She handed him papers. “Anyhow, it’s complete.”
“Ah, your book.”
“As much as you can call it that, sweetheart. It’s my husband’s story.”
“He was an important part of New York’s history. I’ll make sure the world knows it.”
“And, please, no more nonsense about publicity.”
“You know I value hard work above all else. Haven’t you earned it?”
“I didn’t write it for that reason. Please, no press.”
He set the book and papers on a sofa table. “As you wish.” For her, he’d walk a tightrope between the two towers that once graced the city. Iris Connelly was the grandmother he never had. He liked to think he made her life a little less lonely. “But you deserve it.”
“Are you coming to my Christmas party?”
“Now Iris, you know I don’t have time for a social life.”
“You will come, honey, you must. I won’t stand for an adorable young man with your looks and talent and money being alone for the holidays. It’s next Saturday, so bring a cheese plate.”
“Really Iris, Christmas means very little to me.”
She folded her arms with a loud jangle of gypsy bracelets. “Is that right?” Her eyes shifted to his secret book armoire and lingered, as if she knew what was inside. “You don’t fool me, son.”
“No, I suppose even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t slide that one by you.”
“If you had a young lady, you’d feel differently. Bring a date.”
“I don’t have any dates.”
“I suppose you had better get busy finding one then. In case you’re not clear, darling, the cheese plate should have cheese, crackers, fruit, and some kind of sweet thing to spread on top.”
Arguing with the mother hen proved futile.
“So, pulling off the top of a pizza’s out then. Got it!”
She slunk toward the door. “I’ll be back with my mincemeat pie. Weekend baking, you know.”
“You know I love your pies.”
Opening the door, she scanned his sterile bachelor pad with the highest-end furnishings of the land. “I’ll return with my man, a tree, and some lights. This is just sad, sweetheart, just sad.”
“I don’t have time for the holidays.”
“Well, that’s why you have me.” Once in the hall, she pivoted in a chorus of jingles. “Honey, my hallway bulb is out. Do you think…”
“I’ll come by in a bit.”
“I hate to bother you. My man can’t come until Monday.”
By ‘man’ she meant a college student who paid his tuition doing odd jobs for the elderly. And, in the Upper West Side, there was plenty of that going around. “Perhaps I’ll come get the pie.”
“Another hour at least.”
He gave a wink. “My mouth’s already watering.”
“And honey,” she said in a tone that reminded him of Bette Davis. “Your kindness is enough.”
She vanished before he could ask what it meant. The last conversation they had was when he bragged about Big Apple Books obtaining a grant, which ended with a lecture about vanity.
Kindness is enough. Enough of what?
He wanted her respect, not her life lessons. Yet, the old woman was about the only person he cared about lately. She helped him identify his greatest wish, which was to earn a single compliment from his dad.
Once, she posed, “Why do you need it?”
And, left him.
William was no Sigmund Freud. Why did he need it? Maybe a slight hint from his father that his son wasn’t to blame for Adele Harcourt’s cancer would allow him to stop seething with hate.
No more of that.
He shifted his thoughts to Lucy Carpenter and considered asking her to be his date; knew she thought him more despicable than steaming manure on top of sourdough bread. Still, every month he eagerly awaited their review meeting. He even caught himself putting extra time into his wardrobe those days.
Nope.
Respected bosses shouldn’t fawn over their delicious employees, nor pay any attention to what they look like in that way.
Not an option.
But, oh, those curves. And, her hair? Likely it felt like silk and fire and heaven all in one big handful. He imagined what it would feel like splayed across his bare chest. That wasn’t all. Her innovative ideas and sharp mind left him spinning for a loop and longing to speak with her again. Stop it, fool. She hates you. They all hate you.
At least he had respect.
After a quick shot of cherry brandy (which wasn’t something he’d normally do in the morning), he paced with his phone. All he could think about was turning the sweet holiday novel that softened his heart, into a publishing sensation that would blow his dad’s socks off.
How else to finally get praise?
Bibi Roquette.
Walt Disney had the right idea. Combine a talented knack for the arts with popular childhood stories and launch them into a multi-billion-dollar sensation of movies, toys, games, theme parks, clothing, and weddings.
He gave it more thought.
The Grinch had a happy ending. Would he? William knew there would be no future for him if he couldn’t hear the words “congratulations” from his father at least once before he died.
The man was an empire giant; his word was law. Without a compliment or recognition of a job well done, the job itself was meaningless.
Every success William had along the way was met with “you’re on the right track.” When he earned his graduate degree in publishing, his dad said, “let’s see what a PhD can do.” When he broke off from his dad’s company and took a job heading up his own, it was, “we’ll see if you can make anything of it.” Even when William brought Big Apple Books into six figures from nothing, he got, “Let’s see if you can hit seven.”
Bibi Roquette was the answer.
Reading through her manuscript in seven hours on Friday night took him on a roller coaster of emotions. He laughed, cried, stomped his feet, held his breath, swooned deep in his chest (and men don’t swoon), and sighed out loud from relief, often all at the same time.
“Oh Bibi, who are you?” he said, pressing his forehead into the floor-to-ceiling glass. Below, a trail of dogs pulled plastic saucers through fluffy white swells across the park.
A holiday book. Did he dare?
The writing, the story, the depth, all were unlike anything he ever read. He decided that his company would be the one to publish the first edition of her brilliant gem, and he’d have the first copy. The book was going to take him right to the pedestal of Mr. Maxwell Harcourt III.
He’d finally be enough.
A pat on the back, a hug, an accolade. Some recognition that he succeeded as a son. He knew his father wouldn’t take well to being stomped on by his success. Still, Will knew it was the only way to get a look of pride.
Books.
Since his mother, it was the only thing he’d die for. And, not just any books. Books that changed the world or rocked a nation, or left hearts in teary puddles across the floor. He thought of that cute strudel Lucy Carpenter and wondered what it would feel like to massage the clothes right off of her.
Whoa, cowboy.
He jumped a foot back from the window. Where did that thought come from? The closest he ever had to love was his college sweetheart dumping him on his head, swearing that his empathy resembled a lump of coal.
Instead, he had books.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, cold from the chilling memory. Nobody would respect a man who loved Christmas. If he proceeded with his plan, he’d have to pose it as strategic. His mind mulled over how to approach publishing Bibi Roquette’s book without changing the image of his company.
This girl deserved it.
He eyeballed his cell phone on the table. “Give the little man a voice.”
It was an approach that his father never tried. Maybe the ticket that would gain Will his dream of being a Top Five publisher in Manhattan. He c
entered his gaze to a framed picture of his mom.
“What do you think of Bibi, Ma?”
Imagining an answer, the thought came. Spice on the outside, honey on the inside. The name was a cover to the outside world as a shield against the stuff she came from. He wondered where she learned to write.
He had to know.
“She has to respect me,” he voiced, painfully.
If he played it wrong, Bibi could realize her potential. Take it to a publishing giant that would claim the credit for her stardom. No, this book was his. Like his father, he built empires.
He gripped the back of a dining room chair. “What will Dad say, huh, Mom?”
Ms. Iris had it right.
William was solid steel on the outside and a fluffy grey kitten on the inside. He laid out his plan for Bibi’s success that would inevitably mean the triumph of his company once the book hit Hollywood.
“This is it. I feel it!”
His cell vibrated abrasively on the glass. “Yes?” he answered, lost in thought.
“William, it’s your father.”
Dang crumpet. Why hadn’t he looked at the caller ID?
“So, it seems,” he replied.
“Busy?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“The publishing business doesn’t stop for weekends. Did I teach you nothing?”
His fist balled at his side. “I’m working on a plan from home.”
“What kind of plan?”
“Work, Dad. What do you need?”
It was typical of his father to jump into interrogations. Little love ever existed between his parents in childhood. Richard Maxwell Harcourt III spent his days at work or dating other women who weren’t his wife. William often wondered if his mom knew the truth.
“We should have dinner,” his father voiced with authority.
William had no desire to make a connection. “So you can find out about my plan?”
“It really is just business, son.”
“Then call my secretary and make an appointment.”
“Is there anything about you that can be simple for once?”
“I guess I learned from the master.”
“Is that how I taught you to speak to me?”
“I’m in the middle of something big,” William said with no warmth. “It’s none of your business.”
“I’m curious.”
Telling his father about his big publishing plans would only result in a competition or shoot down.
Nuh uh.
Not happening.
Dinner with his father usually included a bimbo after his money and a pompous display of his dad’s latest monumental milestone. This particular one must be big to generate a phone call.
“Just tell me now, Dad.”
The older man cleared some phlegm. “Very well. I thought it polite to inform you that Michael Worthington is entering negotiations to sell us his company. We’ll be buying you out, son.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re buying Big Apple Books as an acquisition.”
William should have been stunned from the cesspool of his father’s dysfunction. Despite the terrible thought, he realized it was just like the man to do something so smelly.
“Did you hear me, son?”
Fury slithered in Will’s tone. “When will you stop trying to ruin my life?”
“This is business.”
“Your business is to always keep me lower than you at all costs. I won’t have it, Dad, I won’t!”
“You always take things too personally.”
“And, stealing the company I built for Michael isn’t personal?”
The owner of Big Apple Books was selling to a Top Five publisher. His father’s company. Any plans William had for the business involving holiday claims to fame went down in a bursting ball of flame. Richard Maxwell Harcourt III touched life like a sunbeam.
Bright and hot and invasive.
“I’d like you to back off,” he bellowed.
“The company’s in trouble, William. You barely cleared enough figures to stay afloat. It’s the end of the year soon, and if somebody doesn’t acquire the company, you’ll go under.”
“And, it’s your job to save the day?”
“Seeing as my son is the Managing Editor, I thought you’d like to keep your job.”
“Working for you instead?”
“We’ll acquire it under international ownership but keep the name. Most people won’t know we’re tied. You know we already own over a dozen independent publishers.”
William bopped the table. “We’re not small, Dad.”
“Smaller than us.”
“So is Wal-Mart, yet they’re still an empire.”
“I’m just making a smart business move. You can keep on as Managing Editor and—”
“And, you’ll own the company, so you’ll be my boss.”
“I’m sure we can work together positively enough. It wouldn’t be the first time. And, we’re family.”
“Wow, Dad, it’s just like you.”
There was a long pause. “I’m always the bad guy to you.”
“You’re the bad guy to everyone.”
William knew his habit of attacking like a lion when criticized was no way to hold respect. While he recognized that his father had made a smart business investment, it kept him feeling inferior. A winning move for his pop.
“I’ve no intention of working for you,” he grumped.
“That choice is yours. I’m just trying to help.”
“Trying to squash me like you always do.”
“Not at all. Imagine what our companies can do if we join them.”
“I have to go.”
“It’s the holidays soon. I’d like us to visit.”
“You haven’t cared once about the holidays since Mom died. In fact, I specifically recall one year I put up her decorations to surprise you, and you came home and ripped them down.”
More pause. “A long time ago.”
“You grounded me until New Year’s, Dad. I haven’t had a Christmas since.”
“I’m not getting any younger. I’d like to see you for the holidays.”
Will shook his head until his neck popped. “You told me little boys without mothers don’t celebrate the holidays. You mocked me if I so much as even mentioned it.”
“Then let’s discuss this merger.”
“You mean acquisition, Dad. I left your company because I didn’t want to work for you. You never treated me as an equal. Everything I did was wrong in your eyes.”
“You were young, still learning.”
“You’re trying to manipulate me to get the son back to the end of Harcourt Maxwell & Son.”
“We can discuss it more at Christmas dinner. Come home.”
“There won’t be a dinner, Dad, because Big Apple Books isn’t selling.”
“Then your company will go bankrupt.”
William nearly punched a hole in the phone when ending the call. “Perfect!” he hollered.
A respected man didn’t burst out in tears. See him for the holidays? Even if Hell was about to freeze over and turn him into an ice block, there would be no Christmas with his father.
Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays. Got that right.
There was no way ever that Richard Maxwell Harcourt III would win.
Round one.
They’d been in the boxing ring before. This time, Will would have armor-lined gloves and pull out a machete. There was only one way to put an end to this competition, and Bibi Roquette was going to be it.
It had to work.
He tapped a number on his phone with shaky fingers. Let it ring into the air, mind already buzzing forth with his next plan.
“We’ll just see about that, Dad.”
Chapter 4
“Christmas is a poor excuse to not embarrass yourself at least once.”
With Love, Vivien
* * *
Ribbons. She needed ribbon
s.
And, tissue paper.
Tape too.
What good were ribbons without presents to wrap them around? Lucy’s bank account was starting to look like it would for the parents of the Brady Bunch kids after a holiday shopping spree. Her treasured family heirloom was the only fast solution to fill it.
“Is that the best you can do?” she posed, again.
Once the book was sold, there was no getting it back. The grumpy Scotsman would sell it for triple. To make matters worse, her stomach churned from either the dank smell of old books infested with silverfish or the moldy carpet a few decades rotten.
“Eight hundred, lass,” came his reply from the counter.
She gazed over a bookshelf to the blizzarding street. Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge neighborhood may as well be the North Pole at that point. An elderly man shivered as he rang a bell near a donation pot. She made a mental note to work his street corner when William Harcourt trashed her like yesterday’s moldy cheese.
A hearty Scottish voice that sounded like that stud in Outlander, drawled, “Take it or leave it, love.”
Surely, there was another rare bookstore that would offer a better price.
She turned around and pushed the scarf off her neck. “That’s highway robbery.”
“That’s the used book business.”
“But, it’s a first edition.”
His finger aimed toward a wall of crusty antiquarian books. “What do you think I sell here, the Outlander Series part four and a half? Every book in my store is a first edition.”
She could have laughed at the irony of his words against her thoughts over his accent. “Then this will make a nice addition.”
“Not for eight hundred, it won’t.”
“It’s worth five thousand.”
He wrapped the crochet blanket back around the book. “Then take it to eBay.”
“I need to sell it now. Like right now, for my rent.”
“Six hundred, then.”
“You said eight hundred five minutes ago.”
He scratched his wiry red beard, getting onto a creaky stool. “Little tip, don’t act desperate.”
“So, this is a game to you?”
My Christmas Darling Page 5