Blessing in Disguise (21 page)

Jack suppressed a shudder. No, he couldn’t,
wouldn’t,
let himself be bullied. “You’re forgetting one thing, Kurt. Jerry is Grace’s editor,” Jack reminded him. “And this book of hers—it’s going to be big. Look at the publicity it’s already gotten. The accounts are jumping up and down. We’re looking at huge orders here, and I don’t think we want to jinx this by firing Jerry before we’ve even gone to press.” He wouldn’t mention to Kurt what Grace had told him, about her mother possibly suing the company to stop publication. He’d cross that bridge when—or
if
—he came to it.

Meanwhile, he’d show Reinhold that
this
old publisher (not that fifty-two was exactly antique) was not going to fade away. He’d goddamn
mobilize
the place, put everything Cadogan had behind Grace’s book—a twelve-city tour, maybe even a press-conference launch on Capitol Hill. The buzz was already humming all over the country.
Honor Above All
could become
the
book everyone had to have, if not to read, at least to
own.
Look at
A Brief History of Time, The Naked Ape.
Purely from a business sense, aside from Jack’s personal feelings about Grace, there could be no question, even in Reinhold’s mind, of the huge potential here just waiting to be tapped. ...

Jack brought his attention back to Reinhold. The man had not relaxed his steely gaze, but Jack could sense him relenting a bit. Still, he wasn’t going to make this easy. Echoing Jack’s own thoughts with uncanny precision, he asked, “What about the possible repercussions on the book’s so-called murder angle? You thought about having this reviewed by outside counsel? Making sure our ass is covered?”

“Dan Haggerty’s on top of it,” he told his boss, hefting a malachite paperweight in the shape of a pyramid. “He’s consulting with Fred Queller—best trial lawyer on the East Coast, Dan says. Far as I can see, we’re okay, but if it turns out we need to take extra precautions, I’ll let you know. I’ll keep my eye on Jerry, too, make sure he stays out of trouble.” He prayed Reinhold would let it go at that—that he wouldn’t force the issue of Jerry. Later, when the embarrassment Jerry had caused him with that
Publishers Weekly
piece had faded from Reinhold’s mind, he’d remind him again of what an asset Jerry was to the company.

He breathed a sigh of relief when Reinhold, as abruptly as he’d appeared, strode toward the door with the distracted air of a man who had a million agendas and never enough time.

Jack put the paperweight down, and rose heavily to his feet. He’d have to warn Jerry, tell him to keep a low profile, at least until
Honor Above All
came out. After that, if all went well, they’d both be home free.

On his way down to Jerry’s office, Jack ran into Ben as he was heading out through the double doors to the art department.

“Bud Eastman’s up to here with that Yugoslavian artist doing the Harrigan cover.” Ben held a hand to his throat, palm down. “I got called in to help smooth things over.”

“Any luck?”

“He’ll make the changes Eastman wants, don’t worry.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. Misha was a tough cookie.

Ben grinned. “He has a show at the Pace Gallery, and I promised I’d go have a look, bring some of Mom’s rich friends who collect East European art.”

Jack clapped Ben’s shoulder, feeling a glow of pride in his son’s ability at managing tricky situations like this one. At the same time, it triggered the memory of that unpleasant incident some years ago, when his son was a freshman at Yale. Ben had been caught selling textbooks and supplies at a discount to his fellow students—stuff he’d charged to his account at the campus bookstore, assuming his father wouldn’t look too closely at the bill. The worst part was that Ben had to have known he’d eventually get caught, and yet he’d run his little operation with a careless conceit that still staggered Jack whenever he thought about it. Even when he
had
been caught, Ben had been unrepentant, as if the generous allowance he considered meager had left him no choice.

It had been the one and only time in Ben’s life that Jack had hit him. Not hard—a single slap across his smirking face. But apparently it had been enough to fan the glowing embers of Ben’s resentment.

Was there a way to get through to his son, get him to see that life wasn’t always a matter of grabbing hold of whatever you could get your hands on? His plan of having Ben work his way up from the bottom at Cadogan had misfired—instead of appreciating the value of hard work and patience, Ben had merely pegged him as a Simon Legree. But maybe it still wasn’t too late. ...

“Got a minute to step out for a cup of coffee?” Jack asked lightly.

Only Ben’s father would have caught it: the slight frown, no deeper than a dimple, between Ben’s thick dark brows. Then it was gone. “Sure, Dad. Just give me a sec, I’ll tell Lisa.”

“Meet you by the elevator.”

Ben reappeared in the hallway outside the paneled mahogany doors with the name “Hauptman Group” on a discreet brass plate placed at eye level. He looked puzzled. “Lisa said Roger stopped by my office while I was in with Eastman. I didn’t know he was going to be here. If there was some kind of meeting, why wasn’t I told?”

Jack, who’d been hoping to forestall this until they were out of the building, braced himself as he stepped into the elevator. Why, with Ben, did everything have to be a battle?

But then a voice reminded him.
You weren’t the one who fished Young out of the slush pile, who spent months of endless nights and weekends, helping him shape those elephantine, inchoate manuscripts of his into something commercial.
Only two years out of college, Ben had sold a reluctant board on offering for Young’s first book. Luck, Jack had heard some of them grouse after it hit the list. Riding in with a trend, others grumbled. But it was clear Ben had an eye, a gut instinct, for what the public wanted. And the skill of a gem-cutter when it came to shaping a raw lump into something that glittered.

As they creaked down seven floors in the empty elevator, Jack briefly told Ben what had happened. “I spoke with Sue McCoy yesterday afternoon,” he finished. “She came in to see me, looking like hell. The thing with Roger—it happened over a week ago, but she hadn’t wanted to say anything. I give her a lot of credit for speaking out, knowing her job might be on the line ... hell, the whole company, for that matter.”

Stepping out into the marble-lined lobby, Ben looked as if he’d been kicked in the balls. His face the high, angry color of a rash, his eyes glittering like chips of broken bottle glass.

“Jesus, Dad,” Ben swore. “Jesus Christ.”

As if too stunned to say any more, Ben merely shook his head while they pushed their way out through the revolving door. They were met by a gust of autumn wind whirling down lower Fifth, which seemed to blow with it a honking, screeching, belching stream of cars, buses, trucks, taxis, and messengers on bikes and rollerblades. The Flatiron District, where nothing stood still. Even the sidewalk was jammed, everyone head-down intent on navigating the sidewalk in front of him. The one building in Manhattan marvelously shaped like a giant pie wedge, and no one was giving it even a glance.

Jack waited for his son to say something, but as they crossed Fifth and ducked into Andrew’s Coffee Shop—good for a sandwich on the odd day when he wasn’t lunching with some agent or author at the Gotham or Union Square Cafe—Ben remained silent.

Finally, seated in a booth near the back, Ben exploded. “How
could
you? Look, I’m as shocked as you are over what Roger did. But why the hell didn’t you come to me first? He’s my author, dammit!”

“That’s
why
I didn’t call you into the meeting. I didn’t want your relationship with him to be affected.”

“As in ‘good cop, bad cop’? Roger beefs to me, and I pat him on the back and tell him I know just how he feels?”

“I wouldn’t have put it exactly that way.”

“You could at least have had the courtesy to let
me
decide how to play it. You had no right going behind my back like a ...
Jesus.”
He slammed his fist against the table as if he wished it were his father’s face.

“I’m sorry.” Jack was careful in the way he said it, so Ben would understand he
was
sorry, but only for what this would mean to Ben.

“Not as sorry as
I’ll
be. Or Reinhold, when he hears about this.” Ben kept his voice low as a waitress too old to be working all day on her feet filled their cups.

Despite his almost aching need to charge in, fill this bruised moment with explanations, assurances, Jack felt a dart of anger. Ben, once again, was only thinking of himself.

“It had to be done,” he said simply.

He watched Ben sip his coffee, wince, put his mug down, hard enough for some of the steaming liquid to slosh over the brim. Ben took his napkin and mopped it up. In that moment, in the way he so carefully folded the sodden napkin and tucked it out of sight under his saucer, Jack caught a glimpse of Natalie.

“Speaking of Reinhold,” Ben said, “he wants to fire Jerry Schiller. ... Did you know that?” Ben stared at him, his jaw thrust forward. His pale skin, under the diner’s fluorescents, held a faint violet tinge. Natalie’s skin, he thought, wincing at the memory of his ex-wife’s pride in what she considered to be her patrician looks, how she’d preen when some dope would tell her, “Oh, but you don’t look a bit Jewish!”

Wasn’t this just like Natalie, too, changing the subject just when things were heating up? Jack was annoyed, too, that the rumors had somehow gotten around the office before he could talk to Jerry himself.

“I’m aware of Kurt’s reservations,” Jack said carefully. “But I think I managed to convince him that firing Jerry would be a mistake.”

“Why a mistake? He’s dead wood, and everybody knows it.”

The way Ben parroted Reinhold’s own dismissive words about Jerry made something click in Jack’s head. Could it have been
Ben
who’d instigated this whole thing? Maybe even going so far as to bring that
Publishers Weekly
piece to Reinhold’s attention?

“You’re after Jerry’s job,” Jack said, marveling at his own blindness in not catching on sooner. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

“Who wouldn’t be? Anyone in my place would be a fool to turn it down,” he said noncommittally.

What he was seeing in Benjamin’s face now. Jack didn’t like. A look that was almost ...
proprietary,
as if editor-in-chief had already been promised to him. Jack swallowed more of the awful-tasting coffee, feeling it burn like acid.

“Have you considered the possibility,” he said slowly, “that you wouldn’t be up for his spot even if Reinhold
does
push Jerry out?”

“Roger Young, damnit,
he
was my ticket.” A furious light leaped in Ben’s eyes.

“Don’t forget, Roger is still under contract for one more book,” Jack reminded Ben gently.

“And after that? Unless I can pull a rabbit out of my hat, he’ll be off and running. Random House, Simon and Schuster? Julie Pasternak at Bantam would
kill
for Roger.”

“I had no choice, Ben,” he said, shaking his head.

“Seems like I’ve heard
that
line before,” Ben said, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable.

“If you’re referring to your mother and me ...” Jack took the plunge, not wanting
this
to be buried, like every other thing he did that Ben took umbrage at. “... it was nobody’s fault. We grew apart, that’s all.”

Ben flashed him a disgusted look, but then his expression softened, and he raised his palm in a conciliatory gesture. “Look, Dad, forget it. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Silence settled over them, brittle as the cold toast left on a plate at the uncleared table next to their booth.

Then it was Jack’s turn to change the subject. “Oh, hey ... I forgot to tell you. I’ve got an extra ticket to the circus tonight. Hannah can’t come.” Weeks ago, when he’d first invited Ben, he’d claimed to have other plans. Now Jack asked, “Sure you won’t change your mind? It’ll be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Grace doing a death-defying act.”

“I’ve already seen it.” Ben laughed—an unpleasant snorting sound. “You don’t call what’s been going on with you and Grace and Hannah death-defying?” He quickly lowered his gaze. “Sorry, it was a dumb joke. Face it, Dad, Hannah is
never
going to accept her.”

Jack felt the burning sensation in his stomach kick up again. Hannah’s last-minute excuse was indeed pretty flimsy—calling to say she’d been invited to spend the weekend in Montauk with her friend Kath’s family, acting like it was a big deal, when she was out there practically every other weekend as it was.

“That’s not all that’s not going to change,” Ben went on. “A year from now, Grace will
still
be fifteen years younger than you.”

“It was my impression you liked Grace.”

“My liking her or not liking her has nothing to do with it. I just think you’re getting in deeper than you should.”

Jack felt as if he were hearing his own fears echoed by Ben. Every time he looked at Grace, so aglow with youth, so passionate, so
alive
—wasn’t that at the back of his mind? The thought, stuck like a pebble in the bottom of a shoe:
When you’re seventy, an old man, she’ll still have men coming on to her.

He started remembering his own father. How old was he then—early seventies? Could Pop have had those same fears when he got married again? And it was awfully soon after Mom died. Had he suspected, even before he slipped the ring on Rita’s finger, that one day she would be cheating on him? Not that Rita had been such a bad person—who could blame her for having normal hungers and needs? A vital woman in her early fifties stuck with a feeble old man who needed help going downstairs and who sometimes wet the bed. In a way, it had been lucky Pop died before Rita actually walked out on him.

“Maybe I am,” Jack conceded, not wanting Ben to know how close he’d come to Jack’s own doubts. “All I know is that I can’t imagine being without her.”

“Does that mean you’re going to
marry
her?”