“Goodness no, well, not until I start the next one that is. But Mom, he’s the Managing Editor for Big Apple Books.”
There was a long pause.
Then a strange half-smile on the woman. “Interesting.”
“Mom, this is William Harcourt. William, this is Mary, my mom. Mary Roquette.”
Mary turned her stare to Bibi. “Roquette?”
“That’s what I said.”
Mary looked at William. “Roquette was my father’s last name.”
“He was French,” blurted Bibi. “Oh, and we’re not like one of the Rockettes.”
“No connection whatsoever,” agreed the woman.
William noticed she smelled like sugar cookies and brown sugar. He spotted the bag sticking out of her purse with a Mrs. Fields Cookies label, which he knew to be just down the street.
“No luscious dancers in the family,” William chuckled. “Got it.”
“So, you’re William Harcourt,” Mary stepped closer to him all by herself. He was surprised when she knew exactly when to stop about a foot before colliding. “You’re publishing my daughter’s book?”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“My memory is as bad as my vision.”
Bibi jumped to their side. “It was totally going to be a surprise.”
“So, this is how my surgery’s getting paid for, then.”
“Oh, uh, sorry, Mom. I just wanted to get the proof first.”
The woman’s statement about paying for her surgery didn’t sit comfortably with him. Was there no money to fix the woman’s eyesight before the book? He made a mental note to ask Bibi about that in email.
He asked, “Has Bibi read you the book?”
Was that the right way to ask, or should he have asked if she read it in braille? Despite a talent for building empires, he felt like a colossal dunce in the presence of a handicapped person.
Mary looked at her daughter. “Have you, Bibi?”
Bibi cleared her throat nervously, then giggled in the same artificial way she had at the restaurant over every other sentence. “That’s me, Bibi Roquette. And no, not yet.”
“Are you a fan of Christmas books?” asked Mary his way.
William couldn’t lie since Bibi knew secretly his passion for holiday literature. He wondered how much of their private communications she told her mother. The woman looked like she thought he was just one of a thousand ants she wanted to crush with her cane.
“I like amazing books,” was his safe answer. “Christmas or not.”
“And, you think my daughter’s book is such?”
“Most definitely.”
“So, you read it?”
“Of course. It was brought to my attention by one of my manuscript readers. The girl has a real knack for discovering talent. She should be working for Hollywood.”
Bibi practically pushed her mom to the door. “We’ll be late, Mom. We need to go.”
Iris came his way.
“Very nice meeting you,” he said to Mary.
“It’s been quite insightful, believe me.”
“Good luck with your surgery.”
“Oh, I have a feeling that surgery isn’t going to happen. Call it a hunch.”
“Out, Mom,” commanded Bibi, blasting them to the door. “See you, William.”
“I’ll email you tonight.”
Mary gave her daughter another curious look that turned fast into grave concern.
“Oh, Bibi?” William jogged to the door they already exited.
“We really have to go.”
“Have you given more thought about coming to the company Christmas party? Our staff would really like to meet you. We’ll have food, music, and presents even. I’d love to introduce you to your new editors.”
“Booze?”
“I sure hope so.”
She barely called over her shoulder, “I’ll think about it.”
“Oh, and Mary, I have to tell you, your daughter is quite the gem.”
“Oh yes, that she is, indeed.”
“Trust me, she’s going to be famous.”
Iris touched his back. “Honey, it’s freezing in here.”
“Sorry.” He yanked the door closed. “All checked in?”
“Yes, unfortunately. It won’t be long.”
“You’ve nothing to be worried about.”
“Only a young man with his whole life ahead of him thinks that way.”
He escorted her to a cozy set of chairs near the book rack, unable to help the surge of joy as he realized his dream was really happening. Soon he’d have everything he ever wanted. His father’s respect, a compliment, a name for himself, and something to feel proud of. This very well could be his life’s work.
Life was good.
They’d be a Top Five.
Things were happening.
“Good mood, young man?” she asked, getting into the chair.
“It just occurred to me that I finally reached one of my goals.”
“Something to celebrate, then.”
“Success feels good.”
“Darling, I don’t think that is the meaning of success. Do you?”
He sat angled at her side. “Depends on the topic.”
“Something still bothers you.”
“My boss hasn’t responded to me in three days. I told him about my achievement and that we’re moving forward on a valuable project, yet no response.”
“Perhaps he’s out of town, or busy.”
“Three months from now we’ll be in the eight figures, which will put us as a Top Five publisher. The woman you heard me talking to, she’s my newest sensation.”
“Pretty girl, yes?”
“I suppose.”
Despite the emotionally and mentally addicting emails they shared, he felt very little, if any, attraction to Bibi in person. The way she acted, carried herself, spoke. None were admirable. Yet, he was practically head over heels in love with the enchanting side that came through in her emails.
Something felt off.
The editors worked on the book. A press agent and planner organized the launch party. Friday would include a large meeting with developers about the fictional book town.
So, what nagged at him like an ankle-biting dog that wouldn’t quit nipping and yapping?
This was the time to celebrate.
Be festive.
Be merry.
The only time he felt any of those things was when he held Lucy Carpenter in his arms and twirled her across the dance floor. It was something unexpected that now left a memory far more niggling at the forefront of his mind than the great success he’d achieved with Bibi’s book.
Lucy enchanted him.
Certainly, it was beyond inappropriate from a work standpoint. Yet, a charge of electricity surged through him at the mere waft of her skin that smelled like snowflakes, or her emerald eyes that reflected chandelier white and reminded him of the Irish countryside speckled with sheep.
Then there was Bibi.
Oh, Bibi.
That woman, only in email, made him feel like a dear old friend; one who greeted him warmly at the door with holiday cheer no matter the weather. The type of friend who served up the best food, gave the most heartfelt advice, and sprinkled his world with fairy dust.
All an act.
Or, his imagination. Seeing Bibi in person for the second time, he felt none of those things. Perhaps it was his mother’s romantic nature that made him see something that wasn’t there. It was Lucy who caused butterflies in his stomach. He took sharp undercuts to his heart thinking about how it could never be.
Respect.
Luring an employee into his heart, his bed, his life, would lose it for sure.
No.
Work was all that mattered.
All he could feel is a festering worry that kept food from his lips. He realized that in order to feel better, he would need to tell his father of his success. Maybe even hear the words he needed for that validity.
> And, that was exactly what he was going to do.
Lucy nearly collapsed out of breath when she reached the landing. The elevator was broken, so she had to cart her groceries and sacks up the stairs like fat-stuffed sandbags. She remembered why she hated the gym.
And, exercise.
Could the day get any worse?
At lunch, she forked out three-hundred bucks to a literary attorney far away from Big Apple books, consulting him briefly on legal laws over pen names, collecting royalties, and contract signings.
The news was good.
She could sign over copyright to Heather under the registered pen name Bibi Roquette; sign a power of attorney allowing Heather full permission to represent the book and make decisions on its behalf in her stead.
Or, lie.
Simply give Heather the book as she had, and let her pretend it’s hers. They’d fill out a state DBA (doing business as) form as a sole proprietorship, which would have to be Heather’s last name doing business as Bibi Roquette. Then, add the name to her bank account, and legitimately collect the funds.
No lawyers. No paperwork. No risk.
After work, she hit up three stores along the subway route back to Brooklyn to pick up needed items for her mom, the holidays, and dinner. No energy for cooking that night.
She kicked the door, unable to reach the handle.
It flung open with a frenzied Heather holding a bag of flour that coated her hands and sweater. “Thank heavens!” She tried to push Lucy back out the door. “We need to talk.”
“Could you please move? My hands are full.”
When she didn’t, Lucy pushed her way in. Dropping half the bags on the floor by the breakfast bar, she caught sight of her mom sitting at the kitchen table that was now covered in flour. She kneaded bread dough.
“Sorry I’m late,” she grumped, struck by the smell of baking bread.
Heather whispered, “I tried to call you like ten times.”
“My phone died. How did it go at the doctor?”
Before Heather could respond, a loud bang came from the table. Mary picked up a bottle of Italian soda, sipped, then slammed it down again as if trying for attention. “Heather, please leave us.”
Dread sent shivers down Lucy’s arms. That was never a good thing.
“Please tell me you didn’t get bad news at the doctor,” she cried.
Mary repeated, “Heather, you can go. Thank you, dear.”
Heather looked at Lucy and mouthed, “Sorry, sorry.”
She shook her hands off all the way out, leaving a flour trail, then shut the door. Lucy put the Chinese food on the sink and extracted two plates. “You won’t believe the day I had.”
“Forget the food.”
“I’m already late. You must be starving.”
“Bring the rolling pin.”
She clanked out the bottom drawer under the oven. Grabbed it, heart soaring out of her eyeballs with worry from the negative air in the room. Likely the repaired eyesight medical promise tanked like a submarine.
“Sit down, help me.”
Lucy put the rolling pin in front of her. Put her mom’s hand on it, then sat across from her at the table. A mountain of puffy dough as big as a volleyball sat in a dusting of flour. “What is all this?”
“You agreed to bring the mini lemon loaves to your work party.”
Oh, snow muffs.
One more pressure – organizing that party.
“I forgot,” she confessed, breaking off a chunk of the dough. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I have something to tell you, Lucille.”
Lucy didn’t think she had it in her to deal with more stress. Already Mark left seven voicemails just that evening begging to come over and see her. And, just yesterday he sent a two-pound box of Godiva to her work.
“I have my hands full as it is,” said Lucy.
“Oh, I know you do. That much is clear.”
“What does that mean?”
“You sold your book, didn’t you? You sold it and said nothing to me.”
Lucy dug her nails deep in the dough ball. “Sorry, Mom, it’s complicated.”
“I’m your mother. I watched you write and heard you talk about this book for a year. Night after night, I sat out here alone while you were in your room after dinner writing.”
“It’s complicated for other reasons.”
“You should have told me.”
“I’ll be paid for the work. That’s all that matters.”
“You didn’t write that book for the money.”
Her mom didn’t deserve to be told that Lucy had no choice but to sell the book for the money for her mom’s care. But she was right, that wasn’t why she started. The urge to write struck her one day. She had a dream about the book town. Not an odd dream to have considering she worked in a publishing house.
One night she told Mark she wanted to write a book.
He laughed.
Hard.
Then the next day, Lucy read her favorite passages from her beloved The Christmas Carol book. Then sat down and started writing as if the wind surged through her veins.
“Lucy,” her mother prompted. “You sold your father’s book.”
“I had to.”
“I don’t want you doing those kinds of things for me. You loved that book.”
“Well, I love you more.”
Her mom’s face softened. “When will you start doing things for yourself?”
“When I have an option, Mom.”
“You should get the book back.”
“It’s too late, he already sold it.”
“It makes me very sad that you sacrifice so much for me. I love you for that, but it’s not your job. You have to lighten the burden on yourself.”
“How can I do that, exactly? There’s nobody else.”
“There are options.”
“Yes, and I’ve pursued them. That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing.”
Mary picked up the roller and plunked it near the dough. Missed. Adjusted. “You have a letter.”
“What letter?”
“In front of you.”
Lucy glanced over the table, noticing the mail pile on a chair. She wiped her hands, then pawed through it to find a letter from Nightengale Press; a fast-growing independent publisher on par with Big Apple Books.
“Not another one,” she grumbled.
“Open it.”
“I don’t need any more rejection letters. None of it matters now.”
“We’ll get to that in a minute. Open it anyway.”
It was the skinniest envelope of them all. Oh well. She ripped it open. Not like it would be bad news at this point considering she was about to be a jazillionaire. A single-page letter flittered out.
We’re pleased to inform you that we would love to publish your novel.
Lucy cried out and dropped it. Slapped a hand over her lips.
Her mom smiled. “What did I tell you?”
“It can’t be.”
“You should have waited, Lucy. All good things come in time.”
Then Lucy beat the table with her fists. Flour swirled in the air, making her mom cough. “You’ve got to totally be kidding me right now. What kind of luck is this? Did I wrong somebody in another life?”
“Only you would twist around the positive.”
“It’s too late, Mom. My book’s been sold. It’s done, gone, out of my hands.”
Her mom didn’t reply to that as if she already knew. She simply gripped hard to the handles on her rolling pin and worked with the dough, stopping occasionally to feel the size.
“I just don’t believe it!” Lucy whispered.
Tears slid down her face drop after drop. Why now after all she went through? Somebody wanted to publish her book that wasn’t her boss where she worked. She could publish it as herself, sign her own contract, receive the credit she worked to achieve.
Success.
And, not through Heather’s acting ca
reer doing it for her. Somebody wanted her for the book itself. Not just to make it into some hoopla that fulfills an ambitious man’s dream to outshine his father.
Her writing was enough.
Likely they wouldn’t pay more than a small five-thousand-dollar advance, which was the norm for a small publisher. Not enough to pay for her mom’s surgery.
Or, live.
They wanted her book. Somebody valued her for her. It would be published just to make people happy. It would be a helping tool for the lonely and a soothing gift for those in pain.
It would have meaning.
She craved that far more than the capitalism William Harcourt did. Her original goal that would measure true success was to see her book made into a movie and bring them joy.
But, the rest?
The latest she heard today in an email to Bibi from William was that he wanted her to agree to a Hawaiian cruise workshop only for the most acclaimed authors. Bibi would teach the classes, which in turn would sell more books. A floating writer’s retreat.
Heather would love it.
Lucy wouldn’t.
She folded up the letter from Nightingale Publications. “It’s flattering, but too late.”
“What have you done, Lucy?”
“What I had to.”
“Back out of it, whatever it is.”
“It’s too late.”
The truth was that the contract was signed under a fake name by a person that wasn’t her. That made it illegal and non-binding since she did it before signing over copyright to Heather. It really wasn’t too late. Backing out would mean confessing the truth about the Great Literary Hoax of Manhattan.
Losing her job.
Losing him.
No surgery, no money. Back to the drawing board.
“I’ll destroy people,” said Lucy.
“And, you’ll keep your self-respect.”
“I already lost that a long time ago. What’s done is done.”
Her mom folded the dough into tidy squares. “The first of the month, I’m moving into the state facility.”
Lucy gasped, “Um, no, you’re not.”
“They called me today; they have an opening. I accepted.”
“It’s full of disabled homeless people and nutjobs. After a month there, you’ll be walking around in your bathrobe all day, and you won’t get the help you need.”
“It’s my decision.”
“But, I’ve already fixed it so we have the money for your medical needs.”
My Christmas Darling Page 17