting from Manhattan had floated down the Hudson and gone into the sea. “But I'm not sure about the sweepstakes. I mean, the wedding we're giving away is scheduled for October ninth.”
“Whatever. We'll talk before January.” Missy Clofsky hung up without saying good-bye, and Jo looked at Andrew and simply said, “Damn.”
34
Lesson #6: Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .
Andrew stared at the keyboard a moment, then typed, Well, if you're a guy, you're probably familiar with the rest of that old saying. It simply means don't play games, at least not with a woman you might care about. If you do, it's certain to greatly reduce your chances of ever having something meaningful with her, because you will feel like such a piece of crap. You will want to confess and you know where that will get you.
He knew his words were vague, without example, the bane of any decent journalist. But how could he tell his readers what was really on his mind? How could he tell his readers (his fans, he supposed, who, according to John Benson, would escalate in numbers with each printed issue) about the latest scheme that he and John concocted, without exposing who Jo and Lily and Sarah and Elaine really were?
Excuse me, he thought, that would be Jacquelin, Olivia, Sadie, and Eileen.
He slouched in his chair. The answer was, he couldn't tell his readers any of it. He already had revealed that they were four women, four middle-aged old friends who'd gone into business together. He hadn't been explicit. He hadn't said what they did or what kind of business it was. He'd kept the facts to the women and the roller-coaster emotions of their lives.
He hadn't told them about the second-wedding planning, because it could come back to bite him.
And so Andrew could not reveal that he and John Benson had devised a plan to keep the women out of New York, even though it would mean the big break Second Chances needed, even though it could mean the difference between its success and their failure.
He couldn't admit that he and John were keeping the women out of the spotlight, off national television. He couldn't have said that he might have been nervous as hell when a girl called from The View, but that John had called earlier and tipped him off.
“The women might be suspicious if no one calls,” John had said. “This second-wedding thing really is a good gimmick. But not to worry,” he added. “I'll have one of my girls act as a decoy.”
Missy Clofsky had been the perfect decoy, but of course, Andrew couldn't tell his readers that, either. He couldn't tell them that she was in no way connected with The View, but, in fact, she worked for Buzz. He couldn't tell them that while Missy acknowledged to Jo that, indeed, Second Chances was a great concept, she put them off long enough to stall the possibility that they might learn who Andrew really was and what he was really doing:
That he was a liar.
That he was using them.
That the women at Second Chances were guinea pigs whose lives and whose confidences he was sharing with the world, albeit under cover, albeit with the names changed. Albeit in the name of helping men understand the species God called “women.”
Albeit in the name of a gimmick, he could have written, a gimmick that would make Andrew and John Benson and a few other people big bucks, at the expense of four perfectly nice, unsuspecting women, one of whom he lusted after and just possibly might love.
But Andrew could admit none of those things, because he could not go public. Instead, he reiterated to his readers that being a sneaky, self-centered snake wasn't a great way to get a good night's sleep.
If you are a guy, he typed. With a conscience.
He paused another moment, then added: Unless that's an oxymoron.
35
DON'T
Stand on tradition if it's not what you want. No longer close to family? Have your best friend walk you down the aisle. What about your favorite pet? Tie a bow of tulle around Fido's collar . . . he's probably listened to more of your problems than anyone. Let him be part of your joy!
The next morning they sent the follow-up releases. Jo had decided she'd no longer sleep; her body seemed averse to the concept of rest and relaxation, as if something important might happen while she was dreaming, like the world as she knew it would end, not that it hadn't already.
So she spent her days working and her nights braced.
Just before noon, the small bell over the door jingled. Jo turned from her work to see Marion, a smile on her face and a woven summer purse draped over one wrist. “I've come to take my daughter to lunch,” she said.
“Oh. Mom.” Jo looked to Andrew for help with an excuse, but he was smiling at Marion and would not look her way. “We're awfully busy today.”
“I'll take care of things, Jo,” Andrew said. “You go ahead.”
She ordered a salad, though she'd rather eat air and say it had been tasty and she was quite full now, thanks.
They'd gone to the Inn de Contessa and were quickly lead to a table because the maître d' recognized Marion from the chamber of commerce.
“I'm sorry about Brian and that woman, his wife,” Marion said halfway through her meal. “I'm so sorry you have to go through this, Josephine. But maybe this will help you get him out of your mind once and for all. Maybe you'll find another man while there is still time.” She did not elaborate on what there still might be time for. A husband, Jo supposed. A family.
Jo spoke past the lump in her throat. “How long did it take you to get over my father?”
Steering her fork toward a large piece of mango tossed in with her salad, Marion stabbed once, then popped the fruit into her mouth. “Who said I ever got over him?”
It was not the response that Jo had anticipated. “Oh, come on, Mother. Surely you got over him. ‘Sam Lyons, the rat bastard,' I once heard you say to Mrs. Kingsley.” Jo did not add that she had been twelve and thoroughly shocked because she'd never before heard Marion swear.
“I never claimed that I got over your father,” Marion said. “But I did get on with my life. I picked up some of the pieces and tried to rearrange them in order that I—we—could still have a good life.”
She did not add that her “good life” had included hiding Ted the Butcher in the meat locker for so long.
“Oh, Mother,” Jo said. “I'm sure I'll be fine. It would help if our business could get off the ground. It would help if I had some sort of distraction.”
“You tried that in Boston. All those years.”
Jo didn't reply, because her mother was right and Jo knew it and she hated that she did. Then she said, “Well, at least I'm not letting anyone think I feel sorry for myself.”
“You wouldn't do that. I raised you never to do that, didn't I?”
It was true. Marion had never showed public signs of self-pity, so Jo had always tried to follow suit. No matter how pathetic she felt.
“But speaking of getting on with life,” Marion added, “you're going to give Elaine's wedding away in a sweepstakes?”
; “It seemed like a good idea when I had it. But the media isn't jumping on it, so I guess we should forget it.”
Marion sighed, chewed a forkful of the pasta special of the day. Slowly, she swallowed, then asked, “What if I used it?”
Jo had never thought Marion was a good jokester. She was a woman who tried often, but with little success.
“I said, ‘What if I used it?'” her mother repeated, then set down her fork and sipped her iced tea. “What if I was the bride and Ted was the groom. Would that help you get the publicity you need?”
Jo laughed, because Marion was her mother and because Marion might appreciate it if Jo thought she was funny. “Thanks, Mom, but this is for real. If we're going to showcase second marriages, we honestly have to have one performed. We couldn't stretch the truth about that.”
“Yes,” Marion said. “I counted on that.” She signaled the waitress and asked for more tea.
The fork in Jo's hand slid onto her plate. She stared at her mother. What should she say?
“It's time I made an honest man out of Ted,” Marion continued. “I might not be Elaine's size, but I'm sure that wizard of a seamstress could let out a seam or two, maybe add a short jacket to cover up my underarm jiggles.”
Jo stared at her mother. “Elaine's gown has long sleeves.”
“Well, there you have it, then. And you girls already have your gowns . . . did you say that they're oyster, as well?”
Speechless. Jo Lyons was speechless. “Not oyster,” she finally muttered. “Pearl.”
“No difference,” Marion said with a laugh. She accepted the new glass of iced tea and quickly sipped. “I've always loved The Mount,” she said. “If you don't have a photographer already lined up, Ted has a nephew who dabbles in photography.”
She was serious. Her mother, the woman who had led Jo to think that marriage was once-in-a-lifetime and that she'd already had hers, was going to get married again, even though she'd never “gotten over” Sam Lyons, the rat bastard.
