by Wendy Wax
He’d begun to relax back into his chair when his gaze landed on the paperback. His smile disappeared. “What are you doing with that book?”
Puzzled at the tight-lipped intensity of his reaction, Faye held the copy of Spiraling Seduction up to examine the cover more closely. She looked back at Steve. “What do you mean?”
“I spent an hour this morning listening to a delegation of church ladies demanding that I speak out against the author, Shannon LeSade. Our daughter led the delegation.”
“Sara?” Faye couldn’t quite take in what he was saying.
“Yes. It seems she and her group are outraged by the ready availability of erotica, which they have decided, though I’m not sure how without actually reading it first, is pornography.”
“But why? What does this have to do with them?” Faye’s heart had sunk somewhere around her knees and was pounding madly.
“Apparently Borders has a large display of the author’s books in the center of the store where, and I quote, ‘anyone might see them.’ And there’s talk that the author may be coming here on a book tour, which has them completely incensed.”
Faye shook her head, trying to clear it. None of her rehearsal had prepared her for this.
“They’re planning to picket the store and organize other protests at bookstores around the country.”
Faye’s limbs felt heavy, her brain was moving too slowly to take it all in.
“It’s apparently smut,” Steve said. “I can’t imagine what you’re doing with it or why you would have brought it here. But frankly, after the uproar this morning, I don’t ever want to see that book or that author’s name again. And I don’t want you seen carrying it around, either.”
“But that’s ridiculous. That’s censorship.” Everything Faye had intended to say, everything she’d been so desperate to say, flew right out of her head. The look on Steve’s face made it clear the conversation she’d envisioned was not going to take place. “That’s—”
“That’s just the way it is.” Her husband completed her sentence for her. “And after all we’ve gone through to build this ministry together, you more than anyone should know that sometimes perception carries more weight than reality.”
Faye’s thoughts swam in a murky sea of disappointment. She saw no way now to use her book as a springboard to the conversation she’d hoped to have. Even more troubling was Sara and her delegation. How had they raised a child who was so judgmental and unforgiving? Who thought she could stipulate what others should and should not be allowed to read? To think? And how could Steve condone it?
“Did you agree to speak out against LeSade?” Oh, God. She tried one last prayer despite the fact that none of her earlier entreaties had been answered, Please don’t let him say yes.
“No,” he said. “I’m not a fan of this sort of . . . trash. But I don’t believe it’s up to me to pass judgment on others’ reading material.”
He sighed as Faye tried to come to terms with it all. “Sara has a mind of her own, though,” he said. “And she’s got it set down a path that we never imagined.”
Faye eased off the side of the desk and stood, tucking the book back in her bag and slinging the bag over her shoulder. She had accomplished nothing she’d come here to accomplish, but she no longer had the heart to try.
“I think I’d better go,” Faye said, the taste of disappointment bitter on her tongue.
“But I don’t even know why you came,” Steve said. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to talk about?”
“No, not really,” Faye said, the lie tinged with her regret. “I just thought I’d stop in and say hello.”
“All right,” he said as he walked with her toward the door. “I guess it’s hello and good-bye then.” He leaned over to give her a peck on the cheek then pulled the door open for her. “I’ll see you later at home.”
“OK” was all Faye could manage. Her attempt at honesty had been feeble and inadequate. Despite all the rehearsing and the determination with which she’d arrived, she hadn’t come anywhere close to confessing.
She left her husband in his office doorway staring after her. And as she waved good-bye to Evelyn and walked out into the parking lot, she realized she was going to have to set the idea of unburdening herself aside. She’d simply have to continue to live with her secret. And hope against hope that no one else ever revealed it.
32
You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.
—JACK LONDON
Tanya stood in the center of the trailer’s living room, trying to get her family into the Christmas spirit. “Come on, Loretta, open up some of that tinsel.”
The colored lights were already strung. The boxes of tinsel and ornaments sat ready to be placed on the white artificial tree she’d bought at the after-Christmas sale at Walmart last year.
Tanya had tuned Trudy’s radio to a station that had started playing holiday music the day after Thanksgiving. She even had two refrigerator rolls of cut-and-bake sugar cookies, with Christmas designs already on them, sitting in the refrigerator to be sliced and popped in the oven later: green Christmas trees for Loretta, red Santa Clauses for Crystal.
“I bet they’re singing carols over at the Adamses’ house,” Crystal whined. “Instead of listening to the stupid radio.”
“And I guarantee you they’re going to make their Christmas cookies from scratch,” added Loretta. “We could be over there doing it with them right now.”
Trudy shot Tanya an “I told you so” look, but mercifully refrained from saying it.
“Well, I am tired to death of all this whining and complaining,” Tanya said. “We’ve been decorating a tree and getting ready for Christmas just fine on our own for years.” She turned the radio up higher in an effort to muffle the sounds of bad temper. “We can sing along while we do this if you all want. We don’t need the Adamses to be . . . festive!”
Loretta huffed out of her seat and stomped over to the boxes of tinsel. Glaring at Tanya, she grabbed two of them, ripped them open, and carried them to the tree. Tanya winced as Loretta began to hurl clumps of tinsel at the branches, but held her tongue. She might be able to control her preteen’s actions; controlling her attitude was a whole other matter.
“Come on, Crystal, baby, why don’t you hang these ornaments?” Tanya placed one of the boxes of brightly colored balls in her nine-year-old’s hands.
The first bars of “Silent Night” played from the radio’s tinny speaker, but no one seemed interested in chiming in. Desperate to lighten the mood, she offered Trudy an olive branch. “Mama, why don’t you pull those cookie rolls out of the refrigerator so they can soften up a bit and then ladle us all up some eggnog?”
Trudy didn’t complain about the eggnog being store bought and in exchange Tanya didn’t complain about the large tot of rum Trudy poured into the adults’ glasses. In fact, she could hardly wait to drink hers.
Tanya opened the box of homemade ornaments and pulled out the angel Loretta had made in kindergarten. “Hey, Retta, will you put this on top?” Her daughter took the much-handled decoration, white gossamer wings glued over a triangle of white silk tied onto a used cardboard toilet roll, and held it carefully in her hands. This, at least, she wouldn’t hurl at the tree.
“Do you remember the year you made it?” Tanya prompted. “When you were so little we had to put you up on Daddy’s shoulders to reach the tip of the tree?”
It was dangerous ground, bringing up their mostly absent father, but at least it brought back more pleasant memories and hopefully reminded them that they had a few traditions of their own. “Look, Crystal,” she said, pulling out another ornament. “Here’s your Snoopy. I always did love his ears.”
She took the generous glass of eggnog Trudy brought her and took a long sip of it, making no comment on the strength of the rum or the hot trail it burned down her throat even though it was encased in the cool creamy eggnog. The two of them watched the girls hang the remainder
of the ornaments. Without being asked, Loretta pulled apart the clumps of tinsel she’d hurled earlier and took her time hanging the strands more evenly around the tree.
“That’s looking great, don’t you think, Mama? It’s nice to have our own tree-decorating ritual.”
She kept her gaze level with Trudy’s and actually saw her mother consider and then discard possible comments. She’d already voiced her displeasure over Tanya turning down the Adamses’ invitation and had not been shy about her disapproval of Tanya’s handling of Brett in general. She’d told her in no uncertain terms that if she’d been ten years younger she would have already married him herself.
But for once Trudy seemed prepared to think before she spoke. Instead of stirring up trouble as she normally did, she seemed willing to help keep the peace.
“Well, now,” Trudy said, still sipping from her own drink, which was bound to be twice as strong as Tanya’s, which meant nigh on to melting paint. “I do think it’s nice to have a family tradition of our own.” She rolled the creamy drink around in her mouth for a time, clearly relishing it. “What with the girls’ homemade ornaments. And the cute little tree. And making cookies and all.”
Relieved, Tanya began to turn away. However, it appeared that Trudy wasn’t quite done. “But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with sharing the holiday, either. It was right nice of the Adamses to ask us. And I think we could have found a way to work it out.”
“Thank you for sharing your opinion, Mama,” Tanya said carefully. She drained the rest of her glass and held it out to her mother. “Do you think you could get me a refill? And then we’ll go on ahead and make those cookies.”
“The Little Drummer Boy” came on with its gentle pa-rump-a-pum-pum s, but despite the relative calm that surrounded her and the rosy little internal glow the eggnog had created, Tanya didn’t feel at all peaceful. She was very afraid of how much her children and her mother wanted a relationship with the Adamses, how convinced they seemed to be that whatever was happening at the Adamses’ house right now had to be better than anything they might do here.
Tanya understood that everything seemed more fun with Valerie, Dani, and Andi. She would even concede their home was nicer than the trailer and Brett’s cooking better than her own. A part of her would have liked to be there right now, too.
But it was far safer not to need anything from anyone else, including the Adamses. Tanya knew, like she knew her own name, just how dangerous and foolish it was to hang your happiness on others.
The morning of the Scarsdale sales meeting, Lacy woke at 5:00 A.M., having spent most of the night tossing and turning from an alarming mixture of fear and excitement.
She had not been invited to the fancy cocktail party Scarsdale threw the night before at the InterContinental Hotel, where the sales meeting was being held. The biyearly sales meetings were used to present and hype important books to the Scarsdale sales reps, who in turn would sell them to their accounts. The editorial department knew that the more excited the sales force was about a title, the harder they would sell it to their bookstores and retailers. Hence the hotel venue and party atmosphere.
Lacy hadn’t exactly been invited to the actual sales meeting this morning, either, at which individual books were presented by their acquiring editors and plans for their launches revealed. But she intended to be there when, unbeknownst to Jane Jensen, the outstanding insider novel Sticks and Stones would be presented to Scarsdale’s sales force.
Her hands were sweaty as she dressed and applied her makeup. Her mind raced with all of the things that could go wrong. Because she had no power at all and Jane not only refused to listen to her, but was inclined to believe the opposite of whatever she said about Kendall Aims’s manuscript, Lacy had been forced underground, where she had done everything Cash Simpson had suggested and more in her efforts to put together a cohesive presentation on the book’s behalf. She’d entrusted the presentation of the manuscript to Hannah Sutcliff, who had loved Sticks and Stones almost as much as she hated Jane Jensen, and who had come up with an angle for presenting the book that Lacy hoped would neutralize the evil executive editor.
Simon Rothwell, who had become a friend and ally as she’d fed him chocolate to help him through his nicotine withdrawal, had read and loved the book, and on his own time—time he’d told her he used to waste going outside to light up—he’d designed a new cover that Lacy had had bound on the front of the manuscript copies that would be passed out. Cindy Miller, her friend in publicity, had managed to not only get publicity head Naomi Fondren to read the manuscript, but had asked to be allowed to plot out a publicity campaign for the book—a brilliant move that had called Cindy to her boss’s attention and moved Lacy’s plan a major step forward. Cindy’s friend Shelley in marketing had laid out a plan for placement and co-op dollars after she, too, got her boss to read the manuscript.
Of course none of the many steps that had been taken would have been possible without Cash’s enthusiasm for the book once he’d read it and everyone else’s antipathy for Jane Jensen, who had apparently scrambled over one too many backs on her way up the Scarsdale ladder.
Lacy’s plan was fairly simple, but depended more on luck than she would have liked. The biggest threat to its success was Jane herself. If Jane tried to evict Lacy from the meeting or convinced the publisher that the book was lacking, Lacy’s plan could blow up in her face.
And since the only thing predictable about Jane Jensen was her unpredictability, Lacy knew that anything was possible.
Dressed in a black skirt and sweater and with her hair subdued into a businesslike chignon, Lacy gathered her materials and cabbed it to the InterContinental. In the lobby, with its black marble column and gold leaf pediments, she drew a deep breath to steady her nerves and followed the directions Cash had given her to the meeting rooms. In an atrium off the elevator, sales and editorial staff mingled over coffees and Danish. An omelet station and bagel bar had been set up for those requiring more sustenance.
Lacy spotted Jane in a distant corner talking with Scarsdale’s associate publisher, Brenda Tinsley, with whom Jane had roomed in college. Cash was near the bagels, conferring with the editorial director and the head of marketing. Perhaps feeling her gaze on him, he looked up and spotted her and, without interrupting his conversation, sent her a bracing glance.
Wanting to stay out of Jane’s sight until it was too late for her boss to get rid of her, Lacy cadged a cup of coffee and went to sit in a far corner with her back to the crowd. She bent her head over her notes, but was much too nervous to focus on them. She took a sip of coffee and realized she’d forgotten to add cream or sweetener, but was afraid to go back for it lest she be spotted. She sat where she was until the buzz of conversation lessened. When the sound of china being stacked reached her, she stood and, carrying her materials with her, strode into the large conference room as if she were supposed to be there.
She spotted Jane right away, interestingly enough, chattering away to Cash Simpson, who was seated on her right. Careful not to catch her eye, Lacy moved around behind them and took a seat against the wall just as Brenda Tinsley called the meeting to order.
The meeting began with short pep talks by the publisher and associate publisher, followed by one from the editorial director. Cash stood and spoke at his seat for a few moments, something generic and welcoming. Jane Jensen watched him the entire time he spoke.
Hannah Sutcliff, who sat opposite Cash, watched Jane Jensen, a small, not very kind smile on her lips.
Lacy drew another deep breath and tried to fade further into the back wall. She was very aware of holding Kendall Aims’s fate in her hands, not to mention her own. Her anxiety built steadily and silently until she could hardly breathe. And then it was time.
Hannah Sutcliff stood to address the group assembled around the conference table. She looked at Jane Jensen, that small smile on her lips, and then she winked at Cash. “I’m here to talk about one of the best books I’ve read this
year.”
Everyone sat up a little straighter in their seats. A hum of excitement coursed through the room.
“It has everything the women’s fiction market gobbles up right now—and we all know how hard it is in the present market for any book to do that.” Hannah smiled and made eye contact with others around the table. “It’s the story of four women’s friendship and the lengths they go to for each other, expertly interwoven with their own personal stories.” She paused for emphasis and the small smile grew larger, drawing everyone in. “And it’s set in the publishing industry, a real insider story, though we aren’t always the heroes we might like to be.”
Lacy had noticed Jane Jensen’s back grow straighter, had seen her head jerk up at the mention of the publishing angle.
“The title of the book is Sticks and Stones.”
Jane Jensen came half out of her seat. Lacy watched Cash put a hand on her shoulder and gently push her back down.
“It’s actually written by one of Jane’s authors.” Hannah nodded to Jane now, her smile wicked. “Because it’s so different from anything this author has written before, because it’s so much bigger in scope”—her voice grew steely—“and because her relationship with the author was somewhat strained due to having informed the author that we would not be going back to contract with her, Jane asked a number of us to read the manuscript when it came in so that she could get some unbiased opinions on the manuscript. Because that’s what it’s all about . . . the work.”
Jane Jensen’s hands clutched the arms of her chair; her entire body appeared clenched.
At the head of the table the publisher and associate publisher had their heads together. Most everyone else was looking at Jane Jensen.
