Blessing in Disguise (45 page)

“We can get dumps on a lot of the lease lines.” Marty Weintraub’s grating voice brought him back to the meeting. He looked over at Marty, who was rubbing his jaw, already shadowed with stubble at twelve in the afternoon. “God knows what the chains will charge us to join their promotions, but if we can get the superstores to feature it up front, we’re looking at twice, ten times, the visibility.”

“How do you see the breakdown?” Jack asked. “Between advertising and what we lay out for point-of-sale?”

Jack saw in the Brooklyn-born-and-raised Marty a cruder version of himself: Thread broker turned book rep, who in nine years had risen up to become director of sales. Tireless, creative, terrific with people ... but Jack couldn’t help wincing at the diamond signet on his pinkie.

“I know you fellows are concerned about how much we’re going to have to spend, but the biggest exposure we’re going to get,” Nell Sorensen spoke up, “won’t cost a red cent. I just got off the phone with
People,
and they’re interested in doing a story. Possibly even a cover.”

Marty nearly jumped out of his seat. “Will the Emory woman agree to be interviewed?”

“How should I know?” She shot Marty an annoyed, harried look. “I just found out about this whole new angle myself—I haven’t even had a chance to phone her.”

“What about ads?” Jack asked.

What ensued was an endless debate about the effectiveness of radio versus print ads. Jack fought the itch to glance at his watch again.

Instead, he announced, “Folks, have your final proposals on my desk by tomorrow morning. And, Tim, I’d like to see numbers on half- and three-quarter-page versus full-page layouts.” He stretched his legs out under the vast rosewood conference table—the only piece of furniture on the entire floor that allowed him this luxury. “I’ll need to go over them with Kurt before we nail down the final budget.”

But who knew when he’d be able to catch Reinhold? The guy was always flying in from London or Munich or Helsinki, wherever Hauptman had offices. Probably thought it was safer. Make Jack the sitting duck. Let him get blamed for anything and everything that went wrong here.

“Sorry, gang. My meeting ran over.”

As if on cue, Reinhold strode in, his perpetually windblown hair even more scrambled than usual, his tie slightly awry. He dropped into the chair across from Jack, hiking one foot up on the opposite knee. His double-breasted jacket fell open, revealing red suspenders underneath.

Jack tried to ignore the looks exchanged around the table.

“We were discussing the ad-promo budget,” Nell offered. She began assembling her papers as if to pass them over to him, though an identical report, neatly bound in its plastic cover, lay on the table before him.

“I’ve gone over the figures,” Reinhold said. “And, frankly, I think you’re over the top on this one. It’s a promising book, no doubt. But three hundred thousand? What about our other projects—Boone MacArthur, for example? The way I see it, we’d be robbing Peter to pay Paul.”

Jack felt himself stiffening. He wondered if Reinhold had been talking to Ben, then quickly dismissed the idea. It wasn’t much of a secret that Reinhold would be happy to have Jack gone.
He’d never admit it, but I make him nervous.
Reinhold wanted to be the one in charge, yet when a decision needed making, people at Cadogan all still looked to Jack.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t let Reinhold know he was worried. Sidestep now, and work on him later? Might succeed, though he’d lose face.

Then something occurred to Jack that made him smile.

“Kurt, have you actually
read
this book?” he asked softly.

Silence fell over the room. Reinhold was giving him the old poker player’s bluff, but Jack could see him squirming.

“If I read every manuscript we publish, I wouldn’t have time to run this company.” He gave a forced chuckle.

“True,” Jack said amiably. “But let me tell you, when you
do
get the time, it’ll knock your socks off. Grace Truscott could make the life of Millard Fillmore a page-turner.” He held up a hand. “Oh, I know you’re probably thinking I’m prejudiced, but, my personal feelings about the author aside”—Jack waited for the chuckles to subside, and congratulated himself on having defused any grenades on that score that Reinhold might have lobbed his way—“let me tell you, it’s superb reading. Not just because of the sensational stuff, either. Among other things, it sheds all kinds of new light on Kennedy and Johnson. History buffs are going to have a field day.”

Heads all around the table were nodding in agreement.

“Absolutely the most gripping biography I’ve ever read,” Nell piped up.

“Great stuff. Really hot,” put in Marty, letting his wrist go limp and waggling his hairy hand.

“I’m sure you’re right.” Reinhold pushed himself to his feet. “But you’ll have to excuse me—I’m expecting an overseas call. We’ll take it up later?” He looked pointedly at Jack before striding out.

The meeting was adjourned.

Back in his office. Jack felt rewarded by the sight of Grace, seated in the wing chair opposite his desk, flipping through Cadogan’s spring catalogue, which featured
Honor Above All
on its cover—the famous photo of Eugene Truscott at Martin Luther King’s funeral, a cautionary hand held aloft, as if to ward off the camera’s eye, the shine of tears visible even with his head partly bowed.

Grace was wearing a fitted red wool jacket with black velvet lapels over simple black pants and leather boots. With her cheeks pink and her short dark hair windblown, she looked as if she’d just ridden in from a hunt and hadn’t had time to change. Jack felt his heart expand. God, she was so beautiful.

Kissing her lightly on the cheek as she rose, he fought the urge to catch her hard in his arms, hold her tight against what he could feel coming next. Because the look on her face told him she wasn’t going to like what he’d planned to tell her over lunch—about Hannah. In fact, from her stony expression he suspected that she already knew.

“I heard from Hannah last night after you called,” Grace said, as if she’d read his mind. “She was pretty upset.”

“I can imagine.” Damnit, why had he waited to tell Grace?

“She seems to think I spilled the beans.” Her voice was low and dangerous, making him think of thunderclouds. “For God’s sake. Jack, what did you say to her? How did
you
even find out?” Her words brought the icy downpour.

“Ben told me. But I promised him I wouldn’t let Hannah know where I’d heard it.”

“So you just let her guess, right? And, bingo, my number came up.” She faced him squarely, five feet four inches of barely restrained fury. “It just so happens, Jack Gold, that she
did
confide in me. For the very first time, she opened the door—just a crack, but enough to let me get a toe inside. Enough to let me see what it could be like if ... if ...” She swallowed hard. “And that’s why you didn’t hear it from me. Because
I
keep my promises.”

“So do I.” Jack wanted to take her in his arms, cover her with kisses, beg her forgiveness ... but he didn’t quite know how.

“Grace,” Jack said gently, “I told Hannah it wasn’t you I heard it from. This will blow over. She’ll get over it in no time.” He felt like a liar even as he spoke, knowing it almost certainly wasn’t true.

“How can you say that? Like it’s some kind of virus—a twenty-four-hour flu.” She smacked the catalogue down on his desk with a sharp cracking sound. sending papers scattering to the floor. “Do you really believe that? God, Jack, you’re either a whole lot more naïve than I thought ... or you’re purposely lying just to try and smooth things over between us. Either way, I can’t believe you’d do it—that you’d ... you’d just sacrifice me this way! Or aren’t I important enough for it to matter?”

“My son happens to be important, too.”

Hearing the pompousness in his tone. Jack cringed. But she was pushing him into a corner, giving him no choice except to defend himself.

“Explain it to Ben, then! Tell him what happened, and see if he’ll talk to Hannah himself. I think he likes me. Thank heavens one of your children does. And I think he’d want to help.”

“Grace, for God’s sake, Hannah is sixteen, and five minutes from now, I guarantee you, she’ll be thinking about nothing but that tennis ace with the terrific backhand and the brain of a lentil.”

“Jack, just listen to yourself. Either you are ducking this, or you don’t know Hannah half as well as you think you do.” She gave him a hard look.

“Grace, this isn’t the time—”

“Now
you sound like my mother.”

“Whoa ... wait a minute now, just back off, lady. Play fair.” He felt himself growing angry.

“Jack, do you really still think all this is about being fair? Is it
fair
that I’m being blamed for your leaving Natalie? Is it fair that I have to tiptoe around your family like I’m some kind of pariah?”

“No, it isn’t, but don’t you think you’re blowing this whole thing out of proportion?” He recognized the same tone he used with Hannah when trying to calm her ... and knew with a sinking feeling that Grace probably had, too.

“Actually, I don’t.”

“Dammit, Grace, can’t you just
drop
it?”

“Maybe you’d like me to just forget the whole thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, Jack.” She said it just the way Hannah, last night, had said.
Oh, Daddy,
and now he felt the same tightening along the back of his neck, the same sour-apple clutch in his gut.

Give it a rest, Jack. Don’t push her.

Grace was so mad, she wanted to punch him.

She had trusted Jack, and he had betrayed her. Obviously, blood
was
thicker than water.

She’d believed in the two of them ... that, in spite of their differences, they could make a go of it. But could all the loving gestures in the world make up for Jack’s not sticking up for her when it counted?

Do something,
a cold voice inside her commanded.
Tell him it’s over.

Suddenly she saw the whole thing clearly. Jack’s not asking her to marry him—all this time, she’d simply been waiting for him eventually to get around to it. But why did it have to be up to Jack?

Why couldn’t
she
be the one to decide? To say to Jack that any man who wasn’t jumping at the chance to marry her didn’t deserve her?

“Marry me, Grace.”

Grace shook her head, staring at Jack, wondering if she’d only imagined hearing him say those words. But the look on his face told her. Yes—oh, God—he actually
had
asked her to marry him.

Funny how there was none of the rush of excitement she’d imagined she would feel, only a dull emptiness.

“Why, Jack?” she choked. “Why
now?”

Instead of this being the happiest moment of her life, as it should have been, Grace felt as if she were a starving dog who’d been tossed a bone.

“Why don’t we talk about it over lunch?” Jack put an arm around her shoulders, disturbed by the tension he could feel in her, humming like a high-voltage power line.

Asshole. You sure do know how to pick your moments.
But how could he have, when he hadn’t even known he was going to say those words? They had simply jumped out of him. Why? Not hard to figure. They’d been on the tip of his tongue for weeks. And how stupid he’d been. letting his head—his penchant for weighing every little thing and totting it all up—get in the way of his heart.

“Forget lunch,” she told him. “I’m not hungry.”

“Dinner, then? I’ll fix us something at my place.”

“I don’t know.” She paced over to the window, and stood there for a moment, looking down at lower Fifth. Then she said in a firm voice, “No. I can’t see you. Jack. Not tonight.”

She turned to look at him—a long, measuring look that sent a cold ache to the center of his chest; a look that made it clear she was having serious doubts, not just about his sincerity, but about the whole rest of their lives.

“Mom?”

Grace started at Chris’s voice over the phone. He sounded so faint and almost ... lost. She’d been up half the night before, brooding about Jack, and indulging herself, too—crying into her pillow as she hadn’t since the divorce. A moment ago, she could hardly keep her eyes open. But now, huddled at the breakfast table in her robe, she felt strangely alert.

“Hi, sweetie. Having a nice visit with Nana?” She made her voice light, hoping that she was only imagining there was something wrong.

“We went to the museum yesterday after school,” he volunteered glumly. “It was fun, but Nana wanted to see practically every exhibit.”

“Did she wear you out?”

“Sort of.”

“I remember once, when I was around your age,” Grace said, “Grandma made me go to a party at some embassy. By the time it was over, I was pooped ... but she was as perky as ever. After we got back home, she stayed up half the night writing little notes to people she’d met, who she hoped would contribute to your grandfather’s campaign fund.”

“Sounds like Nana.” Chris managed a weak chuckle. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Look, Mom, I’d better go or I’ll be late for school. The reason I called is, I was wondering if it’d be okay with you if I stayed at Dad’s a while longer.”

“You mean while Nana’s there? I thought that was the plan.”

“Yeah, sure ... but after she leaves, I was thinking maybe ... well, uh, that it might be easier for everybody if I just ... you know, sort of hung with Dad.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. ... A while.”

Grace felt herself trembling. What was Chris saying? That he wanted to
live
with Win?

“Chris, why don’t we talk about this later—after I’ve had a chance to speak with your dad?” She was amazed at how calm she was managing to sound despite the rapid, sick pounding of her heart.

“Yeah, okay ...” Chris sounded wary.

“Is your dad there?” she asked, fighting the dizziness that seemed to spiral up from the pit of her empty stomach.

Then Win was coming onto the line, his voice soothing as the worn flannel robe she was wrapped in. “Grace, believe me, I know what you must be thinking. I was caught offguard by all this myself. When Chris told me that he wanted ...” He stopped, lowering his voice as if he didn’t want Chris—or maybe Cordelia—to overhear. “Listen, I don’t think we should be talking about this over the phone. Could we get together later on? Why don’t I stop by your place after work?”