by Bridie Clark
“I guess we really upset my mother. That’s bad luck.” Randall laughed lightly, but there was no mistaking a note of sadness in his voice.
“My mom will take care of her,” I said.
More heavy silence.
“Well, I guess I should be taking my post.” He smiled. I nodded.
So this was it. Our last moment to—
“It isn’t enough,” blurted out a voice that sounded shockingly like mine.
“What?” he asked.
“It isn’t enough,” the voice repeated.
“What do you mean, Claire?” Randall demanded, concern now etched all over his face. “What do you mean, it isn’t enough?”
Oh God. My words—and my voice, saying things without my permission … like some kind of out-of-body experience … my voice suddenly saying the thing I’d been thinking for weeks, months even.
“What isn’t enough, Claire?” Randall repeated, now close to me, now gripping my arms tightly.
He looked terrified. His knuckles were white.
Say it, Claire, I thought. Say it now before it’s too late.
But I had to believe that on some level, Randall wanted me to do this. I’d seen the way his face had lit up when Coral walked into La Goulue. It reminded me of my father’s face whenever he saw my mother. It reminded me of Luke’s face, each and every time I saw him.
I could stop the runaway train for both of us.
“Randall, you know that I love you. I think the world of you. You’re an amazing person, a great man. But what we have—it isn’t enough, and I think you feel that as much as I do—”
“What? What are you talking about, Claire? We’re about to get married, for chrissakes—you’ve just got the jitters! We love each other, Claire, and what’s more, we respect each other. Those sound like two good reasons to get married, at least to me.”
And he was absolutely right. Love and respect were two excellent reasons to get married. I looked at Randall closely, seeing for the first time what a marriage to him would really be like. We would always care for each other. He’d always give me anything I needed or wanted. He’d respect me. He would be committed to our marriage.
But he’d never be truly, deeply passionate about it. Neither would I. And that wasn’t enough for me.
“Randall,” I asked quietly, “why did you end things with Coral?”
“What?! What does Coral have to do with this? That’s ancient history, Claire, I really don’t think—”
“When she walked into the restaurant, Randall, I saw your face. I was just curious about why you’d decided to break up with her.”
Randall flushed bright red. “Claire, I told you, nothing happened between us! It was no big deal! I just wanted to tell her about the wedding in person. Please believe me, Claire, it was nothing more than that—”
“I trust you, Randall. I was just wondering why, in your mind, you’d ended things with Coral.”
“Well, she didn’t—she didn’t fit— I don’t know why, it just didn’t work!”
“But you were in love with her, weren’t you? So why didn’t it work?”
“Claire, honestly, why are we talking about this? It’s over between me and Coral, there’s nothing to—”
“Just tell me honestly why it didn’t work, and I’ll never mention it again.”
Randall put his head in his hands. “It didn’t work because … well, my mother didn’t approve of Coral … Coral’s background, I guess. Didn’t think she was the right woman for me. And I trust my mother. She wants what’s best for me, always has.”
“And you trusted her when she said that I was best for you.”
“I— Listen, Claire, it’s not like I just do her bidding. I can think for myself, of course, and I love you. You make me very happy—”
“Randall, think about how Coral makes you feel.”
He shook his head in desperate frustration. “It’s over, Claire, how many times—”
“Just think about how she made you feel, Randall.”
He stopped shaking his head. Neither of us said a word for a moment, but the look that passed between us said everything. “It was just different,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t know why. But I do love you, Claire.”
“Randall, we have something, and the past year has been wonderful—but it isn’t enough. And it’s not your fault—it’s not just you and Coral. I’ve developed feelings for someone else, too. I didn’t intend to, it just happened.” We sat next to each other on the stairs. “If we got married, we’d be cheating ourselves. I don’t want that for you, and I don’t want that for myself.”
I paused, taking a deep breath before forging ahead. “We can’t get married, Randall. I’m sorry—especially for only figuring this out a few minutes before our wedding. But I know it’s the right decision.”
And I did know it. Finally—after a year of confusion and second-guessing and mounting doubts—I knew myself again, and I knew what I had to do. Randall nodded slowly. He leaned down to kiss my cheek, now wet again with tears—when the door slammed open and Lucille charged out.
“What is the right decision?” she demanded, crumpled paper bag still in hand. “Why are you crying, Claire? What’s going on?”
I looked at Randall to see if he wanted me to be the bearer of bad news. He put his hand on my arm. “Mother, Claire and I have decided to call off our wedding.”
Lucille’s jaw dropped. “What!? What!? Of course you’re getting married! I can hear the organist warming up as we speak! This is some ridiculous—”
“I’m sorry, Mother, I know how much work you put into planning this—but Claire and I both know this marriage isn’t right. We’re not going through with it.”
Lucille, stunned, fell back on her heels—before promptly collapsing into Mom’s arms.
I slipped the ring off my finger and handed it to Randall. As beautiful as it was, I was glad to be free of it. I’d miss him, but I felt an enormous relief.
“Unbelievable,” whispered Mandy, stalking off to give the news to the priest.
“Thank you,” Randall said, kissing me gently on the cheek.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE AWAKENING
Luke! I hear you and Oprah have been chatting! Do you think she’s going to bump you into her lineup of book picks?”
The crowd of literary luminaries gathered around Luke was five people deep on each side. It was a tight cluster, impermeable as a rugby scrum. His launch party had been under way for twenty minutes, and I hadn’t spoken to him yet.
“Front page of The New York Times Book Review! That’s really something!”
Luke’s book had hit shelves exactly one week before and was already being lauded as one of the most exceptional novels of the era. Vivian, thrilled by its immediate success, had spared no expense in throwing together a suitably elegant book party at the National Arts Club on Gramercy Park. No quill-shaped pasties tonight.
I watched as David Remnick and Graydon Carter threw gentlemanly elbows to grab Luke’s attention. You could practically hear Sara Nelson composing her next editor’s letter for Publishers Weekly in her head. The response for Luke’s book had far exceeded everyone’s expectations—even mine, which were high.
“Claire!” a man’s voice boomed from behind me.
“Jackson!” I gave him a huge hug, surprised and delighted to see him. It was hard to believe it had been a year since I’d been his assistant—it felt like ten, at least. “I didn’t think you’d be able to make it! Luke said one of the grandkids was starring in the school play, and you wouldn’t be able to get away.”
“Alas, young Joshua’s Hamlet was not to be. He’s home in bed with what seems to be the world’s worst flu. So I decided to hop on a flight. Big night for Luke! You did a wonderful job with his book, Claire. I was truly impressed. Didn’t have to break out my red pen even once.”
“Well, thank you. I learned from the best. But honestly, there wasn’t much to do. The book was basically perfect
when I first read it.”
“Claire’s being way too modest!” Luke popped up next to me, giving me a kiss on the cheek. I blushed.
“I see Mara,” said Jackson, never one for subtlety. “I’m going to go say hello and leave the two of you alone.”
“Can you believe this?” Luke said after Jackson headed off. It was the first time we’d seen each other since the wedding that wasn’t, and I’d been nervous all day. “I can’t believe all these people are here to celebrate my book. This could never have happened without you, Claire. Hang on, I have something for you—a little thank-you gift.” He opened his jacket and pulled out a small, beautifully wrapped package.
“Luke, you really didn’t have to—”
“Just open it.”
I opened the silver wrapping paper slowly. Inside was a small, slim book. “My father’s first collection,” I whispered, tears immediately springing to my eyes. “Where’d you find it?”
“That’s a long, really dull story for another night.” He laughed, eyes twinkling. “But I thought you’d like it.”
“Like it? I love— Thank you, Luke. It was really thoughtful of you. I, um—”
“Excuse me! Can I have everyone’s attention!” Vivian clapped loudly on the microphone she’d grabbed from the jazz quartet playing in the corner. “Excuse me! People!”
The room fell silent, all eyes on her.
“This is obviously an exciting night for Grant Books. We’re all very proud of Luke Mayville’s success and talent. As some of you may know”—she lowered her eyes in false modesty—“I played quite a large role in discovering that talent. It’s so gratifying, as a publisher, when you single-handedly raise someone out of, well, complete obscurity and help them share their gift with the world.”
Vivian was taking “single-handed” credit for Luke’s success? She hadn’t even read the manuscript until the book was published!
“But there’s another reason why tonight is momentous for Grant Books,” Vivian continued. “I am very happy to announce that I am cutting loose from Mather-Hollinger. My company—Grant Enterprises—will be an independent, privately owned entity. I’m delighted that I’ll no longer be constrained by Mather-Hollinger’s ridiculous corporate bureaucracy. Grant Enterprises will not only continue and expand upon my record of success in the book world, but also be taking on TV and film projects. And I have no doubt that I will excel in those arenas just as I have with books.”
I’d never hated Vivian more than in that moment. Here she was, on Luke’s big night, first taking all the credit for his success and then stealing the spotlight from him.
And a separation from Mather-Hollinger? It was a horrible prospect. The company had done as little as possible to protect Vivian’s employees from her abuse—but it was still better than nothing. I couldn’t bear to think about how Vivian would behave under her own roof, left completely to her own devices.
“Wow,” said Luke. “That’s going to be interesting.”
“That’s going to be a catastrophe.” My head hurt.
“Luke! Would you like to say something to your many fans?” Vivian purred over the microphone like a lounge singer. At first, Luke looked like he’d rather not—but then he seemed to shake off his discomfort, walking over to the microphone and taking it from Vivian. She kept her hand planted on his arm, batting her eyelashes and leaning in to give him a languorous double kiss.
“Thank you, Vivian. I really appreciate everyone being here tonight.” There was a round of hearty applause, and my heart swelled with pride. “There’s one person I really need to thank—one person who saw the book’s potential and worked tirelessly to realize it. It’s as much her book as mine. Claire Truman, my editor and friend—Claire, would you come up here, please?”
I stood frozen in my tracks as the sea of people parted.
“Come on, Claire,” Luke repeated, waving me toward him. I reluctantly walked forward.
As I got closer, I saw that Vivian was shooting me a death glare, arms folded indignantly across her chest. Lulu was scowling from stage left, and Dawn looked on nervously from the front of the crowd. Only David flashed me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “As I was saying, I wouldn’t be standing in front of all of you tonight if it weren’t for the hard work and careful eye of—”
I started to smile—but my eye was drawn back to Vivian, who let out a loud huff. “Sit the fuck down,” she hissed at me. The microphone picked up her words and amplified them across the still hushed cocktail party.
My cheeks turned scarlet. Luke paused. I stood rooted in place.
“I said, sit down!” Vivian repeated in a louder voice. “You’re embarrassing yourself, Claire. You played a small role in the book, fine, but he’s giving you way too much credit. At least have the grace not to accept it.” She smiled at the crowd apologetically, as if I were some wayward, greedy child whose appetite couldn’t be controlled.
“Vivian,” Luke said firmly, “Claire played a very significant role in—”
“It’s okay,” I said quietly, and Luke hung his head in frustration. I looked straight at Vivian, suddenly unafraid. I’d had the courage to put the brakes on my wedding—I could do this too. “This isn’t my moment, Luke. It’s yours. But it’s also the last moment I’ll be working at Grant Books. Vivian, I quit.”
I walked briskly back to where I’d been standing. Stunned, the crowd remained parted, cleaving a path between me and Vivian. Half the faces stared at me, half stared at her. All we needed was a few tumbleweeds, some pistols, a saloon—and our showdown would be complete.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Vivian snorted, grabbing the mike out of Luke’s hands. “You were in way over your head, Claire. You were a liability from day one. Those of you who might consider hiring Ms. Truman, consider yourselves warned!” Vivian threw back her mane of reddish blond hair and laughed villainously.
For a second, I was dying to scream back at her. I wouldn’t let Vivian smear me in front of a crowd I respected! I’d call her a miserable bully—very few in the room would fault me for it.
But then I looked down. I was still holding Dad’s book.
“Good-bye, Vivian,” I said calmly, turning to head for the door.
I’d walked a few steps when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“My card,” said a top editor at Knopf whom I’d met earlier that night.
“Here’s mine,” said a senior editor next to him. “Call me, Claire.”
As I headed for the door, almost every major publisher in the crowd extended his or her business card to me. I’d collected more than a dozen by the time I reached the hallway. I looked back at Luke. He was beaming. For that matter, so was I.
Twenty minutes later, at the office, I was frantically putting my files in order when two men in black from the HR department materialized in the doorway. It was after 10:00 p.m.
“Vivian thought you might come back here,” said one of the goons, looking at me menacingly. “We came as soon as we got her call.”
“You need to vacate the premises immediately,” instructed the other.
“Fine. I just wanted to be sure my notes were clear, so that my authors won’t be left in the lurch—”
“Immediately means immediately. You have two minutes to collect your personal items, and after that, the city police will be notified of your disruptive behavior and you will be escorted out of the office by armed guards.”
I considered the fact that getting frog-walked out of the building would be the most fitting end to this chapter of my life. But then I dumped my Rolodex and extra shoes into a cardboard box and hurried to pack up. I’d hit my quota for ugliness. I just wanted to get out of here with my dignity intact.
The HR reps exchanged suspicious looks. “Enough stalling,” one declared. “Time’s up.” They eyed the contents of my cardboard box, which I hoisted onto my hip. It was time to go.
Good-bye, conference room, site of so many of Vivian’s egregious overshares.
Go
od-bye, conference room door, slammed every time Vivian flew into a rage.
Good-bye, coffeemaker that I relied on for life support. I think I’ll miss you most of all.
“Move!” barked one of the guys.
“I don’t know why you’re still doing her bidding,” I said. “Vivian’s leaving Mather-Hollinger. She just announced it. Did she tell you that when she called?”
As I stood there buffeted on both sides by the men in black, the elevator doors closed shut on Grant Books. And not a moment too soon.
EPILOGUE
TO HAVE AND TO HOLD
Glad you could make it,” said Phil, opening the door to his apartment. “We’ve got a lot to celebrate!”
“Phil? You look like a completely different person!” I hadn’t seen Phil in weeks, not since he’d been hired as a senior editor at Simon & Schuster. He’d lost at least fifteen pounds, and the bags under his eyes had miraculously disappeared. He looked no less than a decade younger.
“I feel a lot better, that’s for sure. The stress of Grant Books had me blown up like a tick.” Phil ushered me into his living room, where ten or so people sat clustered on couches and cushions. “Hey, everyone, this is Claire Truman. She just quit Grant Books last month.” All the faces turned toward me, smiling warmly. A few were familiar from my early days at Grant, but the others I’d never seen before.
When Phil had called me last week to invite me to an ex-Grant support group meeting, I’d thought he was joking. A support group for former employees of Vivian Grant? The meetings, Phil explained, were a forum for airing the grizzliest, most painful memories—stories that anyone who hadn’t experienced Vivian firsthand would think were exaggerations.
I’d hesitated to accept the invitation. I was still pretty shell-shocked, but I wasn’t sure I needed to swap tales of woe with a bunch of strangers.
“I know it sounds a little weird,” Phil had admitted, “but it’s kind of like we’re war buddies. All of us have shared the stories with our family and friends, and they’ve listened patiently, tried to understand. But they can’t. You have to live it to understand it.”
