"Lars?"
Belatedly, Dorsey realized she had spoken the comment aloud, and immediately, she wished she could take it back. She'd learned long ago not to encourage her mother to elaborate on such remarks. Too often, Carlotta's elaborations went on for days.
"Yes, Lars," Carlotta said before Dorsey could come up with anything that might sidetrack her. "I once knew a lumberjack named Lars. Randy as a bear he was, too. Really, his name should have been Bjorn. Bjorn is Swedish for 'bear.' Did you know that, Dorsey? I don't know what Lars is Swedish for. Probably 'flannel shirt.' I couldn't get him to wear anything else. Of course, sometimes, that was rather nice—the not wearing anything else part, I mean—but other times, well… Come to think of it, maybe he should have been named Randy instead of—"
"Carlotta," Dorsey interjected as discreetly as she could.
Her mother glanced up, her face etched with surprise at the interruption. "What?" she asked.
"Um, we were talking about something else, I think?"
Thankfully, Carlotta nodded and moved on. "So we were. We were talking about you putting on that green dress and coming with me tonight."
Dorsey shook her head. "No, we were talking about how that dress"—she pointed toward the garment in question—"was not going to work on this body." This time she pointed at herself.
Her mother smiled. "Dorsey, you put that dress on, there wouldn't be any work involved, I assure you."
Dorsey ignored the comment. "It's not my style," she said simply.
"Oh, pooh. You've got an incredible figure," Carlotta told her daughter, "and cheekbones that cost other women thousands of dollars. Not to mention those amazing green eyes and that auburn hair you inherited from your father."
And it went without saying, her eyes and hair were the only things she would be inheriting from her father. But Dorsey didn't say that—it did, after all, go without saying—and neither did Carlotta. Reginald Dorsey was persona non grata around the MacGuinness household. That was because he was also in absentia. And, at least as far as Dorsey was concerned, he was non compos mentis, too. Et cetera.
"It's only your … deportment … that needs work," Carlotta added.
Dorsey laughed. My, but her mother was being uncharacteristically charitable today. "In other words, if I change everything about myself, I have a chance of what? Trapping myself a tycoon? Thanks, but I'll stick to working on my dissertation."
Her mother's normally full mouth flattened into a thin line. "Dissertations don't put food in a hungry belly, Dorsey."
"Maybe not," Dorsey agreed, "but they feed other things that need just as much nourishment."
Carlotta arched an elegant blond eyebrow in speculation. "You come to Hollis's party with me tonight in that green dress," she said, nodding toward the tiny garment on the bed, "and I guarantee you that you'll catch every male eye in the place. By evening's end, you'll be set for life."
Oh, now, that, Dorsey decided, was open to debate. Not just because her idea of set for life and her mother's idea of set for life were crashingly at odds, but also because, as much as Carlotta resisted specifics, no man had ever set her for more than a few years. And even Dorsey's father, Reginald, had kept Carlotta—and Dorsey—for less than a decade before moving on to his next female acquisition.
"Thanks, Carlotta," she said magnanimously, "but I have to work at Drake's tonight. Besides," she added before her mother had a chance to go off yet again about how Drake's was the biggest pond for fishing and how could Dorsey refuse to even sink a lure. "I don't think Hollis Barnett would be too happy about an uninvited guest showing up at her party."
"Oh, Hollis wouldn't mind a gate-crasher," Carlotta said. "That's how she met Mr. Barnett, by crashing his first wife's birthday party." She hesitated, then added thoughtfully, "Come to think of it, that's how I met Mr. Barnett, too." She shrugged the memory off quite literally and contemplated her choice of dresses once again. "But he ended up married to Hollis, didn't he?"
"Obviously," Dorsey replied obediently.
"It's just as well," her mother said with a quick wave of her bejeweled fingers. "He had terrible breath. I don't know how Hollis has managed all these years. She must have invested quite heavily in Binaca stock."
Dorsey chuckled. She was about to offer further commentary when the telephone on the nightstand purred with a delicate whir. Everything about Carlotta's room was delicate, from the rose-trellis wallpaper to the pink, poofy canopy bed, to the fringed ivory chaise longue, to the crystal lamps, to the floral, pastel rug. No one would ever accuse Carlotta MacGuinness of having anything even remotely resembling a Y chromosome, that was for sure. She was the very definition of femininity. Dorsey often wondered how they could possibly share the same strands of DNA.
Her mind still focused on the conundrum, she leaned over to answer the phone, muttering a perfunctory greeting as she pressed the receiver to her ear.
"Dorsey! Hi! It's Anita!"
Instinctively, Dorsey reacted as she always did when she heard Lauren Grable-Monroe's editor's voice coming through the phone line. First she shivered as cold fingers of terror began clawing at the back of her throat. Then she swallowed that terror until it ran amok as a cyclone of panic and discontent in the pit of her stomach. Then she battled a cloud of black foreboding and clung desperately with brittle fingers to what little composure she had left.
Then she told herself to stop being so melodramatic—unless she planned to have her option book be a Gothic romance—and switched on the speaker phone. Conversations with Anita Dixon, after all, always included Carlotta, too.
"It's Anita," she told her mother as she completed the action.
"Hallooo, Anita," Carlotta sang out as she reached again for the two dresses on the bed. She turned toward the mirror and held the green up before herself once more, her expression contemplative. "The last time you called," she said over her shoulder, "it was to tell us that How to Trap a Tycoon was going into its third printing. What delicious news do you have for us today?"
Dorsey could envision Anita Dixon sitting at her desk, a dark-haired, energetic waif furiously smoking a cigarette, having completed her lunch of Twinkies and espresso. She'd never met her editor in person and had no idea why she pictured Anita in such a way. The other woman simply sounded young, hyper, and brunette.
"Two words," Anita announced. "Book tour."
Book tour? Dorsey thought. Book tour? Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. "I don't like those words," she told the editor. "Choose two more. Like 'good' and 'bye.'"
"How about 'network' and 'television'?" came Anita's response.
"No, I like those even less," Dorsey assured her.
"Get used to them, Dorsey," Anita told her. "Because Lauren Grable-Monroe is about to go national."
Oh, no, Dorsey thought. No, no, no, no, no.
Evidently taking her silence as a positive sign, Anita continued blithely, "The book is selling like crazy, and readers and booksellers are clamoring to meet Lauren. You wouldn't believe the mail we've received and the feedback our sales force is getting."
"But, Anita—" Dorsey cut in feebly.
So feebly, obviously, that Anita didn't even hear her. Because the editor continued quickly, "The American public wants Lauren. Badly. And Rockcastle Books wants to give her to them."
Give her to them? Dorsey echoed to herself. More like toss her to them. "Them" being not the American public, which actually connoted a rather warm, comfortable gathering of moms, baseball players, and grandmas holding apple pies, a fate that wouldn't be without its merits, actually. No, the "them" she visualized at Anita's assertion was a group more consistent with a pack of howling, rabid wolverines that were frothing at the mouth.
"But, Anita," she began to object, "how—"
"A book tour is the logical way to do that," her editor interrupted her. Again. "We want Lauren to speak and sign books in some of the larger cities, starting, naturally, with Chicago . And we're setting a place for her at Book Expo in the spring."
"But, Anita, how are you—"
"It's incredible, the response to this book, Dorsey. Good Morning America has already called twice. Twice. We can't put them off any longer. We don't want to put them off any longer. Do you know how hard it is to get time on national television? Yet they're calling us! It's phenomenal."
A wave of nausea rolled through Dorsey's midsection as she waited for Anita to come to a stopping point. The instant she heard her editor taking a breath, she jumped in, "And how are you going to manage this, Anita? Need I remind you that Lauren Grable-Monroe doesn't exist?"
Immediately, she regretted voicing the question. Not because she feared offending Anita, but because she feared the reply she just knew her editor was going to give her.
There was a thoughtful pause from the other end of the line. Then, softly, "No, Lauren doesn't exist," Anita agreed. "But, Dorsey … you do."
Aaaaaggggghhhh!
The silent scream unrolled in Dorsey's head, and it was with no small effort that she kept it silent. Yep. That was pretty much the reply she had feared, all right.
"Yes, I do exist," she agreed. "But I'm not a sexy former mistress full of tips on how to bag a tycoon. I'm an academic striving to carve out a career in research and teaching," she reminded her editor. "If the head of the sociology department at Severn finds out I'm the one who authored How to Trap a Tycoon, she'll never let me teach again. It might even compromise the reception my dissertation will receive this spring."
"Dorsey, your dissertation is a scholarly, sociological treatise on stuffy old-boy men's clubs and how they exist as a microcosm of a male-dominated society," Anita reminded her. "Two words, darling: big yawn. Nobody's even going to be able to finish it, so why are you so worried about defending it?"
Dorsey reined in the comment she wanted to make. Hey, maybe it wasn't destined to be a best-seller, but she was proud of her work. Her dissertation, she was certain, would be a hit with the faculty of Severn 's sociology department when it came time for her to defend it.
Unless, of course, Anita Dixon and Rockcastle Books had their way. Should it ever get out that Lauren Grable-Monroe was actually Dorsey MacGuinness, then Dorsey might very well be barred from teaching at the college she loved.
And in addition to blowing her credibility, the revelation that she was Lauren Grable-Monroe might also compromise the financial aid Dorsey had been receiving for years. Even if she wasn't benefiting from the profits of the book—every last cent of the advance and royalties were being paid to Carlotta— Severn would view Lauren Grable-Monroe as a wealthy woman. They might very well demand that Dorsey repay the thousands of dollars' worth of tuition that she had received over the years, based on her economic situation. And that was a lot of money to have to repay. Especially seeing as how Dorsey would never have it.
Somehow, she quelled the ripple of hysteria that had begun to bubble just beneath her surface and tried to focus again on the conversation at hand. "I can't be Lauren," she told her editor. "I can't. I'm a sociology Ph.D. candidate, not a social butterfly. Furthermore, my mother has just accused me of dressing like a lumberjack. And you know what, Anita? She's right. I do dress like a lumberjack. I'm not some former mistress-slash-party girl like Lauren in any way, shape, or form. I'm not Lauren, period."
There was another one of those pregnant pauses, followed by Anita's carefully stated, "You could be."
Aaaaaggggghhhh!
"Oh, no, I couldn't," Dorsey stated immediately, adamantly, swallowing another silent scream. "Lauren and I have absolutely nothing in common. If it hadn't been for Carlotta, I never would have written this book. The content is hers, not mine. Hell, the earnings are hers, not mine."
"But the writing is yours, Dorsey," Carlotta interjected. "All I did was list a lot of pointers and suggestions. The wit, the wry humor, the irreverence … that's all you."
"She's right," Anita agreed. "And those are the things that define Lauren."
"Anita," her mother said. "Maybe if you let me talk to Dorsey—"
"There will be no talking," Dorsey stated clearly, first to her mother and then to the telephone. To Anita, she added, "You agreed going into this thing that I'd be able to preserve my anonymity."
There was a rather dubious silence from the other end of the line, followed by a rather ominous sigh. "We need to rethink this anonymity thing, Dorsey," Anita said carefully.
"No, we don't," Dorsey told her. "You assured me, before I even signed the contract, that taking a pseudonym wasn't going to be a problem."
"That's not the problem," Anita told her. "That, actually, especially in hindsight, was a very good idea."
"You also assured me," Dorsey continued, "that my personal life wouldn't be jeopardized at any time. That there was no reason to disclose the fact that Lauren Grable-Monroe is, in fact, a Ph.D. candidate in the sociology department of Severn College ."
"That's not the problem, either," Anita replied. "Quite frankly, the last thing I want is for Lauren to come forward as a stuffy academic from some snooty women's college."
Dorsey tried not to feel offended—even if she did have to concede that she was rather stuffy and Severn was rather snooty—and went on, "You also promised me that keeping Lauren Grable-Monroe under wraps would be a piece of cake."
"See, now that's the problem."
"Anita…"
"Look, Dorsey," her editor interrupted her—again. "Just think about this for a minute. Book sales have been phenomenal with Lauren lying low behind the scenes. If—when—we bring her out, the numbers are going to go through the roof. Through—the—roof," she reiterated slowly. "We're talkin' New York Times list, baby. We're talkin' 'More than a million books in print.' We're talkin' foreign sales out the wazoo."
"All the more reason to maintain my anonymity," Dorsey said, her tone pleading.
"No, Dorsey, you're not listening," Anita replied. "We're talkin' incredible royalties. Way beyond your initial advance. We're talkin', potentially, many hundreds of thousands of dollars. Financial security for the future," she added pointedly, and, as far as Dorsey was concerned, that was the lowest of blows. "I thought that was what you wanted. I thought earning a nice little nest egg for your mother's retirement was the whole point of writing How to Trap a Tycoon. How can you turn that down?"
She couldn't turn it down. Dorsey knew that. The promise of cold, hard cash was what had generated this whole fiasco. Carlotta, as charming as she was, had absolutely no head for financial planning, and she'd always made her way on someone else's ticket. Nowadays, those tickets were coming fewer and farther between. The proceeds from How to Trap a Tycoon were supposed to fund Carlotta's future, so that she could spend the rest of her life in relative comfort without relying on a benefactor. Dorsey just wished she didn't have to sell off so much of herself to guarantee her mother's health, happiness, and well-being.
In spite of the feeling of defeat that gripped her, Dorsey said halfheartedly, "Anita, I can't identify myself as the author of this book."
Anita's exasperated sigh was followed by an impatient "Why not?"
Even as the reasons unfolded in her head, Dorsey knew her editor would never understand them. She scarcely understood herself why she was so reluctant to do what Anita was asking her to do. All she'd ever wanted from life was security. Not just financial security, but personal security, too. Psychological security. Emotional security. In her own small way, she had won, or was about to win, all of those things. She was about to earn her Ph.D., was close to nailing down a position at Severn College that would someday lead to tenure. She had a stable income and regular rituals she observed in her life, along with a daily routine that was wonderfully routine. There were no ups and downs for her these days, no unforeseen curves, no hidden trapdoors.
It was exactly what she wanted after growing up in an atmosphere where she and Carlotta had often, quite literally overnight, gone from living in posh apartments to the streets. One day her mother would be bringing home carryout from five-sta
r restaurants for Dorsey's dinner, and the next day they'd have trouble scraping up enough for McDonald's. The quality of their lives had always depended on whether or not Carlotta had a benefactor lined up, and as often as not, those benefactors would disappear without warning. These days, more than anything else, Dorsey craved stability. Security. Routine.
The financial reward that Anita was promising, should Dorsey pose as Lauren Grable-Monroe, would give her mother all of those things, and Dorsey, too, by extension. Contrary to popular belief, she knew money could buy happiness. Because money could buy security. And security was everything—everything—she had ever wanted. For herself and Carlotta.
In spite of that, very softly, very slowly, Dorsey said, "I don't want to identify myself as the author, Anita, because, for the first time in my life, I'm enjoying a quiet, orderly existence. Something like this would wreak havoc in my life, with absolutely no guarantee of anything more. And I don't like havoc. I like even less the absence of guarantee. I'm going to be defending my dissertation in six months. If everybody knows I'm Lauren Grable-Monroe, it's going to totally blow my credibility in the academic community. There's a very good chance they wouldn't let me teach at Severn anymore."
"Dorsey, your mother will have piles of money," Anita reminded her. "You won't need to teach at Severn anymore."
"But what if you're wrong?" she asked. "What if those piles of money never materialize?"
"I'm not wrong."
"But what if you are?"
Anita seemed to sense Dorsey's distress, and, like any good New Yorker, she pounced on it. Ruthlessly. "Dorsey," she said, "if you come forward as Lauren to promote this book, it'll spur sales even higher. It'll garner your mother a fortune. Carlotta could potentially make a ton of money. I thought that was the whole point. How can you even think of balking at an opportunity like this? Lauren Grable-Monroe needs to come out of the closet. Now. We have to put her in the public eye. Now. She has to be made real. Now."
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