by Wendy Wax
Thirty-two
Bree
Manteo
I’m up at dawn Monday morning. Even before making coffee, I race up to my office and sit down at my computer hoping against hope that one of the agents I queried has read my proposal and responded. All I need is one e-mail requesting the full manuscript, one e-mail saying that although I’m inexperienced they can tell that I have talent and want to represent me. I’ve checked three times a day for five days now (this includes Saturday and Sunday since I’m not sure whether they work on weekends). So far not a single one of them has replied.
The literary agency disclaimers made it clear that it could take three to four weeks to receive a response. But they also said that they don’t necessarily respond if they’re not interested in the material. Which means I have no way of knowing whether they have or haven’t read my proposal. Or read it and didn’t like it. It’s possible I’ve already received five great big silent nos and just don’t know it yet.
As I make my way down to the kitchen I tell myself not to worry. There are plenty of fish in the publishing sea, and I have appointments with two more of them at the conference. The truth is the manuscript is the least of my worries, yet it’s the only one I can allow myself to focus on.
During the years I spent writing Heart of Gold I never imagined how much I’d miss it once it was finished.
Without the manuscript to work on, my marriage, and all the problems that stem from it, are front and center. Which begs the question: Did it take me fifteen years to write it because I put my children, family, and business first as I’ve always believed? Or did it take fifteen years because I needed it to hide out in?
Cup of coffee in hand, I settle at the kitchen table and try to put my head in the right place, wherever that might be. I’m still searching for that safer place when Lily enters. Although she’s earlier than usual and I know she must still be half asleep her face is already set, her expression is stony. Lily’s disappointment in us knows no bounds. Though no longer a child, her view is childishly simple: she thinks her father will stop cheating if I just “rein him in.” And though she can’t possibly know about the ultimatum I gave Clay, I can tell she senses that something has changed. Just as I sense her withdrawing and becoming more secretive.
“What time will you be home for dinner?”
“I won’t. I’m going to Dana’s after practice. Mrs. Barrett invited me for dinner and then we’re going to study for a chemistry test.”
“Didn’t you just have dinner there the other night?”
“Mrs. Barrett says she’s glad to have me anytime.” She glares down her nose at me before once again looking pointedly away.
“Lily, honey, please. Why don’t you sit down and have some . . .”
A horn beeps out in the drive. “That’s Dana. We have spirit club meetings before school all week and she’s driving.” Lily gathers her books and walks toward the door. “So Dad won’t have to worry about driving me while you’re gone.” She calls this last tidbit over her shoulder just before the door closes behind her. I move to the window and watch her climb into Dana’s bright-red Hyundai and speed away.
I head back to the coffeemaker as if another shot of caffeine will somehow make things better or at least clearer. I feel guilty about how much I’m looking forward to leaving for New York tomorrow, but it’s not just Lily who’s acting out. Sharing a house with someone you’ve threatened to divorce is no picnic.
If Clay’s working on his relationship with Lily I’ve seen no signs of it. I can only hope he’ll spend the time I’m in New York trying to reach out and reassure her.
I spend the next fifteen minutes sipping coffee and mentally planning what to pack. I rouse my phone to check e-mail yet again to see if there’s a response to any of my submissions. I wish I knew for sure that no news was good news.
I look up at the sound of footsteps. Clay appears in the kitchen with the semi-scowl he now saves for me. It says everything is my fault. That I should have known better and other things I don’t want to see.
As he has each morning since I issued my ultimatum, he huffs in surprise when he discovers that there’s no coffee brewing or breakfast cooking. That surprise turns to irritation as he makes his own coffee and rummages in the pantry for something to eat.
I am a peacekeeper by nature and necessity. I have to fight off the reflexive urges to apologize, accept the blame for his bad mood, or attempt to make him feel better. Every instinct shouts at me to once again sweep our problems under the rug and pretend the lump isn’t there.
But I fear any sign that can be interpreted as weakness will make him think he doesn’t have to take my ultimatum to change his behavior seriously.
He stuffs a Pop-Tart into the toaster so hard the pastry breaks, and I briefly consider pointing out that his bad mood should be aimed at himself and not at me. Instead, I avert my eyes as he eats the half of the pastry that survived and downs his coffee. I’m too tired from pretending to be strong when I’m not to remind him of all the reasons we’re no longer living life as usual.
I’m not only exhausted, I’m afraid. Afraid of what I’ve set in motion. Afraid of how the kids will react to our divorce if I have to file. Afraid of how I’d handle life alone. Afraid of how big a failure I’ll be if the book I’ve spent a decade and a half on never gets published.
If there’s anything I’m not afraid of at this moment, it’s only because I haven’t thought of it yet.
Each day it gets a little harder to remember how strong I felt when I finally told Clay I’m not prepared to put up with his transgressions. I’ve come to understand that my declaration was not an end but only the first small step in what could be a long and arduous journey to the improved relationship I hope for. Or the final death spiral of the relationship I’ve been clinging to and the world as we all know it.
A shudder passes through me. And I pray that I won’t have to follow through on my threat. That Clay will finally understand how much he stands to lose and how much we have to offer each other.
“Where’s Lily? Why isn’t she ready to go?” he asks when the Pop-Tart is gone, the coffee finished.
“Dana picked her up. She’ll be riding to school with her all week for early meetings.”
He’s barely looked at me since he came into the kitchen. Now I move to stand in front of him so he has to. “She’s upset, Clay. She knows something’s changed. You’re going to have to be careful with her while I’m gone. Pay attention. Stay on top of things. Something in her behavior feels . . . off.”
“I don’t understand how you can leave after you started all this.” He says this as if I’m the one who misbehaved and didn’t bother to hide it. As if the idea of a divorce came out of nowhere. Without waiting for an answer he turns and leaves. Outside he practically vaults into his truck. The engine roars to life.
I stand where I am, staring out the window as the truck disappears in a spray of stones and fumes. For a long time I do nothing but breathe. In and out as deeply and slowly as I can until my heart stops racing and the oxygen reaches my brain.
Finally, I get myself under control, but I have no idea what should happen next.
I glance up at the kitchen clock. For a moment I think it’s broken. How else could it move so slowly? I’ve covered a lot of mental and emotional ground but it’s too early to go to the store, and I need to talk to someone.
I consider calling my mother-in-law but I doubt Clay’s planning to tell her what’s going on with us or know how she’ll respond if we end up divorced. As much as she’s always treated me like a daughter, I’m not her flesh and blood and I don’t know how she’d feel about me if her son and I were no longer married.
I could call Kendra, but I’m reluctant to lean on her right now. And I don’t want to rub in the fact that I’m going to see Lauren when Lauren still won’t speak to her. If I’m allowed to add one mo
re fear to an already long list, it’s that I’m afraid if I get in the middle of what’s going on between them, I’ll give up the chance of having a relationship with either.
I sit down at the kitchen table. I need to talk to someone. Someone who already knows what’s happened. Who knows the players and will understand what I’m going through. I wouldn’t mind it if that someone knew something about publishing and could provide valuable insights into the internal workings of a literary agent’s mind.
There’s only one person who qualifies. Before I can think better of it, I call Lauren.
For a moment we’re too stunned to speak. Or at least I assume that’s why we’re not speaking.
“Bree?” she finally asks. “Is that you? Or is this an obscene phone call?”
“Are those my only choices?”
There’s a snort of laughter. “Are you all right?”
“That depends on your definition.”
“Sorry. You’re the one with all the definitions in your head. I just right-click for synonyms.”
It’s my turn to snort. And just like that I’m smiling. “So how’s Spencer?”
“Good. Possibly too good for me.”
“He’s definitely too good for you,” I shoot back. “But I wouldn’t mention it. Maybe he won’t notice.”
“Ha!”
“Ha yourself!”
Silence descends. I wonder if Lauren’s as surprised by the reappearance of our old rhythm as I am.
“So are we still on for dinner Wednesday night?” she asks.
“Yes. Are you sure you don’t mind coming to the conference hotel?”
“I think I can handle it. There’s a small Italian place near there that I thought you might like.”
“Sounds good.” I’m shocked that she’s been thinking about me or where I might like to eat. “You’re sure I won’t be intruding on your writing time?”
The snort that follows is not quite as happy as the ones that came before it. “Not a problem.”
“Thanks.”
“So did you call about anything special?”
I sort through all the things that are weighing on me and am surprised that even a two-minute snortfest has lessened some of it. She warned me about Clay long ago and she knows where things stand now. I’ve already told her that I’ve made fidelity a requirement for staying married. Can I trust her not to laugh at my writing worries? There’s only one way to find out.
“I, well, I sent proposals to five agents and I’m going to be seeing two more at the conference. I’ve been working on my pitch. But . . .” My voice trails off.
Her silence on the other end is unnerving. She’s been a bestselling author so long she’s probably forgotten what rejection feels like.
“I’m scared to death I’ll get rejected,” I say finally. “I’m not sure I can handle it.”
Another silence. Even longer than the last. I wait for her to tell me not to worry. That she knows how good a writer I am. That all the horror stories about rejections in the publishing industry are greatly exaggerated.
What I hear is laughter. It goes on long enough to make me consider hanging up. I’m about to put down the phone when the laughter slows to a stop.
“Sorry,” she says. “But you’re definitely going to get rejected, Bree. So you might as well get ready for it.”
“Is that right?”
“Unfortunately, it is.”
“And how would you know?” I infuse the question with every ounce of indignation I feel. “It’s not like you’ve read anything of mine in the last twenty years.”
“No, but I do have plenty of experience with rejection. In fact, I have a master’s degree in rejection. And a PhD in Take that! I’ve lived through way more than I ever wanted to or thought I could. And I don’t know a single successful, working writer who hasn’t.”
“But . . .”
“Sandcastle Sunrise was rejected twenty times before it sold.”
“Really?”
“Really. And it hurt like hell.”
“But I thought . . .”
“That because my first book got published it was a piece of cake?” Lauren takes a deep breath and releases it. “Far from it.”
“Wow.” How could I not have known this?
“Yeah. And I apologize if this is a total buzzkiller, but the rejection doesn’t stop after you get published. Anyone can say what they like online and lots of people do. They don’t have to justify a one-star review or apologize for the nasty things they sometimes write or say. And not everyone stays published forever. If you don’t build fast enough you’re gone. If you don’t sell enough books you’re gone. If your editor gets fired or leaves you can be orphaned without a champion in your publishing house. You’re gone. I know just how lucky I am to have been published for so long, but it’s a brutal business.”
I sit stunned. Not only because of the ugly starkness of what she’s saying—I’ve seen some of this from the bookseller side—but because she’s gone through and dealt with so much that I never suspected. Like my assumptions about her “adventures” in New York City, I was too green with envy to even imagine anything negative.
“I know running an independent bookstore presents plenty of challenges, too. I just don’t want you to be unprepared for what may lie ahead.”
It’s my turn to draw a deep breath. “Gee, thanks, Lauren,” I say on the exhale. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the pep talk.”
We both laugh. But our laughter is more than a little uneasy.
“I didn’t scare you off, did I?” she asks somewhat tentatively.
“Of course not.” My reply is automatic. But as we hang up I’m not completely sure whether she’s talking about a future in publishing or repairing our friendship.
Thirty-three
Kendra
The Sandcastle
I’m shocked at how decadent I’ve become. How wanton. How easily I fall into bed with Jake at the slightest urging. And how long we can stay there.
I’d forgotten that sex could be fun. That laughter and affection are aphrodisiacs. That the right look in the right man’s eyes could turn you back into someone you barely remember.
“You were beautiful at twenty, but you’re even more beautiful now,” he whispers as he lowers his body onto and then into mine. “I love making love to you.” He moves slowly to illustrate.
Our bodies are slick with sweat. I can’t think when I’m so swamped with pleasure, so I stop trying and just let myself feel.
Afterward we doze. When I awake curled up against him late-afternoon sun streams through the bedroom windows. I slip out of bed and pull on shorts and a T-shirt then carry a glass of iced tea out to the deck. As I do countless times every day I check my cell phone for a message from Lauren. Though I know there’s no use, I dial her number and when she doesn’t answer I leave her the same message I leave every day. “I love you and miss you. I hope you’ll call back soon.”
I’m setting the phone down when Jake wanders outside. Running shorts cling to his hips. His chest is bare. “Wow. Who knew great sex could be so exhausting?” He drops a kiss on the top of my head.
I blush because I can’t help it. “I can’t remember the last time I took a nap on a weekday,” I say, avoiding an acknowledgment of what made us so tired. “I think you’re a bad influence on me.”
“It’s my pleasure.” His grin begins as wolfish, but turns into a yawn. He settles into the chair beside mine, props his bare feet on the railing, and folds his hands on an impressive set of abs. “We aim to please.”
“Yes, I noticed.” I feel my cheeks heat again. “I’m tempted to tell you to keep up the good work.”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Oh, I intend to.”
We both grin. Thanks to him, my limbs are loose. My body is exhausted in the b
est possible way. The only thing that’s not right with my world is the hurt I’ve caused our daughter and her refusal to forgive me.
He reaches for my hand. “I know that look. You’re thinking about Lauren.”
“Always.” The only thing that pushes her from my mind even briefly is when I lose myself with him. “I’m afraid if I leave it much longer we’ll never find our way back to each other. I’m going to have to take action.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’m not at all sure about the details. I just know I can’t give up. I need to be able to look her in the eye and explain my reasoning and intentions again as best as I can. That’s all that’s left to me and I have to do it. The hardest thing will be getting her to agree to see me. I’m afraid to give her another opportunity to say no.”
He nods.
“Bree’s flying up tomorrow and coming back on Sunday. But I was thinking maybe you could plan your trip up to see her the following week. And I could kind of come up as a surprise guest. I just need you to get me through the front door. I’ll take it from there.”
“That’s a bit risky, isn’t it? She might refuse to listen. Or kick us both out.”
“I know. It’s asking a lot. She could be angry at you for aiding and abetting the enemy. But I have to try once more to make her understand. And I want to take THE DRESS with me.”
“To wave like a flag of truce?”
I smile. “I’d wave it all over Manhattan if I thought it would help, but I’m thinking more along the lines of making sure she has it so that she can wear it on her wedding day if she wants to. Even if I . . .” I have to force myself to continue. “Even if I’m not invited to be there to see it.”
“I can’t believe it will come to that.” He cups my cheek and chin in one large hand.
“I keep telling myself it won’t. I hope to God it won’t. But if she refuses to see me you can at least give her the dress.”