My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

  “I won’t have my daughter ruining her life over me.”

  “My book will be published, I’ll get paid, that’s it. It doesn’t matter how I do it.”

  “By giving away your talent. What about the legality?”

  “You’re not going there. Not after all I worked for, the writing, the editing, the lies, the deceit, the Oscar performances, hurting people. It has to be worth it.”

  Mary frowned hard. “By paying Heather a salary to be you? By letting somebody else take your fame and live the life that was meant to be yours? By getting no praise for your talent?”

  “Great, so she told you. Of course, she did.”

  Lucy marked her friend as prey for a hardcore lecture.

  “Lucille, Heather didn’t write the book, you did. She shouldn’t get to be your superstar.”

  “I don’t care about any of that. All that matters to me is getting your surgery.”

  “What about the first time you get to hold your printed book in your hands?”

  It was true.

  She daydreamed about it every day for over a year, what it would feel like to see her imagination take tangible form into a cozy book holding all the deepest parts of herself. A solid measure of success.

  “It’s not about me,” argued Lucy.

  “When are you going to stop trying to fix me?”

  “When you can see again.”

  Her mom picked up a towel and wiped her hands. Then reached across the table until she felt Lucy’s arm. “It wasn’t your fault what happened to me.”

  “But, of course it was.”

  “It could have happened to me anywhere.”

  “You came down to bail me out of jail for being drunk and disorderly. If I hadn’t done that, or if I hadn’t called you, you wouldn’t have come down.”

  “There’s no way you could have predicted another drunk driver.”

  “You wouldn’t have been crossing the street when you got hit by the car. You wouldn’t have been thrown three car lengths and had your head banged on the pavement.”

  “I worked in Manhattan every day. A bus could have hit me.”

  “It’s not the same. You actually wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t been so stupid.”

  “You had just graduated; you were celebrating.”

  More tears came down that her mom reached out and wiped away. Lucy sucked up some snot while remembering the horrible night when Heather showed up to bail her out instead, informing her what happened.

  Mary said gently, “You have to forgive yourself.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mama. I really am.”

  “I know you are, but you don’t need to be. I meant to forgive yourself for blaming yourself. Because when it comes to my accident, there’s nothing for me to forgive.”

  Lucy wiped her face and relaxed. All remaining energy dissolved into oblivion.

  “Right now,” continued her mom. “I want you to get out of your mess.”

  Lucy bopped her forehead on the table. “I try to contain my craziness, but the lid keeps popping off, and I can’t get it back on. It’s not as easy as you think.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m fine with Heather being me.”

  “Heather being you is about as insulting as Kim Kardashian trying to be Meryl Streep. She won’t stick with it, Lucille. Months down the road, the truth could come out and ruin you both.”

  “So, what do I do?”

  “I want you to do what makes you the happiest.”

  Hence the dilemma.

  The only thing that would make her happy required the completion of her current plan. She thought about William and his dashing good looks and luscious hair that could sell shampoo bottles to bald men. At this point, hearing the email ding from him was all she had to look forward to. The closest she had to romance in her life was replaying the memory of his tight embrace as they footed around the dance floor.

  Later that night, she filed down details in her mind that she wanted to remember, knowing it could never be. Still, she had no doubt that if he offered, she’d fall into his lap faster than Santa could drop toys down a chimney.

  Happiness.

  What was that?

  She tried to picture it. A handsome husband. An adorable Victorian-era home. A job running a writing school in a real town like Snowdrop Valley. A personal library like Belle’s in the Beast’s castle.

  Not a bad vision for the future.

  Nor, a realistic one.

  “It will be fine,” Lucy said, confidently. “Trust me.”

  Chapter 11

  “If your parents win once again, celebrate with hot toddies and pecan pie.”

  With Love, Vivien

  * * *

  A change was coming.

  And, not just the one rumbling in his gut that matched an increasing body temperature. Despite the virus, William’s spirits soared as he tightened the gold Rolex on his wrist. He was about to enter into a conference room with all the people who would bring his vision to fruition.

  The meeting.

  The one that would make Bibi Roquette a rich woman and Maxwell Harcourt III roll over on the brink of a heart attack. Today was the day that William finally became somebody worth becoming. His only goal to save Big Apple Books from the trenches and skyrocket to the top of the corporate ladder.

  His sensation.

  Snowdrop Valley would be brought to life in a smashing spectacle of majesty. As he stood outside the door to the conference room, he checked his phone a final time. Still, no response from Bibi about the meeting.

  Was she ignoring him?

  Three times he worked a lulling magic in email to lure her from the safety of her crab shell. He tried to convince her that it was in her best interest to come to the meeting. Only one email came back the night before.

  I trust you.

  Trusted him personally in the way he hoped? Trusted him to make the right decisions about her book? Trusted him to bring her career to the top without her in it?

  He hoped for all.

  Again, their emails dawdled on the personal. She confessed her romantic heart and how it had been wounded by a shoddy narcissist, then prattled on fluently about her passion for books and Christmas and good food and snowflakes and The Carpenters and fairy tales in film or literature.

  Yet, business?

  Anytime he switched the topic back to her career, she became hard to find, like a pygmy three-toed sloth; one of the rarest animals in the world that rarely made an appearance to the human eye.

  “Here we go,” he tucked the phone away, straightened his tie, and buttoned his blazer. His choice for the most important meeting of his life was a cashmere and silk Brunello Cucinelli from Saks Fifth Avenue. He coughed a few more times heavily into a balled fist, aware that his lungs burned.

  Bibi, you should be here. This is your day.

  The room reeked like masculine arrogance and tightly stuffed bodies. Six on each side of a table that sat twelve. Some he didn’t recognize. Lucy Carpenter sat squished between Michael Worthington and a dictation typist.

  “William!”

  And, there he was.

  His father.

  The man stood at the head of the table and pulled off his spectacles. William scanned the faces of each person who stared into the abyss. Lucy clasped the edge of the table and pleaded with her eyes.

  A silent apology?

  Ah, blimey.

  Mike stood up next to her. “Will, glad you’re here. Please take a seat.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Business of course. Please, we’re behind.”

  “Why didn’t you have me come sooner?”

  More importantly, why was everybody seated and talking well before he arrived? The email from his boss stated a precise time of noon in conference room B.

  “Good to see you, son,” said his dad.

  As William settled in a chair, he took note of the paperwork and notes spread out in front of his father. T
he only possible explanation pointed to his involvement.

  A portly man with three wasps of hair shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “And, you are?”

  Mike explained, “These gentlemen are from Mid-Atlantic Bank. Investors for the book town.”

  “The book hasn’t even been released yet.”

  “Your plan was an excellent one,” praised his dad, sitting again. “We’re launching all at once.”

  William stiffened at the word “we” and sucked in a cheek.

  He watched Lucy, who in turn stared at the window as if she prayed for a tornado to blast her to Jupiter for permanent lodging. In front of her was a yellow envelope with her name in red letters across the front.

  “Let’s continue,” said Mike, sorting notes. “We’re here to discuss the acquisition of Big Apple Books with Harcourt Maxwell and Company. I’d like to begin by—”

  William flagged a hand. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Son, this is a business meeting about two companies,” said his dad.

  “I thought that was on the back-burner.”

  “It’s been done.”

  “We’re not selling. Right Mike?”

  The two older men, also old friends, shared a glance. “The deal’s been made,” replied Michael.

  Anger bubbled in William’s chest. “When?”

  “Ten minutes ago.”

  “Why wasn’t I here?”

  “It’s my company, the decision was mine.”

  Lucy finally spoke up. “Honestly, that wasn’t fair. He’s the editor and should have been here.”

  Nobody commented on that.

  At that moment, William stared down his dad like the verminous creature he was. An intense pain slashed through him when the man smiled and held eye contact. Another victory where Will lost all.

  Clockwork classic.

  It dawned on him that all along his father knew what was happening with Bibi and the book. It was no coincidence that his father called him for the first time in months on the day he first learned about the book.

  But, how?

  Surely, Lucy Carpenter, sweet and juicy as a plum, wasn’t a snitch. The conference room reeled with thick tension as they waited for an outburst that they seemed to expect. William wouldn’t give them that pleasure.

  “You said we’d talk about it,” he said, calmly.

  Mike nodded. “We did, but my decision was made.”

  “I closed the holiday deal. It’s in the works, happening, real. I had a plan to get us where you wanted to be without being caught by the nickel chasers.”

  “I had to do what I felt was best.”

  His father added, “And, the deal is still happening. All the more reason we’re here now.”

  “That’s my deal, mine. It’s all done.”

  “We’ll discuss it.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss, Dad. It’s all in the proposal I gave Mike, even the projections.”

  “And, I’ve read them.”

  “You mean before you bought the company? That’s why you did it, right?”

  The strangers in the room shifted like their seats flamed fire. Saving his image as a respectable man in the publishing world required containing his emotions. Yet, it was downright impossible considering lately he had his feelings hurt more than the neighborhood spinster.

  “This is just business,” assured Mike.

  “While my father rakes me through the coals again. No mercy, right Dad?”

  “You need to calm down or leave until you can.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m Managing Editor of Big Apple Books.”

  His father looked at Lucy, who seemed to be praying with her eyes closed. “Actually, not any longer. When the acquisition happens, Ms. Carpenter will take over that role.”

  “I never said I wanted it,” Lucy blurted.

  Mike added, “She’s been promoted.”

  “To my job?” spurted William.

  “You’ll be our partner,” replied his father in a cutthroat tone. “A co-owner with Mike and myself.”

  William blasted to his feet, nearly toppling over from vertigo as his fever spiked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “It’s double the salary, the prestige. A good move for your career.”

  “I don’t want to manage a company. I want to breed authors and publish books. I didn’t get into the industry to be a problem solver. I want to work with the books and the people and the press and the public.”

  “It’s a waste of your talents.”

  “It’s the best part of my talents. You can’t promote me without making an offer.”

  “It’s an honor,” offered Michael, apologetically. “You’ll be well compensated.”

  Lucy raised a shaky arm sleeved in a black sweater. “Can I say something here? If William doesn’t want to leave his job, he can keep it. I’m happy where I am. Or, I’d love to be an acquisitions editor.”

  “Your skills have a much better use,” reminded Michael.

  “But, he clearly doesn’t want a promotion.”

  “Honey, leave the staffing decisions to us.”

  “Fine, but please, don’t call me honey.”

  William wanted to blurt out that the only reason they wanted Lucy was because she discovered Bibi Roquette and was part of the plan that would bring the company millions. Likely his father did his investigative research and learned that William had a fondness for the girl.

  A control tactic.

  “I worked on this for weeks,” William ranted up and down the conference room. “Day and night I didn’t eat or sleep or work on any other project. I planned out every single detail. I was going to save the company.”

  “The company’s already been saved,” said his dad.

  “I’m not speaking to you.”

  Maxwell Harcourt III gave a chilly face that could have frozen a wood-fire stove. “Let’s step outside.”

  Ignoring him, William pointed at Michael. “How could you do this to me?”

  “Will, there’s nothing you’re losing here. Everybody wins.”

  “You’ve no clue what I’m losing. You have no idea.”

  “Leave it to my son to overreact to anything that involves me.”

  Will charged his dad. “What did you blackmail him with?”

  “Son, that’s enough. This is a business meeting.”

  “You offered him something he can’t refuse. What is it?”

  More silence.

  His boss confessed, “I’m retiring, Will. I’m leaving the company to your dad.”

  William’s jaw sagged hard.

  “Big Apple Books is going under. All clients are now published by Harcourt Maxwell and Company. It’s a transition, and all of our employees will get moved over. I’m sorry.”

  William’s eyes smacked shut.

  He rubbed his burning chest, coughing, and backed up toward the door. Lucy sniffled across the table with flushed cheeks. So, that was it then. Everything he envisioned, worked for, planned. It felt the same as when his nightly emails with Bibi ended and she went offline. Something hurt inside, like she took all the light of the world with her.

  All gone.

  Over.

  Done.

  Then, he thought of Lucy across the table who looked wretched deep within her soul. His anger faded like clouds dissipating after a storm. At least she would get her dream job. Yet his father? The man was dirtier than the dirtiest earthworm. Across the table, he looked all puffed up with himself.

  “You did this to get Bibi Roquette,” he stated blatantly to his dad.

  “It’s just business. And, I want you working with me.”

  He stepped a foot closer. “Work with you? I never want to see you again.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Michael, ready to lead the meeting. “It’s done.”

  The investors flicked awkwardly at their fingernails or doodled on paper. No doubt they hadn’t banked on providing witness to the lost m
onologues of the Harcourt family.

  “Please, son, let’s be a team here.”

  “There is no team, dad. There’s always just you.”

  “Let’s not make a scene.”

  It was true; everybody gawked. Respected men didn’t flip out in business meetings.

  “Son, we can work together. Let the past go.”

  William pointed at his father, “This isn’t over yet.”

  He fled in a fume of steam and breaking sweat.

  There he was at the counter of Old Mick’s Retro Arcade nursing a soda pop. Or three, from the sight of it, considering the empty glasses with melting ice cubes that lined the snack bar in front of him.

  Lucy wasn’t surprised.

  The hurt in his eyes back at the office said it all. It was the only time in her life she literally witnessed the moment a person lost his dreams. For reasons she chose not to examine, her heart went out to him.

  “Afternoon, miss,” greeted the counter cashier, pumping red slush from a cooler machine.

  Other than William, a young couple battled out a game of Pac-Man as a teenager cheered the game on while polishing off French fries. A young man wearing black leather whooped over a game of Doctor Who pinball when the machine lit up and dinged his winnings.

  Then a woman with patches of missing hair wiped down the air hockey and pool tables that took up the center of the place. She looked toward a jukebox that made a ching-a-ling sound just as Paul McCartney’s A Wonderful Christmastime started playing.

  The man spread his hands on the counter. “What can I do you for?”

  Lucy pointed to William, walking toward him. The crickety man nodded and went back to filling snack bowls. She settled on a bar stool next to her boss. Her heart swelled for him.

  What could she say?

  This wasn’t the kind of man who lost control. Did she know him well enough to help him? As Bibi Roquette, she knew a great deal about William. He had a heart as soft as cotton batting. Yet what did he think of Lucy Carpenter?

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” she told the greying man.

  “Root beer, but he doesn’t get any more. Already had three Irish coffees before that.”

  Sugar, caffeine, alcohol. Oh dear.