“Jonathan Eagle, Trenton Gazette.”
She looked up from the clipboard. “You came from New Jersey?”
“Sweetheart, people here came from as far as Boston.”
“But, how could they know?”
“Press release came into our studio two weeks ago.”
She handed him a name tag. The event of her life that was supposed to be a night of sparkles and light now turned into a black nebula that threatened to swallow her in one gobble with its suctioning jaw.
“Good evening, friends,” greeted William up at the podium.
Heads turned.
Cameras flashed.
People waited at a table for Bibi’s signature. They barely took their eyes off Heather. William chuckled into the mic. His tone was deep and rich; lovable and pleasurable as he looked Lucy’s way.
“We’ll begin with the chapter reading in just a few moments.” He smoothed a hand down a chipper holiday tie. “Ms. Roquette will begin by giving her speech. Please reserve your questions for after the speech and the reading. In the meantime, enjoy the appetizers and keep the wassail coming.”
Claps sounded through the room.
A woman touched Lucy’s hand. “Camille Merriweather from Westchester Press.”
One of the largest publishing houses in Connecticut was here to see her. Rather, to see Bibi and learn what all the fuss was about. Would they try to snatch her up from Big Apple Books?
“Enjoy your evening,” Lucy stammered.
William headed her way with his usual business indifference. “Everything going well?” he asked with a hand on her lower back as he nodded at somebody he recognized. “Thank you for doing this.”
“Don’t we pay people for door duty?”
“Two people out with the flu. One refused to work since it was Christmas Eve.”
“Speaking of Christmas Eve, I’d like to enjoy mine.”
“I’m sorry. This is the only night I could reserve this room.”
A peel of laughter sounded out from Heather’s entourage. All previous instructions by Lucy so far had been followed. Make light, tell jokes, and flirt. Anything other than talk about the book.
“Doesn’t it look marvelous?” he asked.
Her eyes surveyed the remarkable Terrace Room. What stood out to her the most was the sharp, stinging smell of a nine-foot-tall pine tree at her side near the entrance. She missed having a real tree.
Her book.
Her success.
William’s event planners put their all into the launch party that dazzled more festively than her own holiday company party earlier in the week. The room had been transformed into a mystical fairyland of sensuous holiday smells of spice cookies, orange and clove punch, and fresh gingerbread.
“Connie…” He flagged down his receptionist. “Take over for Lucy.”
He ushered Lucy to a table with a man in a striped green suit roasting fresh chestnuts. The nutty smell permeated her nose and made her think instantly of the day she ate a bag after selling her dad’s Christmas book.
“One bowl, please,” he requested.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know you love them.”
“Not as much as I love the chocolate you sent me.”
He hooked an arm around her waist and whispered into her ear. “For you, anything.”
One more thing to feel guilty about.
“I’d like to see you on Christmas tomorrow,” he stated in a way that sounded pleading.
“It’s just that I have plans already. Dinner and ice skating.”
“I could come with you. Meet your family.”
Lucy already had it on good authority that he believed her mom to be Heather’s mom from the run-in at the eye doctor. So, who would she introduce as her family now? There was nobody else.
He watched her intently. “Are you all right?”
“I do want to see you. It’s just, well, you should be with your father.”
“Seeing you is all I want for Christmas. Besides, I have a gift for you.”
Oh no.
One more failure on her end. Their romance blossomed fast and unexpectedly. With all of the ruse surrounding the book identity hoax and her nerves on edge, she completely forgot to buy him a gift.
“Will, I’m really not feeling well. Maybe I should…”
A crystal bowl came their way emitting a haze of steam. “For you, my dear,” said William, handing it over after munching a few. “Have you tried the punch?”
Anxiety kept her mouth from forming words.
“You’ll be fine, just nerves.” He kissed her cheek and winked. “I’ll get you some.”
She was alone with her nuts and not just the ones in the bowl. The fruitcake lunacy of her concocted plan to fool the world with an identity hoax slammed inside her skull to break free and confess.
Never.
Now.
Definitely never, if she wanted to keep the man she fell in love with. Since their city rendezvous, he wooed her like an English gentleman. He sent her holiday geraniums to the office, wrote long emails each night before bed instead of to Bibi Roquette and tasked a courier to deliver a hand-written invitation to the launch party.
The closet kisses were the best part.
Two days in a row at work despite the bustle of preparing for Bibi’s party, he confiscated her in hallways or outside the bathroom, pulling her into a secret place for a warm embrace and welcoming mouth.
“Please, I can’t eat these.” She returned the nuts.
She slunk through a crowd of fans and reporters, inching her way to Heather, scanning the room for William who now chatted at the wassail table talking to Michael Worthington.
No avail.
Each step forward was met with Heather pulled further away. A circle of reporters snapped her photo in front of the speaker’s podium as she held up a proof of the book like it was something to brag about.
Her success.
Her book.
One Lucy chose not to get a close look at. The book, the only one printed prior to hitting the press, was kept wrapped in a holiday cloth in a gold box prior to the launch party.
Paralyzing numbness gripped Lucy when the press agent assigned to Bibi whispered in Heather’s ear. Heather gave a wave to the cameras before following the woman up to the podium.
The room quieted.
Lucy stepped back until her body made contact with the wall. Now or never. The world would think Heather was Bibi Roquette. Every news station, publishing house, and even YouTube would know her face.
“Aren’t you excited?” Her favorite intern whizzed past. “Chin up, buttercup.”
Not excited.
Not ready.
Not a buttercup.
Butterball maybe, especially compared to Heather, who took the floor with her killer body and fluid movements.
“Lucy, Lucy!”
Her head turned to Maxwell Harcourt approaching in his usual grey ensemble. “Bibi’s mother wanted me to hand you this.” He put a folded note in her hands, then turned toward Heather and watched patiently.
Was she supposed to read it with him standing there?
“Charming woman,” said the distinguished man. “Don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
He smiled down at her with the slightest hint of mischief. “Wouldn’t you?”
The press agent talked into the microphone about Bibi’s book reading. Lucy unfolded the note, knowing that despite blindness, Mary Carpenter maintained perfect penmanship.
Albeit crooked.
Lucy cocked her head and read it. It wasn’t your fault.
Nothing more.
Air escaped her held breath as she groaned to the air. So, this was what her mom wanted to say in twenty-four hours of silence. Lucy heard it before, yet this time it felt like a punch to her belly button.
“My dear, are you all right?” Maxwell Harcourt placed a hand on her shoulder.
Lucy shoved th
e note down her bra. “Crowds, you know.”
“Impressive, isn’t it? I’m pleased.”
“That’s William for you.”
The press agent said something about a giveaway; a free ticket to Bibi’s elite author cruise. Lucy didn’t pay any attention to the hoopla enacted by William to birth a sensation. She could barely keep her nuts down.
It wasn’t your fault. Wasn’t my fault. Why now, Mom?
Mary had her pinned like a tail on a donkey. The only reason Lucy suffered in silence was the same self-blame that drove her to a maddening literary deceit.
Her book.
Her success.
She shorted herself a life of happiness for parading around guilt for an accident that was nothing more than bad luck. Of course, she wanted to help her mom see again. Yet, by giving up her lifeblood?
There had to be a better way.
As Heather was introduced to the crowd by her press agent, Lucy imagined what it would feel like to be the one taking the recognition. Why didn’t she feel deserving enough?
“Meaningful words?” asked Mr. Harcourt. “Secret notes, very exciting.”
“More than you know.”
Across the place, William slapped a man on the shoulder and directed him to a group of others for an introduction. Even now, every task seemed driven by a quest for success. After a breath, he sucked it back in as if to stifle that human part of himself back into a dark hole.
“My dear Lucy, did you know my son is quite fond of you?”
“He shouldn’t be.”
“I believe my son is very wise.”
“He doesn’t know the mistakes I’ve made.”
“I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t slip some loopholes every now and again. It takes a strong woman to write a book with a strong message.”
“Bibi can handle it, I’m sure.”
“An even stronger woman to stand up to ratings and reviews and judgement or criticism. I may be a publishing king, but I’ve never written a book. I couldn’t do what writers do.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Lines crinkled around his eyes. “Well, the business world is a hard one and even harder for a rising star. But, if you’ve seen The Godfather, that advice reigns true. One must go to the mattresses, my dear.”
A sickening twist made her stomach hurt. Did he know?
Mom wouldn’t tell him. Would she? He knows, he must. But how?
He laced his fingers casually. “Especially hard for a woman who doesn’t want the world to know about her book. Have you heard of the book Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway?”
“If only life was that simple.”
“It’s as simple as you choose it to be.”
“It’s the consequences that make it hard.”
The man stood lean and tall like his son. “There are few moments in this world when we can claim an achievement. When the moment is gone, it’s forever lost even where the achievement remains.”
“You sound like Iris. No wonder you two are friends.”
“I’m quite honestly suggesting that you don’t miss the moment.”
“What if it’s a bad moment?”
“No such thing. Only experiences. Some teach us, some help us, others harm us. It’s what you do with the moment that counts. One thing remains true; the moment is yours.”
He did know.
He must.
She barely heard the press agent speaking in unison with Heather into the mic. They bantered now about the cruise and a host of other prizes. William posed for a camera shot near the stage.
Waved their way.
Holding an arm to the air, Max offered kindly, “Shall I walk you closer to the stage?”
“William thinks you don’t love him.”
“He couldn’t be more mistaken.”
“He thinks you aren’t proud of him. That he has something to prove to you.”
“My son has something to prove only to himself. I’ve always been proud of him.”
She linked her arm with his. “Perhaps you should tell him.”
If the man at her side quietly encouraged her to take action when he had the most to lose, surely it was the right choice. Did he really want her to get up and take the lead?
Her book.
Her success.
With no net to catch her fumble, she chose to rely on the strength inherited from her mom. Lucy did enough deep digging to discover the meaning of true forgiveness. Finally, she offered it to herself.
“I can’t,” she shuddered.
He walked her right up to the steps. “Moments, my dear.”
“So many people watching.”
“Do claim it then. The redheaded woman at the wall would have.”
So, that’s how he figured it out. Heather looked nothing like her mom.
She gulped down wracking nerves. “I’m so sorry.”
“Like I told my son, it’s a business world. It’s just business.”
“Are you sure?”
“My dear, I’m very sorry for the lewd comment I made at Iris’ party.”
After a wink, he left her there and meandered back to her mom. Heather talked into the mic now about Snowdrop Valley with an introduction on how she got the idea for the book. Lucy’s idea.
Better to try and fail than never try one bit.
This was her moment.
Her book.
Her success.
Her breathing became harsh and labored as she approached the podium. She kept her arms hanging like broken windmill blades at her sides. The first order of business was to stop the lies.
Heather broke off mid-word, looking over her shoulder. Mouthed, “What are you doing?”
Lucy took the book proof from her. “I have it from here.”
“Not now with everybody…”
Cutting her off, Lucy turned her mouth toward the standing microphone. “Good evening, my name is Lucy Carpenter, and I work as a manuscript reader for Big Apple Books.”
Heather skedaddled off the platform.
Her book.
Her success.
The room went silent as a tomb.
A man balancing a video camera on his shoulder crept forward. Lucy wasn’t going to think about that. She kept her focus on William watching her with confusion. What would this do to him?
Her book
Her success.
She gripped tight to the book proof for strength, refusing to look at the cover up close with a fake name on the front. One baby step at a time was plenty for the night.
She began, “Snowdrop Valley is a fictional town where the real and the unreal come together to form a utopia where magic and miracles happen. Books have more power than any person in this room. They can make us cry or laugh, forgive or forget, imagine, daydream, or solve problems.”
Mary Carpenter got to her feet using her cane.
“Ray Bradbury once said in Fahrenheit 451, books can make a woman want to stay in a burning house. Well, I can tell you as a woman, my house is getting hot.”
People stirred with more interest.
William gripped her lower hip. “What are you doing?”
It was her moment.
Her book.
Her town.
Her success.
“This is just a Christmas book,” she said, holding it up without looking at it. “I’m not a mega success. I’m certainly no J.K Rowling or even a movie star. What I am is a person who loves Christmas.”
She focused on her mom’s smile.
This was right.
“What would the world be like with no Christmas morning? No packages for children to rip open? No cookies and milk made with mom and dad to leave out for Santa? What would the world be like without Nat King Cole’s or the Carpenter’s Christmas album to guide us joyfully through the season? What would the world be like without the excitement of loved ones coming home for Christmas or roasting chestnuts on a family fire or even without peppermint hot chocolate to sip every night before
bed while watching your tree lights?”
Her moment.
Her book.
Despite the stares, cameras, and confession, her body sank into a soothing cocoon of calm. Her book was the only success she truly achieved. Claiming it felt like a bath of refreshing spring water.
“I wouldn’t want to live in a world like that,” she concluded.
William pulled nervously at his tie.
“My name is Lucy Carpenter, and I’m the author of this book.”
His hand froze on the knot. There was a long moment of silence where betrayal etched over his face, and every part of his skin turned as ashen as spoiled meat.
Lucy explained, “I never meant to hurt or deceive anybody.”
Reporters moved in closer.
Some wrote furiously while others fired off their cameras. The only thing that mattered was the radiant smile her mom gave that lit up the room more than any Douglas Fir or candle or camera.
Heather’s face shifted to beet red.
“I simply wanted others to love Christmas the way I do,” said Lucy, aware of William’s abhorrent stare. “Things got carried away in the production. You see, the publishing world is a battle zone. Survival of the fittest couldn’t be truer. The problem is that I didn’t think I was fit enough.”
Maxwell Harcourt grinned with pride, which made no sense considering her confession meant the contracts weren’t valid and his company had no legal ownership over Snowdrop Valley.
“I was wrong,” she announced. “Equal opportunity, right?”
William jarred his head in anger. In that moment, she knew she lost him forever.
“My name is Lucy Carpenter, and I’m the author of this book.”
Moment over.
She came down the podium gracefully and headed for a side exit through a stunned crowd. She took her sweater jacket from William’s receptionist, who stood there holding it as if she predicted the urge to flee.
Maybe Lucy would never get to enjoy her writing. Maybe she would never love. Maybe she’d never sign her own contract. Maybe all of her life trying to fix something that couldn’t be fixed was a waste of years.
The weight on her shoulders was gone.
She now knew that self-forgiveness and honesty were the only options. It was time to be authentic to herself and live her own life. Still, she wasn’t afraid, since the tiresome game had finally come full circle.
My Christmas Darling Page 23