by Rachel Hauck
“Is she young looking and beautiful?”
“For an eighty-year-old, I reckon so, yeah.” He shrugged and tucked his laptop under his arm. “I figure if you helped a woman like my grandma, who took care of my dad and his brothers while my grandpa worked as a bus mechanic, I should watch your back. Besides, yeah. I think Chris is in on it. He’s a database expert. The only one who could’ve set this up for them.”
“Tell your grandma her grandson helped save my family’s company.”
When he’d gone, she collapsed in her chair, relieved, sad, furious, confused. Why? She trusted those two bozos. And they corrupted Chris. Why weren’t the auditors, to whom she paid thousands of dollars every year, smarter?
She reached into the bottom desk for her Book and clutched it to her chest. She’d just started to discover the power of her new faith, of her prayers.
Where she’d wallowed in despair an hour ago, she now had the tiger by the tail. Coral smirked at her tiger-print slacks and reached for her phone.
“Dad, I need to talk to you.”
Chapter 23
Chuck
Just call him a gutless wonder. Couldn’t even ask a girl out to coffee. But Coral Winthrop wasn’t just any girl.
She was beauty in motion. Elegant. An old Knickerbocker heiress running a multimillion-dollar company who also loved and dumped one of the world’s most desirable bachelors.
He was a divorced dad and Uber driver with an arrest record. What was his point in riding the elevator up sixteen floors to see her? And hooking his hands over the doorframe like Balboa in the first Rocky.
Pulling up along Madison Avenue, he scanned the sidewalk for his next customer—a woman in a red duster coat. He spotted her between two parked cars, her short spikey hair tipped with gold.
She confirmed her destination as she climbed into the back of the car. “One ninety-five Broadway, please.”
Chuck pulled into traffic. He knew the place. A publishing house. “You’re a writer?”
“Agent.” She focused on her phone, the sounds of texting rising from the back seat. “Don’t tell me you’re a writer.”
He peered at her through the rearview mirror. “Jaded much?”
The typing stopped. “Sorry. Long week. I’m going to auction with a new book and the author, while promising, has no idea what she’s doing yet can’t stop telling me what to do. ‘You work for me,’ she says. One more snarky email from her and she can negotiate her own six-figure deal.”
“Ever hear of the Fifth Avenue Literary Society Library?”
“Of course. A beautiful old place.” She scooted forward, resting one arm on the top of the passenger seat. “My grandfather took me there when I was a girl. The scent of all those books was perfume to me. I almost crave it now. It was part of the old Winthrop mansion.”
“I go to a story society there on Monday nights. Five of us. We’re not writers, but Jett Wilder is our leader of sorts. He’s a professor and wrote a book—”
“Rites of Mars. I read it. Loved it. His publisher totally botched the release. Didn’t get enough advance reviews, then dumped the marketing money on the girl who plagiarized every teen novel known to man. They lost their shirts on that one. Who’s Jett’s agent? Do you know? He should’ve been raising cane with the publisher.”
“Don’t know. He doesn’t talk much about it.”
“If you’re not a writer, why do you go?”
“I was invited.”
“What do you do?”
“Eat. Talk about life. One guy, Ed, wrote a piece about his wife and read it to us. Seems like they were a match made in heaven.”
“How’d you come across this little society?”
“Like I said, I was invited.” He tapped on the horn, giving the car in front of him a nudge. “We all were. Don’t know by who—Come on, buddy, move. Son of a—” Chuck moved into a break in the traffic and escaped the jam.
When he arrived at 195 Broadway, his fare dropped her card in the passenger seat along with a generous tip.
“If you or any one of your society do come up with a story, call me.” She tossed another card onto the seat. “Make sure you give one to Jett. If he needs any advice, I’d be glad to help. Not trying to poach another agent’s client, but I can always be a friend.”
Chuck read the card. Lucy Hughes. “I used to tell my kids a story about a magic book.”
“A magic book?” Lucy hesitated, one foot out the back door. “I like it already.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“It’s high concept. I can imagine it.” She tapped his shoulder. “What does the book do?”
“Takes the kids on adventures, see? Anywhere they want to go. All they have to do is jump in and fly. Ride a pony across the milky way. Be a princess with a cloud kingdom.” He laughed, remembering Jakey’s fourth birthday. “I have twins and one year my boy jumped into the magic book and came out as Joe Namath.”
“Who?”
“Joe Namath. You know, the great Jets quarterback.” How old was this woman? “The twins’ grandfather fascinated them with colorful stories of Broadway Joe, and that’s who Jakey wanted to be.”
“What’s your name?”
“Chuck Mays.”
“Send me all you’ve got, Chuck.” With that, Lucy stepped out and ran between traffic into the building.
A shadow crossed his soul as he tucked Lucy’s card into his money bag. He didn’t have enough stories to send, because he’d scared his ex-wife and kids half to death and got kicked out of their lives.
But hopefully that would all change soon. If Wanda came through for him. He hadn’t heard from her since his two-minute visit on Monday.
He’d just connected with another fare around the corner when his phone pinged. A text from Wanda.
You can come. October 25 and 26. Two o’clock. One hour. Bring your best behavior or this will never happen again.
* * *
Lexa
When she looked up, Jett stood in the bedroom doorway.
“Hey,” she said, setting her book aside. She’d started reading Rites of Mars Wednesday and couldn’t put it down.
“Still reading?” he said.
“It’s good, Jett. Really.”
His smile was so cute. “Good. I’m glad you like it.”
“I already want a sequel with Reena.”
“How’s your week been? Any hits on your résumé?” He’d been busy all week with school and missing his publication deadline, and overseeing homecoming festivities. New York College had lavish, time-honored traditions for their alumni and students.
“A few companies have looked but it’s only been a week. I’ve contacted a few headhunters who were very interested. The right thing will happen at the right time. Who knows, maybe Zane will come to his senses and hire me.”
“Has he called?”
She shook her head, slightly pained by the reality. It was time to move on. Even if he did call. No use staying where she was not wanted or appreciated. Life was too short.
“What did you decide about Gordon’s manuscript?”
When he arrived home from the story society Monday evening they had talked about the manuscript and all the possible implications instead of the charged question he proposed to her in the foyer after she told her Carnie story.
“Is that why you walked out?”
Frankly, it was easier not to dig up the past, and the matter of the manuscript was more pressing. It wasn’t like they were going to change anything about their history and present status, though in the quiet of her heart she’d like closure one day. She’d like to know what he was thinking and feeling when she slammed the door behind her.
But right now, it all felt too close and raw, like her arm. Healing but not ready for use.
Jett sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m three days late submitting. Renée is anxious. The dean is calling. Ten million, Lex. Ten million on the line. I think, well, I have to go with what I have. What I know for sure. The u
npublished book in the library doesn’t really change anything.”
“How could it not, Jett? The publisher wrote a letter admitting to stealing Birdie’s story.”
“He never said her name. Just that she was an heiress.”
“Well, I think we can connect the dots.” The “we” was unintentional but she liked how it flowed so easily in the conversation.
“I know, I know.” He flopped back on the bed. “There’s no evidence of her writing—”
“An October Wedding.”
“Or that Gordon wasn’t simply inspired by her version of The Girl in the Carriage and completely rewrote it. Or that he didn’t help her write October Wedding. No, no, there’s not enough to convict.” He jumped up and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “I’m emailing my manuscript in now before I get lost in the woods of indecision again.”
“Then okay. Do it and stick with your decision.”
“You sound like Dad.”
“I always liked your dad.”
“Speaking of Dad, I was wondering . . .” He moved across the room and looked toward the flares of the setting October sun. “Go with me to Mom’s wedding. She set the date for the twenty-sixth.”
“That’s next weekend.”
“I can’t handle her, Oz, Dad, and the memorial by myself.”
“So you want to take your ex-wife along? That’ll make it easier.”
He laughed low. “It’ll be a good diversion. An odd conversation starter.”
“Jett, no, I can’t. It doesn’t feel right for me to go. I’m not family.”
“Too late. Mom added you to the guest list and I’m pretty sure Dad would love to see you. And if Storm were alive, there’d be no getting out of it.”
“Well, that’s true.” She laughed at a memory of Storm. “Remember the time he wanted to take us out to dinner and kept getting accosted by fans?”
“Female fans.”
“He bought the monkey face and wore it into Delmonico’s.”
His laugh sparkled. “I still have that mask somewhere.”
The moment passed, and the silence claimed their hearts. “Guess I’d better get to work. Papers to grade. Midterms are right after homecoming week.”
“I’ll go,” she said as he entered the hall. “If you want.”
“I do.”
“Okay, but as your friend.”
“What else could you be?”
When he’d gone she sank down into the pillows, more comfortable than she wanted to be.
She should tell him. Not wait until last minute. Not walk out on him like she did before. He’d been so nice to her the past month.
But her building super had called to say he’d installed the new shower nozzle she requested. And the matter of her loft bed had been resolved by Abby, who texted she had an inflatable mattress Lexa could borrow. No surprise, considering all the people who crashed at her place on weekends.
Should she tell Jett that Dr. Haft scheduled her up for a new, shorter cast next week and had cleared her to be on her own?
Should she tell him? “I’m moving home next week.”
She tried to read again, but she had the attention depth of a shallow puddle.
Why was she intimidated to tell Jett she was moving home? Other than gratitude, which she planned to express in an expensive gift—yet to be determined—she owed him nothing.
Lexa attempted to finish the chapter, but the turmoil of the epic space adventure’s hero and heroine, Stovall and Amvi, hunkering down in their makeshift hut as a Martian hurricane raged over them, seemed like nothing to the turmoil inside of her.
She’d just agreed to a weekend with her ex-husband. And if she was honest, she was falling for him all over again.
* * *
Jett
Since sending his finalized dissertation to the publisher, he couldn’t sleep or settle down.
Yet when he assessed his thoughts and emotions, nothing seemed amiss. He believed he’d made the best decision. Done the right thing.
Omitting the manuscript discovery and supporting the academic world’s view of Gordon Phipps Roth proved he cared about scholarship and truth.
How dare he imply GPR used a ghostwriter, or worse, stole a manuscript from a Gilded Age heiress when he had no other corroboration?
The letters from Daniel Barclay were inconclusive. He could’ve been talking about anything or anyone.
All right, yes, the letters were clearly addressed to Gordon, still . . .
He’d done the right thing. Especially for his college.
Monday afternoon, Jett reached inside his desk drawer and twisted open a bottle of Tums. Darn hamburger from lunch was burning him up.
Back at his desk, he faced his computer and the first paper of his Comm 2 class. Only seventy-one to go.
He was grateful for the homecoming week where classes were cancelled, and he’d find time to catch up on work.
He was on the first page of the first essay when Renée burst through his office door.
“Jett, outstanding work.” She carried a printout of his book under her arm and perched on the chair next to his desk. “Your conclusions are stellar. Dean Hanover just heard from Elijah, and not only is the Roth Foundation giving us the ten million at the November reception but they want to present your book at the annual Roth Awards in February. They want you to be a VIP.”
“But the Roth Awards are for fiction.” He painted on a smile. “And I’m glad everyone is happy.”
“Your work is about a fiction author.” She made a funny face. “Why are you protesting? Is this your practice at humility?”
“Just wondering.” The more excited everyone became, the more conviction weighed him down.
Someday, someone would find out the truth, find that hidden manuscript and bring it to light. How would Jett feel then? Because he had the chance to set the record straight, but submitted to fear and concern for his reputation.
“Do you want to be on the budget committee for the endowment?” Renée picked a piece of chocolate from the dish he kept on the corner of his desk.
“Not really, but thank you.” He’d rather forget about the dissertation, what he left out—yes, what he left out, there, he’d said it—and move on.
Renée’s gushing didn’t bolster his confidence but revealed his cowardice. He’d given the story the ending everyone wanted. All for a measly ten mill. Of which he’d see none.
“You look green.” Renée tossed the candy wrapper into the trash. “Go home. Get some rest. You’ve been working too hard. Get your TA to grade the papers.” She selected another chocolate as she stood to leave. “Lexa still with you?”
“Yes.” He began to pack up. The story society started in an hour.
“Is that a good yes or a bad yes?”
He flung his backpack over his shoulder. “Just a yes.”
“No sparks? No rekindled love?”
“Good night, Renée.”
Her snickering echoed in the hallway as she went her way and he went his.
Sparks? Plenty. Rekindling? More than he’d like. He argued that the reason for his attraction to his ex-wife was because he hadn’t been with a woman in almost two years. But what a crock. Everything flowing through his veins was all about Lexa.
He hopped on his bike and pedaled toward midtown, growing more agitated with each churn of the wheel.
He wanted more with Lexa. And more for himself. Was Gordon so important that he could make Jett ignore the truth?
Be honest, man, Daniel Barclay’s letter leaves no doubt. They stole The Girl in the Carriage. Lied to the book world.
And with Jett’s omission, he became part of the scheme.
By the time he knocked his bike through the library door and locked it in the foyer, he was grumpy and hungry.
“Where’s the food?” he said, dropping his backpack into his chair.
In the corner, the fireplace crackled, daring him to smile, relax, enter into the inviting ambience.
> “Exactly, Jett, where’s the food?” Coral examined his empty hands.
“Dude,” Chuck said. “It was your turn.”
“No, I remember it was . . .” He shot a glance at Lexa. “Should’ve reminded me.”
“You should’ve remembered.”
“Let’s just order pizza.” Coral retrieved her phone from her oversized bag. “What do we like?”
While she created a menu with Chuck and Ed, Jett stepped toward his ex-wife. “You have a new cast. I thought that was later in the week.”
“They called. Had a cancellation, so I was moved to the head of the line.”
“What a difference.” Jett sat on the edge of his chair and examined the lightweight polyethylene material that embraced her upper arm. “How do you like it?”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I love it. Look, I can bend my elbow.” She demonstrated but winced when she raised her arm a bit too high. “I have to have therapy to get back the range of motion, but can you believe it? The ordeal is coming to an end.”
“Can I expect a few home-cooked meals this week?” His laugh had barely left his lips before it was killed by her sober glare.
“Jett, I’m moving back to my place.” He hated her calm determination. Hated the pit opening in his chest. Hated how he’d not prepared for this at all.
“Are you sure? You’re still going to need help with—?”
“My hair, but I’ve been going to my stylist once a week anyway.”
“Can you climb up to your loft?”
“Abby is lending me an air mattress. And the super installed a shower hose. I’m set, really.” She pressed her good hand to his. “But I am so grateful. You’ve been better to me than I deserve.”
He shrugged. “You’d have done the same.”
“In an altruistic way, I’d like to think I would.”
At least she was honest. He left the heat of Lexa’s presence and turned to the group. “So what kind of pizza are we getting?”
If he was bothered before, he simmered now. And he’d left the Tums in his office. The feelings, the friendship, the kisses, the subconscious hope they were becoming the people they were before death and divorce was all a facade.