West 57

by B. N. Freeman

  There was only one way to save West 57. Helmut knew it. My mother knew it. I knew it, too.

  Helmut greeted me with a smile so blinding I was tempted to put on my sunglasses. Those teeth have to be fake. He hugged me – awkward – and then took me on a tour of the Gernestier executive floor, which was like visiting a wing of the Smithsonian. The entire building is a monument to money. As commercial as they are, they’ve worked with some of the most successful authors, musicians, artists, actors, and filmmakers in the world, going back decades. I saw first editions, platinum records, Oscars behind glass. I was particularly impressed with the life-sized ice sculpture of James Patterson in a refrigerated case in the lobby.

  I’m kidding about that.

  The whole place, with its cavernous spaces and high ceilings, had an odd quiet to it, like a library. I felt like whispering. Down below, on the plebeian floors – where the real people worked, where I would work – I’m sure the offices were little hovels crammed floor to ceiling with manuscripts and books, smelling of Subway sandwiches. You drank stale coffee in plastic cups. You plugged your ear against the cacophony of voices from cubicles on either side of you. You filled out expense requisitions when you ran low on pencils and Post-it notes.

  You answered the phone: “Julie Chavan, West 57, a Gernestier Division, how may I help you?”

  Helmut had the champagne opened and ready for me in the headquarters boardroom. It was Krug, one of the most expensive champagnes you can buy, perfectly chilled. He had two crystal champagne glasses waiting for us on a silver tray. Helmut poured like a sommelier. There were lots of bubbles. I like bubbles.

  “To you, Julie,” he announced, “and to West 57.”

  Yes, here’s to me. Everyone who wanted something from me was toasting me these days. I didn’t feel much like celebrating, but I took a sip. I had to admit that Krug was better than the ten-dollar Korbel I bought myself on New Year’s Eve. It probably wasn’t protocol to chug the glass, so I paced myself.

  Helmut stared out from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the boardroom with a proprietary smile, as if he owned the entire city. He practically did. I stood next to him, looking out across the canyons toward Rockefeller Center and the Empire State Building.

  “I have lived in the some of the great cities of the world,” he told me. “Berlin, Hong Kong, Tokyo. There is still no city that compares to New York.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Having lived here now, I’m not sure I could live anywhere else,” he said. “You’re lucky to have spent your life here.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Helmut pulled back one of the leather chairs from the board table. It looked more like a throne, and there were about forty chairs spaced around a glistening ebony table that was longer than my entire apartment. He wanted me to feel the power of this place. This was where movers and shakers sat. This was where millions were made. Billions. You could be a part of this world, Julie.

  We sat down.

  “I heard about the fracas at Stables & Proud,” Helmut told me. “You are safe, yes? And unharmed?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He shook his head. “A publisher should not be wasting time at such events. A publisher belongs here, seeing the big picture.”

  “I still like to get my hands dirty,” I said. I looked at Helmut’s fingernails, which I was sure were never dirty. I thought about asking where he had his nails done, but he was on to other things.

  “Tell me something, Julie, does the future worry you?” He eyed me as he sipped his Krug.

  “How so?”

  “Oh, the publishing world has been turned upside down, and most people in the business are running like frightened cats. They hate that books are finally joining the digital experience that connects everyone on the planet.”

  “It’s probably because book people aren’t wired like gamers,” I said. “Reading is a more intimate experience. It’s not multimedia. It’s sitting in the park with a novel by Libby Varnay.”

  “Who?”

  “Libby Varnay,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, who is that?”

  “The author? Morningside Park?”

  “I’ve heard of the movie. With Denzel Washington, yes? It was a book, too?”

  “It was West 57’s biggest bestseller,” I said. “That was twenty years ago.”

  Helmut smiled. “You see, you make my point for me, Julie. The glory days of West 57 are behind it. Sonny was living in the past, not the future. However, you and I can change that.”

  I couldn’t believe that he had never heard of Libby Varnay. “She’s writing a new book for us.”

  He poured more champagne. “I’m sorry?”

  “Libby Varnay, author of Morningside Park. She’s writing another book for West 57.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Not yet. I have the first chapter to read.”

  “What other books has she written?”

  “Nothing since Morningside Park.”

  Helmut frowned. “Time marches on, Julie. The future is not about resuscitating a decades-old author. We need fresh young talent. That is where West 57 can make a difference.”

  I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to swig the rest of my champagne – you don’t leave a half-full glass of Krug – and then get up and walk out the door. I wanted to walk back into the crowded streets of New York to the little family offices at West 57 and get to work saving the business. I wanted to re-build West 57 into the kind of publishing house that would tell stories we would still be reading in a hundred years. That was what I wanted to do.

  But I couldn’t. I had to live in the real world. Dumbo the Banker had spoken. I didn’t have the choice to rescue the house. I only had the choice to keep it alive or let it die.

  “So are you still willing to acquire the West 57 brand?” I asked.

  “Yes, we are, of course.”

  Okay. Just say the words, Julie. Just say the hardest words you’ve ever said in your life.

  “Then I’m willing to sell it to you,” I said.

  I winced, expecting Sonny to breathe fire and smoke into my face. How could you betray me, darling girl?

  I wondered if he would have understood. I’m not betraying you, Sonny. I’m honoring what you built. I’m assuring that the House of Chavan will live on, even with you gone. West 57 means too much to let it disappear entirely and become nothing but a footnote in the history of publishing. The industry without West 57 would be nothing at all.

  Helmut leaned forward and clasped my hand with genuine enthusiasm. “Excellent! That is wonderful news! I am so pleased!”

  “I do have conditions,” I said.

  Helmut smiled and eased back into the giant leather chair. He seemed amused by my arrogance. I really didn’t have any bargaining power here, other than the power to pull the plug and let the water drain out of the bathtub. “Okay. Tell me.”

  “Any current employees of West 57 who wish to remain after the acquisition will have their jobs guaranteed with Gernestier for two years. No layoffs.”

  “Six months,” Helmut said.

  “One year.”

  He nodded. “Okay, yes. Agreed.”

  “All existing contracts with authors for undelivered material will be honored.”

  “Naturally.” He added, “That presumes timely delivery per the terms of the contract. We won’t float authors forever.”

  That wasn’t likely to help Libby, but there wasn’t much I could do. “Yes, of course,” I said.

  “Anything else?”

  “I want Sonny’s legacy to be honored.”

  Helmut’s eyebrows made little teepees. “How so?”

  “I want a history of West 57 on a permanent page on your web site. I want mention of Sonny in the boilerplate on all press releases. I also want you to contract for, write, and publish a history of the house.”

  He nodded. “It would be an honor.”

  The next one came to me off the top of my head. “Oh,
and I want his photo here. On this floor in your hall of fame. He’ll be part of the history of Gernestier now, so let’s make it official.”

  Besides, I want the Gernestier authors to see Sonny’s picture every time they visit Helmut. It’ll drive them crazy.

  He grinned, as if he could read my mind. “Again, no problem.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s all?” he asked.

  “That’s all.”

  “Very good. I will have the contract developed, and I will forward it to you so that you and your attorney can review it. We should be able to proceed expeditiously.”

  “Fine.”

  That was all it took to change thirty years of history.

  “There is, of course, another matter of great importance, Julie,” Helmut said.

  Me.

  “You,” he said.

  “You don’t want me, Helmut. I’m one of those old-school publishing types. To me it’s still about the book, like it was with Sonny.”

  “I think you underestimate yourself.”

  “That’s flattering, but I don’t want to spend the next three years as a figurehead. I want to steer the ship, not be stuck on the prow with a smile painted on my face. Gernestier will own West 57, and you’ll run it your way. Let’s face it, all you and I would do is butt heads.”

  Helmut shrugged. “I don’t mind conflict. Often better decisions come of it. I’m not always right, and I appreciate employees with the courage to tell me so.”

  “It’s a tempting offer,” I said, “but no.”

  “Is it a question of money? Or benefits? We are open to negotiation.”

  “No, your offer was very generous. This just isn’t where I want to go with my life. I hope it doesn’t change your interest in acquiring the brand if I’m not part of the deal.”

  “It doesn’t, but I’d like to do a joint press release when we announce the sale. It would be helpful if you could convey your enthusiasm to the industry and your belief that Gernestier represents an exciting new direction for West 57 in the wake of your father’s passing.” He added, “Our publicity staff will be happy to write something for your approval.”

  Naturally. He didn’t want me on the sidelines sniping. That was fair.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I’m genuinely sorry, Julie. You may have thought my offer was merely pro forma, but it wasn’t. I respect you, and many of us here would have enjoyed working with you.”

  “That’s kind of you to say.”

  He took my glass and drained the bottle dry. We toasted again with a clink. “If you do not mind my asking, what do you plan to do next?”

  He said it in a way that suggested he already knew. He’d talked to my mother. A child of Cherie Chavan does not say no to a maternal directive. If I wasn’t going to stay at West 57, then I knew what I had to do.

  It was my decision, as long as I made the right one.

  “I’m thinking about moving to Los Angeles,” I said.

  31

  I needed to tell everyone at West 57 about the deal, but I wasn’t ready. I told myself it was better to wait until the contract was signed, but that was just a way of putting off the inevitable. I hated to drop the bomb, even if it would surprise none of them. They could read the writing on the wall, and the rumors had already spread through the office like a flu virus. They knew what was coming.

  The receptionist looked at me strangely. She’d worked for Sonny for 12 years. Ditto the accountant at the files, pawing through contracts and getting ready for a round of royalty payments. He’d been with Sonny for 17 years. The marketing director was a newbie. He’d only been here for six years. They all stared at me as if they knew where I’d been and what I’d done. I’d sold their future. I’d negotiated a year of job security to cushion the blow, but it felt like nothing at all.

  I should have said: “Gather everyone together.”

  Instead, I said: “I’ll be in Sonny’s – I mean, I’ll be in my office. Hold my calls, okay? I don’t want to see anyone.”

  The receptionist nodded at me. She knew. They all knew.

  I went inside and closed the door and sat behind the old desk. I stared straight ahead, holding back the tears, but they came anyway. I wanted to see Sonny. I wanted to explain to him why I’d done what I’d done, why I had no choice, why this was the only way. He stayed away, as if he didn’t want to see me. He couldn’t face me after I’d sold his soul.

  When someone knocked at the door, I didn’t answer, but the door opened anyway. It was Garrett. He came in and closed the door and watched me. I didn’t try to hide that I was crying or wipe my face.

  “I want to be alone,” I told him.

  He ignored me and didn’t leave.

  “Go away,” I said. That was the short way of saying: I don’t want you here. I don’t want you to comfort me or kiss my head or tell me I did the right thing. I don’t want to stare into your brown eyes. In an hour, I will be in Thad’s arms. I’ll let him make love to me again, and it will be magical, like last night. You have no part in my life, Garrett Wood.

  He sat down, reached across the desk, took my hands. “About this morning,” he said, “I am so sorry.”

  “I don’t care about this morning,” I said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  That was a cruel thing to say, but I was in a cruel mood. He absorbed the blow without flinching.

  “Fair enough. I just want you to know that I said things I didn’t mean.”

  “That’s what people tell you when they accidentally say out loud what they really think,” I said.

  He didn’t deny it. He’d meant everything he said to me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “I heard about the man at the bookstore. If something had happened to you, I don’t know what I would have done. I should have been there.”

  “I don’t need you to take care of me,” I said.

  Blow number two. He flinched this time. Good.

  “Wow, I really screwed things up between us,” Garrett replied.

  I didn’t say anything, but I thought: Yes, you did.

  “Is there any way I can make it better?” he asked.

  “There’s nothing to make better. I’m fine.” I got up and went to the office door and held it open. “Could you just leave me alone, please?”

  Garrett didn’t stand up. He gestured at a manuscript on my desk. “I left you a copy of Woodham Road. I thought you’d like to see it.”

  “You already told me you weren’t going to offer on it.”

  “I said I wasn’t going to make promises to an author that I couldn’t keep.”

  “So why should I read it?” I asked. I was just being a bitch now. I don’t do that very often, but when I do, I’m good at it.

  He shrugged. “It’s the best book I’ve read in years. Sonny would have loved it.”

  “Sonny’s dead,” I said.

  “Yes, he is.”

  I waited for him to leave, but he didn’t. He knew he could outlast me. Finally, I closed the door and laid my head against the heavy wood and closed my eyes. “I sold the house,” I told him. “I sold West 57.”

  “I figured.”

  “I sold it to Gernestier,” I said. “Sonny must be furious at me. It’s everything he wanted to avoid.”

  “As you just mentioned, Sonny is dead.”

  I turned around and leaned against the door. “I’m a traitor. I destroyed his legacy.”

  “It sounds to me like you rescued it,” Garrett said.

  “It’s not the future he wanted for this place.”

  “Did you have a choice?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why beat yourself up?”

  I had no answer for that.

  Garrett came to me and leaned against the door beside me. We stood there, shoulder to shoulder. His shoulders were a lot taller than mine. “Look, Julie, it was always a foregone conclusion that Gernestier was going to wind up with West 57. The only real question was whether
they were going to get you, too.” He cocked his head and asked, “Did they?”

  “No,” I said. “I turned them down.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Everyone here will think I’m a rat swimming away from the ship as it goes down.”

  “I don’t think anyone here would expect you to stay. They’d probably feel worse if you did.”

  “I negotiated a one-year no-layoff policy for the staff,” I said. “Their jobs are secure for now.”

  “In this economy, that’s a good thing.”

  “West 57 won’t be the same.”

  “Nobody’s under any illusions that things will stay the same. Some of the people here will probably do just fine at Gernestier. Maybe better. Others will leave.”

  “Like you,” I said.

  “Like me.”

  “You won’t change your mind?”

  Garrett shook his head. “I’ll stay until you shut off the lights if you want me to, but then I’m gone.”

  “I’m sorry about this.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve had a great run here, Julie. I’m like you, I’d stay where I was forever if I didn’t get dragged out kicking and screaming. It’s probably for the best.”

  It’s true. He and I were so much alike. Both hating change. Both attached to our routines.

  “Sonny respected your loyalty,” I told him. “He knew you could have left years ago. He knew you stayed because of him.”

  Garrett shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I didn’t stay just because of him, Julie.”

  Well, yes, there’s the coffee, too. It’s great. Sonny bought one of those Keurig single-cup coffee makers. Always a fresh cup when you need one. The location – that’s good, too. You’ve got the N, R, Q, W, and F trains within a few blocks. Eat lunch in the Park whenever you want. And don’t forget the hardwood floors. They are smooth and shiny. That’s definitely a reason to stick around.

  Of course, it’s also possible he meant me.

  I could have asked: Do you mean you stayed because of me?

  He could have said: I stayed because I knew I’d get to see you.

  But that’s what normal people would have done. Not us. I didn’t ask what he meant, and he didn’t volunteer. Don’t ask, don’t tell.