Crossroads

by Belva Plain

  I want to think my mother had what I have. I want to think my father loved her as much as Stan loves me.

  The next morning when Gwen woke up, she went into the taupe-colored guest room and opened the laptop computer Stan had given her. She took out a yellow legal pad and a pile of pencils and set them near the computer so she could make notes on ideas as they came to her. She didn’t know how she knew this was going to be useful; she just did. In the kitchen she heard Stan padding around making himself coffee, getting ready to start his day, but she didn’t join him.

  Finally, when everything was exactly the way she wanted it, she sat in front of the computer. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift back, back to her tree stump on the hill. Then she opened her eyes and began to type: Abby the Squirrel was the odd duck of the forest.

  When the words appeared on the monitor screen, a voice behind her said gently, “You’re finally doing it.” And she turned to see Stan leaning over to read the screen. “And you’re calling her Abby,” he added. Then Stan, her husband of few words, who never showed emotion, leaned over to kiss her, and he was smiling with tears in his eyes.

  Chapter Thirty

  Sometimes Stan couldn’t believe it had been two years since he’d become a member of the JeffSon family—one of Jeff Henry’s phonier expressions in Stan’s opinion—because the months and days had gone by so quickly. But there were other times, like today, when it felt as if he’d been working at the company forever, and the walls of his office started to close in on him. This usually happened when he’d had to stay behind his desk for too long. Or when he had to go to meetings. It seemed to Stan that three quarters of his job consisted of going to meetings. And the business discussed at those meetings was always the same: how to make JeffSon a more attractive company to potential shareholders.

  Stan far preferred being out in the field trouble-shooting technical and mechanical problems. He’d done quite a bit of that when he’d first started in his new position; back then there had been big plans for upgrading the existing power plants and buying new ones. But suddenly, all of those plans were put on hold. For a couple of days Stan had heard a rumor about a cash-flow problem, but that gossip had quickly subsided, and soon JeffSon was showing huge profits. Today the all-important JeffSon stock was trading higher than ever on the Exchange, and Jeff Henry was running around the country winning awards as Entrepreneur of the Year and making speeches about the endless possibilities for the business he had created. So if a little voice in the back of Stan’s head kept nagging that he was spending more and more time pushing paper—and going to the ubiquitous meetings—instead of producing anything tangible, that voice had to be wrong. Obviously he didn’t understand the way a really big business was run. Or maybe it was just that he didn’t like big business all that much. But there wasn’t much he could do about that now that he was working for one of the biggest. Stan stood up and walked around his office—anything to get the blood flowing again.

  He stopped in front of a small shelf, which was empty except for a thin book with a painting of a squirrel on the cover. It was the advance copy of the children’s book Gwen had written. She’d named it Abby, after the little squirrel who was the lead character, and it would be in the bookstores at the end of the month. Gwen already had several book signings scheduled in nearby towns and she would be going on a book tour after that. His Gwen on a book tour! Stan still couldn’t believe it. And her publisher had just signed on for three more books about Abby and her forest friends.

  “I’m going to fill my shelves with books by Gwen Girard,”he’d told her after they’d received their advance copy of Abby. “Someday I’ll have an entire wall full of them!” He was so proud of her.

  And he was a little proud of himself, too, because he had had a hand in her success. He took the book back to his desk, leaned back in his chair, and remembered how it had all come about.

  Gwen had finished her book a few months after he had started working at JeffSon. He’d already sold his business to the company and he was well aware that Cassie was angry because he and Gwen had not taken her advice.

  Gwen was angry at her mother as well. “We’re adults, for heaven’s sake!” she’d said. “Mother has to learn to respect us.”

  Lots of luck with that, Stan had thought. And he had done his best to steer clear of his formidable—and now very annoyed—mother-in-law.

  But then he’d read the manuscript for Gwen’s book. And he’d known right away that it was special. It wasn’t just the story about a little squirrel who was different and shy and learned to accept herself that fascinated him. It was the way Gwen seemed to get inside the heads of the characters she’d created. Her little creatures didn’t think like humans, although they had thoughts and feelings that Stan could recognize as human. Somehow Gwen had managed to find a way for them to express themselves that was their own. Stan couldn’t have said how she’d done it, but when he read her book he could see the squirrels and chipmunks and birds so clearly. And Gwen had written with such love for the outdoors—the trees and the sky were like additional characters in the story. Stan finally understood what a loss it had been to his wife when they had moved to the city.

  “What are you going to do with this?” he’d asked her after he’d finished the pages she’d printed out for him.

  “I hadn’t thought about that. I was just glad to finish it.”

  “Someone should publish it.”

  “Stan, you don’t just write a book and get it published. People take years to do that.”

  “But this is good.”

  “You think that. But you have to. You love me.”

  So every Saturday for a month he’d gone to the library and read his way through dozens of children’s books. When he finished, he went back to Gwen. “I’m telling you, your book is good enough to be published,” he said to her. “And by now I’m an expert on the subject.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to start,” she said. But of course that wasn’t the only reason she was so hesitant. She’d put so much of herself into the story—and particularly into the leading character—and she was afraid. Because in some misty way that had to do with being a writer, if people didn’t like Abby the squirrel then Gwen his wife would be the odd duck again. Stan understood this, but he couldn’t let the matter rest. He went online and found a list of publishers and sent them copies of the manuscript. And then sat by helplessly as the letters of rejection came in.

  “See?” Gwen said crossly. “I told you it wasn’t any good.”

  But it was good; he knew it was. And it seemed to him that most of the publishers hadn’t said that the book was bad but just that it wasn’t right for them. He knew that could just be a polite way of giving someone a brush-off. But still, he had faith in his instincts. He needed to talk to someone who knew more about this kind of thing than he did. He sought out Gwen’s stepfather.

  Walter read the book and saw immediately what Stan had seen. “The person you need to speak to is Cassie,” he told Stan.

  “She serves on so many charitable boards and committees, including several that are based in New York, and she knows quite a few bigwigs in publishing.”

  “My mother-in-law isn’t very fond of me right now,” Stan said ruefully.

  “That’s putting it mildly.” Walter grinned. “She doesn’t like to give advice and not have it taken.”

  “And I don’t like to be told what to do.”

  “I know. But what you and Cassie have in common is that you both appreciate a job well done—and this book is very good.” He paused. “And of course you both love Gwen.”

  “I’m not sure I’m the one who should talk to Mrs. Wright.”

  “One more thing about Cassie you should know: She respects anyone who has the guts to take her on.”

  So, armed with a copy of Gwen’s manuscript, Stan drove out to the Wright house to take on his mother-in-law. Cassie was working in her garden and she didn’t stop when he parked his car in the driveway,
got out, and walked over to her. But she did look up. “Is Gwen with you?” she asked. She was wearing a big straw hat so he couldn’t see her face very well but he thought her voice sounded eager.

  “I came here alone,” he said. “I need your help.”

  She turned back to her roses. “I’d say it’s a little late in the day for that. From what I’ve heard you’ve already sold your business. So if you’re realizing now what a fool you’ve made of yourself, there really isn’t anything I can do to—”

  “This isn’t about me,” he broke in, determined to keep his temper. “This is about Gwen.” Her head snapped up again. “She’s not sick or anything like that,” he assured her hurriedly. “She’s done something that’s . . . well, she’s written a book.”

  “A book? Gwen?”

  “It’s called Abby. It’s a children’s book and it’s really fine, at least I think it is, and . . .” He stopped and eyed the woman who had always thought he was a borderline idiot. “Look at it this way,” he said. “You think I’m going to do nothing but drag her down. Well, if this book of hers is as good as I think it is, then she’ll have her own money and a career and she won’t have to depend on me. Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t that make it worth your while to stop pruning those roses and read the thing?”

  She finished the bush she was working on, then she removed her gardening gloves and held out her hand for the manuscript.

  While Stan stood in front of her she read it. When she looked up, there was a strange expression on her face; it was equal parts sadness, tenderness, and pride. It only lasted for a second. “I’ll keep this, if I may,” she said, “and I’ll make a few calls.”

  “Thank you,” Stan said, and he turned to go.

  “Stan,” she called out to him. He turned back. “We all make mistakes,” she said. “If something were to happen . . . if you and Gwen are ever in trouble . . . please let me know.”

  He nodded and left. And six weeks later she called to say that Gwen had a publisher for Abby.

  * * *

  Stan picked up the copy of Gwen’s book and looked at her picture on the back. She was facing the camera head-on, but her thoughtful gaze was fixed somewhere far off. The photographer hired by the publisher’s publicity department had tried in vain to get her to look directly into the camera’s lens but she couldn’t make herself do it. She had also refused the services of the makeup artist and the hairdresser who had been hired for what the PR woman referred to as “the shoot.” The PR woman had not been happy with Gwen that day, but Stan thought his wife had been right to insist on doing things her way. She wouldn’t have been Gwen with a lot of goop on her face or with her hair slicked back in some elegant but impossible style. Her intelligence shone through her big brown eyes and her dreamy, far-off look was typical of her. He studied the picture for a moment longer; this was the Gwen he knew and loved, and as far as he was concerned, she’d gotten prettier with the passing years. Not that she would ever be a beauty like, for instance, Jewel Henry. But he’d take Gwen over that woman any day. He frowned a little at that thought—because he was sure Jewel’s husband shared it.

  Stan leaned back in his chair again and more memories flooded into his mind. These were not as welcome as the others had been. He was not by nature a jealous man, but he knew he wasn’t paranoid either, and his suspicions about Jeff Henry had at least some basis in truth. The whole thing had begun when Stan and Gwen had attended their first JeffSon party. When Stan had received his invitation via an office memo, his initial inclination had been to turn it down.

  “Don’t even think about it,” advised one of his colleagues. “Four times a year we are invited to Mr. Henry’s home to dine with the Great Man and his wife and make no mistake, this is a command performance.”

  So Gwen and Stan had gotten all dolled up and presented themselves at the door of Jeff and Jewel’s house, which was way too lavish for Stan’s taste. A maid had ushered them in and Jewel had bustled up to them, looking stunning, ordered them to mingle—a word Stan particularly disliked—and left them to their own devices.

  Soon Stan had gotten stuck in a conversation about business and Gwen had wandered off. By the time he was able to extricate himself she had joined a group of eager listeners that had surrounded Jeff Henry in the cavernous living room. Stan’s boss was holding forth on history, and Gwen seemed to be impressed.

  “The world wars came because the German-speaking people were dissatisfied with their lack of prestige, vis-à-vis France and England with their colonies,” Jeff said. “This difference came suddenly in 1914, and by 1939, it had become explosive. It’s interesting that European royalty were all cousins, isn’t it? Queen Victoria’s grandsons were the King of England and the Emperor of Germany!” He’d turned to Gwen and smiled at her. That was all it was, just a smile. But something in it set off a warning signal for Stan.

  At dinner that evening they sat at small round tables in the dining room, and Gwen had been placed at Jeff ’s. And Stan’s warning signal grew stronger. It wasn’t that Jeff was flirting with Gwen—he certainly didn’t cross the line in any way—but he admired her. That was clear. And Gwen, who had thought herself unappealing and odd for so many years, was flattered.

  That was clear too. But was that all it was? She was enjoying herself, and she didn’t usually enjoy big social gatherings like this—but as far as Stan could see that was it. There’s a certain sexual tension when a man and woman are attracted to each other—a certain electricity, if you will—and Stan didn’t get any sense of that. At least not on his wife’s part. She was laughing, a blithe and carefree laugh, and Gwen would not have been capable of that kind of lightheartedness if she’d been in the throes of a secret passion for a man other than the one she’d married. A woman like Jewel Henry might be able to carry that off, but not his wife. She is an innocent, my Gwen. Very intelligent, but an innocent.

  And so on that night Stan had talked himself out of a desire to punch Jeff Henry in the nose right there in his own over-decorated dining room. But over the next two years, whenever he and Gwen were in Jeff’s company, Stan was on his guard. And he became more and more convinced that while Gwen might be an innocent, Jeff Henry had feelings for her that he had no right to have. But there was nothing Stan could do about it. Confronting the man when he hadn’t acted on those feelings would be stupid. And it would be an insult to Gwen.

  Stan picked up the child’s book and took it back to the shelf. He’d learned to live with his suspicions about Jeff Henry—mostly because he trusted his wife’s integrity so much. But he had never really settled in and become gung ho about working at JeffSon. He hadn’t joined the company baseball team, and he didn’t go to the morning motivational meetings. He was probably the only person working at the place who had not taken advantage of his stock option plan. The money he’d been paid for his business had been socked away in a money market account. He hadn’t spent any of it, because in spite of everything he still couldn’t forget Cassandra’s warning. For two years he’d been waiting for something dire to happen at JeffSon. At the very least, he worried that he’d be fired and he and Gwen would need his money until he was back on his feet.

  But in the last couple of weeks he’d decided he was being ridiculous. JeffSon had just been named one of the top ten companies in the country in Fortune magazine for the second year in a row. All around him his colleagues who had invested in the company were making out like bandits and his money was earning peanuts. It was time to accept the fact that he was a member of the damn JeffSon family—no matter how phony that sounded to him—and he wasn’t going anywhere. It was time to stop hoarding his money, and buy JeffSon stock. And it was time to buy a house for Gwen. He’d told her to start looking, and she’d already found a place she liked. In fact, she was going to meet him today for lunch and show him some brochures from the real estate agency that handled the property. He checked his watch; he had two hours before he was supposed to meet her downstairs in the lobby.


  On his desk was a preliminary draft for one of the newsletters JeffSon released to keep its shareholders—and potential shareholders—informed about the company. Usually Stan skipped reading these things because he considered them nothing more than puff pieces, but this day he was too restless to deal with the paperwork that cluttered his desk. Besides, if he was planning to buy JeffSon stock, he told himself he probably should read up on the company.

  Twenty minutes later, deeply troubled, he put the newsletter down and turned on his computer. There were some numbers he wanted to check.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  As the small jet circled the airport and prepared to land, Jeff looked out the window at the city below him. He’d always considered Wrights town his good luck charm, the place where great things happened to him. So how had everything gone so desperately wrong? He turned his gaze to the interior of his private plane. This was his third, but he could still remember when he’d bought his first. He’d been coveting one . . . no, lusting for one . . . but he hadn’t been able to overcome his puritanical background enough to actually make the purchase. Jewel had convinced him to do it. Now he couldn’t imagine flying commercial again. But that day could come. Worse than that could come. He closed his eyes and asked himself, again, how he had gotten to this place. How had his company, his brainchild, stopped being a vibrant, growing business with limitless potential and become one that was hemorrhaging red ink? What had started it all? The water contracts in São Paulo? The energy crisis in California? The new Internet start-up that had been sucking up seed money without a penny of profit to show for it? Whatever it was, it didn’t matter now. JeffSon was millions of dollars in debt. The New York accounting firm had done all it could to hide the losses, but unless a miracle happened, it was only a question of time before the whole thing imploded. So Jeff had begun a risky game. He continued to make speeches touting his dying company while privately unloading his own stock in JeffSon. Mark Scotto and several other top level guys at the company were quietly doing the same. And just in case, Jeff was putting as much of his assets as he could in Jewel’s name.