by Bridie Clark
“Don’t apologize, Claire. I’m happy to pitch in. All hands on deck.” Luke leaned in close and kissed my cheek lightly. I froze. He had a musky, hardworking smell. Bea looked at us from across the room, her thoughts transparent in her expression.
Kiss on the cheek. Friendly gesture.
“Um, it’s this way,” I said, leading Luke down the hallway. I opened the bathroom closet and pulled out some fresh towels.
Luke stayed a few steps behind, running a finger along some books on the shelf. My parents had lined almost every wall in our house with shelves—their one luxury had been an extraordinary collection of books. Mom often said that being surrounded by all the books they’d read over the years made her feel as though Dad were still with her in the house. It was why she’d never move.
“Hey, did your dad write this?” Luke asked, pulling a book from the shelf.
I looked at what he held in his hands: Dad’s first book of poetry. How strange that Luke happened to pull it out. A cream-colored, tiny little book, it had been published by an equally small, now defunct press when Dad was still in graduate school. Although my father went on to publish a dozen more collections of his poems, his first always remained my favorite.
“I’ve read every line at least a thousand times,” I told Luke, feeling a familiar lump in my throat. “I’ve memorized the entire thing. Which is fortunate, because I somehow lost the one copy I had when I was moving out of my senior dorm at Princeton. Mom offered to give me hers as a replacement, but I felt guilty taking it after I’d been so careless. And the publisher only printed a very limited run, so I haven’t been able to track another book down.”
“I’m sure you’ll get your hands on another copy someday,” Luke said encouragingly.
“Hope so.” It made me sad just to think about it. I handed Luke the towels, and he smiled, closing the bathroom door.
“Are people eating the butternut squash soup with cider cream?” Harriet fretted. “I told you it was a mistake to serve soup on a buffet, Suzanne—nobody can carry all those plates and bowls!”
“Well, sorry,” clucked Suz, looking anything but. “I guess we’re even, since I told you we’d need to prepare double the amount of asparagus-and-prosciutto crostini with fonduta!”
“Huh? What’s that?” I asked, grabbing something yummy off the table and popping it in my mouth. I’d been stuffing my face since we landed—my stomach was actually relaxed enough to enjoy food again.
“What you just ate,” answered Suzanne, brushing a piece of hair behind my ear. “So how you doing, kid? Your mom says you’ve been chained to your desk lately. But your boyfriend’s real cute!”
“Luke?” I glanced over at Luke, who was chatting away with Mom at the table next to ours. “He isn’t my boyfriend, Suz, he’s one of my authors. Well, a friend. My boyfriend had to work, so he couldn’t make it. But he sent all of those flowers. Isn’t that sweet?” I pointed to an entire wall of white roses that Randall had sent to the house earlier that day.
“Yeah, well, I’d stick with this one,” Harriet piped up. “He’s handsome, funny, sweet—and look how great he’s being with your mom. I haven’t heard her laugh like that since …” She trailed off, circling her hand in the air.
“Luke’s great, I agree. But Randall’s great, too.”
“I’m sure he is, Claire.” Suzanne nodded. “Don’t listen to Harriet. Ooh! There’s your mother, taking the stage. Ssssh, everybody.”
Mom tapped gently on the microphone that had been set up at the front of the tent. “Thanks for coming, everyone! I’m delighted to announce that the proceeds from this year’s event will sponsor not one, but two students at the Writers’ Workshop next year. Thanks for your incredible generosity!” Everyone in the tent burst into applause. “And now I’d like to introduce my daughter, Claire Truman, who will start us off by reading Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Khan.’”
I’d read the same poem five years in a row. It was one of Dad’s favorites, one of a handful he used to recite when he’d tuck me in at night. I could still hear his voice when I read it; still feel him sitting next to me on the side of my twin bed.
It’s good to be home, I thought, taking the stage and looking into a crowd filled with people I loved. I could feel Luke smiling, even without looking his way.
“I wish we didn’t have to leave so soon,” Bea lamented.
“I wish I didn’t have three hundred pages to edit when we get back,” I added glumly.
Harry and Luke had gone for a bundled-up nature walk, while Bea, Mom, and I stayed in our bathrobes and chatted in our newly mint green kitchen. I felt happier and more relaxed than I had in months—except for my acute case of Sunday blues.
We’d already rehashed the party and what a huge success it had been—the crowd hadn’t thinned until 2:00 in the morning (the Iowa equivalent of a New York City all-nighter), and then the five of us had stayed up for a few hours after that, finishing off a few bottles of wine in front of the fireplace.
“Remind me, how many more months are you working for the dragon lady?” Bea asked.
“Five. And one week.” It sounded short but seemed like an eternity. Mile twenty.
“You know, I’m not sure I like this Vivian person,” Mom said slowly. Bea and I both looked up from our coffee mugs. My mother, like Jackson, lived firmly by the principle that “if you didn’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything.” Not sure she liked Vivian were Mom’s fighting words.
“I’m sure I don’t like her,” I answered, suddenly overwhelmed by the misery of having to return to work the next day. I’d waited weeks for this trip to Iowa—and though it’d been a wonderful twenty-four hours, it had gone by in a flash. Now it was back to reality, back to New York, back to Grant Books. “I wish I could just call in sick on my entire life and stay here for a week. Maybe a year. Get under the covers and hide.” I forced a laugh, but it actually sounded good.
“You know you’ve always got covers here, honey.” Mom smiled. I could see that she had more to say but held her tongue. She cut me another slice of homemade apple pie—today’s breakfast special.
“By the way,” Bea whispered, leaning in toward us, “could he be any more in love with you?”
“He who? What are you talking about, Bea?”
“Captain Stubing from The Love Boat, Claire. Luke! Why didn’t you ever mention how cute he is? You should have seen his face last night when you were reading onstage. He was, like, hanging on every word.”
“It’s a great poem, Bea”—I felt the blush rise to my cheeks—“and we’re friends. We have a great, um, working relationship.”
“Well, I think he’s just wonderful,” Mom declared, “and so handsome!”
“Well, Mom, Randall is wonderful, too. And probably the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. And he’s—”
“He seems great, dear,” Mom said gently. “I look forward to getting to know him better.”
“I can’t tell you how bummed Randall was when this work thing came up—did I show you what he got me, to show how sorry he was for missing this weekend?” I held out my wrist with the gold bracelet and immediately cringed. Even I could see how lame I was being—but the pro-Lukeness of my mother and best friend made me oddly defensive. I’d never expected them to see Luke as a romantic prospect—not when I had Randall, my perfect live-in boyfriend, back at home. I was way, way off the market.
“That’s so pretty!” Beatrice said brightly. “Very sweet of him.”
Mom nodded. “It’s lovely, Claire.”
“I really think Randall could be, you know … the one!” I blurted out.
“Really? Well, in that case, I really can’t wait to spend more time with him!” Mom exclaimed. “That’s wonderful, Claire, that you feel that way. He must be a very special person.”
“Wow,” said Bea, smiling incredulously. “You know, sometimes it’s still hard for me to believe that Randall our college crush is now Randall your real-life, actual boyfriend.
It’s just so … I don’t know, so perfect!”
“I think so, too.” I smiled.
Mom glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned. “We should get you girls packed—we don’t have much time until we have to leave, I’m afraid.”
No. I didn’t want to leave. I was just remembering what it felt like to be able to breathe, relax, eat a meal, laugh with friends.
“Mom, won’t you come to New York one of these weekends?” I asked. “Randall’s mom won’t stop hounding me about when you’ll be coming for a visit.”
“I’m afraid you’re not the only one she’s been hounding. Lucille has been calling the house four, five times a day, poor thing,” Mom said. “She must be awfully lonely. I wish she had something to occupy her time. I know she serves on various charity boards, but I don’t think her involvement is very challenging.”
“I really can’t imagine Lucille working,” I mused.
“Well, she used to be a real go-getter. Of course, that was years ago.”
My phone rang, and I tensed immediately. But it was Randall’s office number—not my boss. “Hey, sweetie,” I cooed.
“Hi, Claire-bear! Listen, I just wanted to let you know that Freddy will be there to pick you guys up from the airport. And I’ve asked Svetlana to make dinner for us tonight. I can get a few hours off work. I thought we could stay in, have a cozy night at home. Sound good?”
Better than good—it sounded like exactly the right remedy for my blues. “You’ve got a date. And Randall, the roses are so beautiful. How did you—”
“Oh, good. Deirdre was on the phone with every florist in the state of Iowa.”
Harry and Luke came bounding through the kitchen door, their cheeks ruddy from the cold. “Whew! Freezing! Coffee!” Harry panted, pulling up a chair to the table. Mom immediately pulled two oversize mugs out of the cabinet and poured steaming coffee in each one.
“Perfect, thanks,” said Luke, wrapping his hands around his mug and breathing in the warmth.
“Babe? You there?” asked Randall.
“Yup,” I answered, suddenly self-conscious. “Okay, so … I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Great. I’ll see you then. I love you, Claire-bear.”
I paused. “Um, you too. Bye.” I hung up.
“It’s so beautiful out here!” Luke exclaimed. “You just can’t get this kind of nature in Central Park. This is such a better quality of life.”
“Don’t say that!” I snapped. “We all have to convince my mom to come to New York more, not less!” Bea and Mom stared at me. “And besides, we’ve got the Met, the opera, the best restaurants in the world—I’d say that’s a pretty good quality of life.”
“Of course,” agreed Luke, looking surprised. “It just feels great to breathe in some fresh air.”
I nodded, suddenly embarrassed by my outburst. Why was I jumping down Luke’s throat? He was just saying how much he enjoyed our home.
“I’ll get to New York soon,” said Mom, stroking my hair. “You know how much I love to visit you.”
I wondered how Mom would feel about staying at Randall’s place. Mom didn’t have a judgmental bone in her body, but still I wondered if she’d be comfortable staying in his guest room with us right down the hall. And somehow I couldn’t quite imagine having our traditional Anne of Green Gables–and–Cherry Garcia marathons in Randall’s pristine media room.
“Okay, troops. It pains me to say this, but we’ve got to get you guys moving for the airport,” Mom announced. “Here’s some food for the trip home, sweetie.” She handed me a huge bag filled with homemade banana bread, still warm from the oven, fresh fruit, parma-ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and juice. We’d just finished breakfast, but my mouth watered looking at the feast she’d packed.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, hugging her with all my strength, wishing I never had to let go.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HEART OF DARKNESS
Carl. It’s Vivian, doll. Claire Truman’s on the conference call, too. She’ll take notes so you can sit back and listen, babe.”
“Sounds good, Viv,” Carl Howard answered in his raspy, chain-smoker’s voice.
Alone in my windowless office, I propped up my aching head with one hand. Was it actually possible that less than twenty-four hours ago I was sitting around the old farm table in our kitchen, sipping coffee, smelling Mom’s homemade banana bread baking in the oven, listening to a distant This American Life on our old radio? It felt as though I’d been back in hell for a week—but it was only noon on Monday.
I pulled out a piece of Mom’s banana bread from my bag and took a small bite, hoping it might bring back some of the pleasure of being home. But it didn’t taste the same in the toxic air of my office. I threw it out.
“Claire, you there?” Vivian asked.
“I’m here, Vivian. Hi, Carl.”
Carl was a Miami-based writer who wrote nearly half of our books. A ghostwriter extraordinaire, Carl had a remarkable talent for getting each author’s voice exactly right and telling the story in a way the author would never be able to. He could also work very quickly, which with Grant’s down-and-dirty publication schedules made him our most valuable player.
I’d never met Carl, but he’d once miraculously bailed me out with an immediate rewrite on a crash book. Every editor at Grant had a few reasons to be in his debt.
Unfortunately, if you were female and remotely attractive, Carl never let you forget that debt. Rumor had it that he and Vivian had been shtupping for years, whenever the mood struck her—which made Carl’s forward advances all the more awkward for her underlings.
Today, the objective of our conference call was to get Carl immediately on board to ghostwrite Morgan Rice’s autobiography. And it was quite a story. Rice—the drug-addled rocker and poster girl for bad behavior—had been famously married to an iconic drug-addled rocker who’d died of an overdose at their son’s fourth birthday party. She’d never publicly talked or written about her husband’s death, but now she was ready to lay it all down (for a seven-figure advance). Needless to say, her book was sure to generate major buzz.
Rice had finally met with us a week ago. Her agent had set up meetings eight times before, but each time a last-minute cancellation—and a ridiculous excuse—had come our way instead. When Rice did finally make it in, her appearance was startling: hair a starchy peroxide mess, flaming red lipstick smeared haphazardly in the general area of her mouth, yellowed teeth and nails, bleary eyes, and of course, her signature track marks. Morgan Rice looked downright tragic.
And now I was her editor. We were putting together a diary of Rice’s life, an appropriately chaotic collection of paraphernalia she’d collected over the years, interspersed with a running narrative. And we were doing it in four weeks. Vivian wanted to get the book out before the anniversary of Rice’s husband’s death—which made complete sense from a commercial standpoint but would potentially send poor Dawn to her grave. A four-color book, not a word of which was written—to be published in record time.
Dawn, of course, would figure out some superhuman way to make it happen. She always did. And then next time, Vivian would try to shave off more time in the schedule. Dawn’s competence seemed to add to her burden … but then again, saying no to Vivian wasn’t an option, either.
Anyway, we desperately needed Carl to put together the book. Without him on board, we had little chance of making the deadline—even Vivian recognized that. That was why she was on the call.
“So I need you to meet with Morgan, get her story out of her, pull together some art from her—apparently she’s got boxes of it—and get the manuscript done in under three weeks,” Vivian explained nonchalantly, as if she were asking for some cream with her coffee.
Carl whistled through his teeth. “That’s a tall order, babe, even for me. Didn’t she just check into rehab? Is she even coherent these days?”
“She’s clear as a bell! We met with her last week. She’s a doll! Anyway, I know you can h
andle it. The work you did on The Crash? Bailing us out after four other writers had failed miserably? That was absolutely amazing, Carl. You made an illiterate, half-witted moron sound insightful and intelligent. You’re a phenomenal talent, Carl, and I know you can handle this. The way you use language is second to none.”
Boy.
“Talk slowly, babe,” Carl nearly moaned into the phone, “you’re giving me a boner the size of Texas.”
Oh, dear God. No, no, no. The walls were closing in. Please don’t let this conversation go the way …
“Baby, you’re the best in the business,” Vivian purred.
“The best what in the business?” Carl probed. “Tell me I’m the best lay, and I’ll get the manuscript to you in two and a half weeks.”
“You know it, babe. Forget in the business—you’re the best lay I’ve ever had.” She made a growling noise.
Was this conversation actually happening? Had I somehow been dragged into a gross, telephonic ménage à trois with my boss and an aging lothario? It was like a horrible, horrible dream.
I cleared my throat. “Um, Carl, would you like me to overnight the contracts directly to you or to your agent?”
“What a wet blanket,” Vivian snickered.
“Send ’em to me, sweetheart,” Carl answered in a low voice that made my skin crawl, “and you heard what Vivian said. I’m the best in the business. You might want to keep that in mind and free up some time when I’m next in New York.”
I was going to be sick.
“Actually, Claire’s totally your type,” Vivian answered, filling in my repulsed silence. “Legs up to her neck, the whole sexy librarian thing with the glasses and the bun. You should take her out when you’re in town.”
My voice was caught in my throat. My boss was pimping me out? To her own on-again, off-again lover?
“Leggy, huh? Yeah, I’d love that,” answered Carl. “Maybe the three of us can have a date, huh?”
“I’ve got to take another call,” I blurted out before Vivian could answer. “I’ll send you the notes and the contract, Carl.”
