Blessing in Disguise (33 page)

Strange? Awkward? Yes, but ...

Was it possible they could ever become friends? Would she one day be able to confide in Nola as she’d always wished she could with Sissy?

I don’t know why you’d want to waste your time with someone so much older than you when you could have had Win back just by snapping your fingers.
Grace could almost hear Sissy’s holier-than-thou reply to a confidence she might have imparted about Jack.

Nola, on the other hand, she could imagine smiling that world-weary smile of hers, and saying something like, “Love doesn’t always walk in the door with a smile on its face—sometimes you’ve got to take it where you can get it.”

Unlike Sissy, Nola, she felt sure, wouldn’t need to take pot shots at her sister in order to feel better about herself. Whatever her hang-ups or jealousies, Nola seemed the type to deal with them straightforwardly. Not only that: as a single mom, she had to be used to handling things on her own.

Like me.

As the similarity sank home, Grace watched a tiny, wry smile surface in the mirror.

She imagined, too, getting to know Nola’s girls, and found herself warming to the idea. She hardly knew Sissy’s boys, much less felt close to them. The one time Sissy and her family had come to visit her in New York, back when she’d been married to Win, Beau and Billy had nearly torn her place apart with all their roughhousing. And when she herself had finally scolded them, her sister had risen up in indignation, as if Grace had taken a strap to their bottoms (which, come to think of it, might not have been such a bad idea).

Dani and Tasha, on the other hand, had seemed so sweet. What would it be like to take them all the places she used to take Chris—before he’d declared a moratorium on all that “baby stuff’—the Children’s Museum, the zoo, F A O Schwarz? How would Nola’s daughters feel about an aunt dropping down out of the blue?

And what about Chris? How would he react to being presented with this whole new family branch? Would he pull away from Nola as he had from Jack?

So many questions. For each one that presented itself, a dozen more cropped up. Grace’s mind spun. For now, all that seemed clear was that Nola’s declaration, rather than being merely an epilogue to their parents’ story, was just the beginning for Nola and Grace.

“I’d really hate to lose this book.” Ben struggled to keep from sounding like some overeager editorial assistant, but then he just couldn’t hold back. “Dad, it could be big ... really big. I thought it might just be hype, but I’ve heard it from two sources. Producers at Paramount and Fox are making offers. I’m telling you, all the scouts are buzzing about it.”

Seated across from his father’s desk, cluttered with picture frames—including a photo of him as a chubby Bar Mitzvah boy, which he hated—Ben felt as if he were on fire. His list desperately needed shoring up—in case all his wining and dining of Roger Young failed to keep Roger from walking. But, seeing Jack’s contemplative expression as he sat tilted back in his thronelike Victorian swivel chair, Ben realized that his father, as usual, was going to make him sweat ... and in the end might even say no.
Damn him.

Ben felt himself beginning to itch all over, and knew that, if he were to peel off his jacket and roll back the cuffs of his shirt, he’d find a rash beginning on the insides of his forearms.

“Two hundred thousand is a lot to offer for a book that still needs major work,” his father quietly responded.

“Somebody, and I’m pretty sure it’s Random, is at one seventy, but at two I’m almost sure we could close it out. Dad, this could be
The Firm
all over again. Phil Harding not only can write, but he’s with one of L.A.’s top law firms—the atmosphere’s so real, you’re actually
there.”

“But what about the plot? Jerry says it has some big holes.”

Ben felt like exploding, but he kept his fists, his whole body, tightly clenched. Schiller, the windy old fart, what did he know about commercial fiction?

“For God’s sake, to him no one’s any good unless he’s William Faulkner, or maybe Saul Bellow,” Ben responded in what he hoped was a reasonable tone. “We’re not talking the National Book Award, Dad. With some editorial work and some decent promotion, this one could hit the
Times
list.”

Ben could feel the rash on his arms and under his collar growing itchier, and remembered how his dad had had to tape socks over his hands when he was little to keep him from scratching his hives raw. He felt like that now, as if his hands were tied. Jesus. Why couldn’t the old man, for once, just
once,
listen to him?

“I like your enthusiasm, Ben.” His father was speaking in his I’m-the-most-reasonable-guy-in-the-world voice. “But we’ve got to be realistic. What I see is an author with no track record, a first novel with problems that may or may not be fixable. For twenty thousand, even fifty, we could risk taking a shot. But to make this work, we’d have to go well into six figures on marketing and publicity.”

“Lou Silverstein at William Morris is hinting that we might be able to work something out. Like giving us a flow-through on foreign sales, for one thing.” He didn’t have to explain to his dad that, the bigger the advance, the more Hollywood would stand up and take notice.

“That could make a difference.” Jack leaned farther back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, but his expression remained dubious.

With his silvering hair and clear blue eyes, his father could model for a life-insurance ad, Ben thought.
Put your trust in me, folks, I won’t let you down.
Which was pretty much how everyone at Cadogan saw him—the editors and their assistants, the marketing-and-sales force, even the ponytail-and-earring characters in the art department. His secretary, too, lanky horse-faced old Lucy Taggert, had been in love with him for years. He remembered Dad once complimenting her on a scarf she was wearing, and damn if she hadn’t kept wearing that thing every day for a month. The only one here not kissing his ass was Reinhold.

“Listen, Dad ... I know things are kind of tight right now”—damnit, why did he have the feeling he was sixteen, asking if he could borrow the car?—“but I really believe this will work. I’ll
make
it work.”

You owe me this. My position in this company, my career, my whole future, was all tied up with Roger Young. And you’ve done your best to shoot all that to hell. Yes, he’s a creep ... but couldn’t you have sent the woman on a nice trip to Hawaii instead of slapping Roger’s wrist?

Now Dad was smiling indulgently, and leaning forward, planting his elbows on his desk. The morning light streaming through the vertical blinds glinted off a smiling photo of Hannah in a heavy silver frame. Ben wanted to smash it, hurl it at the wall.

Eight years ago, when Dad had offered him a job at Cadogan, Ben had figured on editorial assistant at the very least, maybe even junior editor. Forget his being the boss’s son, he was a Yalie, Phi Beta Kappa, had even published in
Zirkus.
But, damnit, there was Dad, reminding him of that stupid scam he’d pulled his freshman year, rubbing his nose in it all over again, then sticking him in the
mail room
for six months. Yeah, sure, he could have walked away, gone to some other house. But he’d made up his mind: he was going to prove himself to his old man if it killed him.

And in a lot of ways, he
had
proved himself. Even forgetting about Roger Young, hadn’t it been his idea to call their run-of-the-mill diet book
The Santa Fe Diet,
repackage it with before and after photos of the Superrich and Formerly Fat, then juice it onto the best-seller list?

But editor-in-chief—
that
would really mean something. Ben could see it in his mind, just beyond his reach—Jerry Schiller’s corner office down the hall, nearly twice the size of his own. All it would take was another little nudge in the right direction and Reinhold would send Jerry packing. A bit more maneuvering and it could be “Benjamin Gold” on the brass nameplate next to what was now Jerry’s door.

But with editors who’d been here longer than he angling for the job, he’d need something extra to put him at the top of the short list—a coup even more spectacular than his acquiring the Harding book. And hadn’t Grace, the other day, unwittingly handed him the perfect opportunity?

If it were
me,
not Grace, who got hold of Truscott’s letters
—
and I’d make sure Reinhold
knew
it was me
—
I’d be the hero when Grace’s book came up a big winner.

First, though, he’d have to find some way of prying those letters away from Nola Emory. He recalled his first impression of her—tall, angular, beautiful in a formidable kind of way. In a short amount of time, he’d gotten her to open up a bit, even to laugh. And those sexy eyes—so at odds with her cool poise. He’d pegged her at once:
She’s lonely for a man, but hell will freeze over before she’ll admit it.

The truth was, he’d actually been hoping for an opportunity to get to know her. The women he’d dated, they were all so obvious. A dinner or two, a concert, and they’d be dreaming of registering for wedding china at Bloomingdale’s or Tiffany’s. Nola wasn’t like that, he sensed.
He
would have to do the pursuing, win her over.

The prospect excited him.

“Things
are
tight, Ben,” he heard Jack say. “Reinhold is even thinking of cutting back on the publicity budget for Grace’s book.”

Ben felt himself grow instantly alert. “But that doesn’t make sense,” he argued. “It’s our lead spring title, for Chrissakes.”

Jack nodded, obviously disturbed by this new twist. “Apparently he got wind that there might be some sort of legal action taken by Mrs. Truscott. Her lawyer made some noises to that effect. And now Reinhold’s worried that we’ll be forced to do some heavy editing before the book goes out. If there’s no sensational angle ... well, I don’t have to tell you.”

Ben understood completely. Without some good dirt, Grace’s book would be just another footnote to history, its only distinction being that it was written by the man’s daughter.

“Listen, Dad, let’s get real. You and I both know what’s at stake, even if Reinhold doesn’t,” Ben said, dropping his voice. “Did you talk to Grace last night?”

“She told me what happened with Nola.” Now Jack was looking tense, his normally rugged face drawn and somehow old-looking. “But I’m afraid that, for the moment at least, our hands are tied.” He held out his palm to stave off Ben’s reply. “And, Ben, until we can get a handle on this, I want you to keep quiet. With Mrs. Truscott already on the warpath, we don’t need the press picking up on any more undocumented stories.”

Ben fought his annoyance; did his father think he was still a kid, incapable of keeping a secret? “But what if we
could
somehow get those letters? Then we’d have proof.”

“That would change things, of course. But I wouldn’t hold out much hope of that happening. According to Grace, Nola was pretty adamant.”

“Maybe Grace just doesn’t know the right way of convincing her,” Ben said, smiling.

“Ben, I hope you’re not going to suggest something underhanded.”

Jack tipped his head in such a way that his gaze seemed to be falling on Ben from a distance, the way it had when Ben was little and Dad a good deal taller than he. How did his father always manage to make him feel like he could never measure up?

“I was just thinking that Nola might come around if there was something in it for her,” Ben said mildly, knowing it would be a mistake to let his straight-arrow dad in on what he was planning. “Grace could offer her something, maybe a percent or two of her take.”

“Your grandfather peddled pots and pans from a pushcart on the streets when he first came from the old country,” his father said, smiling. “You remind me of him, always looking to cut a deal.”

“It got him his store, didn’t it?” When was Dad going to let go of this Eisenhower-era idea that you got ahead merely by the honest sweat of your brow?

“Yes, it did, at that,” Jack said, laughing his great booming laugh. Ben imagined the assistants outside in their cubicles pausing from their typing to lift their heads and smile as if they were part of the joke. Lucy, just outside, would probably go into heat.

“Dad, getting back to the Harding book.” Ben sensed that now was the moment to push. “Let me go to two twenty-five if I have to—give me that much. I promise you won’t regret it.”

His father frowned, clasping his hands in front of him, mulling it over.

“Two
hundred,”
Jack said at last. “And that’s it. I’m sticking my neck way out on this as it is.”

“You won’t regret it, Dad.” Ben stood up.

“I hope not,” he heard his father say, and had to grind his teeth to keep from shouting,
Damnit, why can’t you ever just trust me?

But he’d pretty much gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? Now he had to get back to his office, and make the offer. Then he’d track down Nola Emory. He’d already called her office, pretending he had some urgent blueprints for her, and had conned the receptionist into telling him that Nola would be out on site most of the day, at a building going up on East Forty-ninth.

Those Truscott letters—he
had
to get them.

Every dog has its day.
Growing up, hadn’t he heard that often enough? Well, this one, Ben thought, is going to be mine. ...

Ben watched Nola Emory pick her way across the construction site—a tall woman in a billowy hunter-green coat, like a Douglas fir rising up incongruously amid slabs of precast concrete and hillocks of steel girders and cranes. She carried a roll of blueprints tucked under her arm, and was speaking to a hard-hatted foreman, gesturing emphatically. She didn’t look pleased. The odd thing was that, except for her hands and arms, she remained perfectly still, not even shifting her weight from one foot to the other ... though it was clear from the expression darkening the foreman’s Pillsbury Doughboy face that she was getting her point across.

Then he pointed up at something, and abruptly Nola took a step back, not minding—or, more likely, not even noticing—that she was half-standing in a puddle of scummy water. Head thrown back, spine arched, she watched an ironworker’s torch on a steel platform many stories above her send a fountain of orange sparks spraying out against the putty-gray backdrop of the Manhattan sky.