The Sins of the Mother

by Danielle Steel

“I always feel that way when my kids leave Maine too. It’s just not the same when you don’t live with them anymore. And it’s such a gift when you can spend time with them here and there.” It was exactly what she was feeling about the trip.

  “I think I’m having withdrawal,” she admitted as she looked out the window of her hotel room. She was homesick for all of them, and she wondered if this was how they had felt when she was away when they were young, as though their hearts had been ripped out through their noses. If so, she thought it was suitable punishment for her that she felt that way now.

  “Happy birthday, by the way, a day late. It must have been fun to spend it with the kids.”

  “It was. We danced till three A.M. We did that several times on the trip. In Sardinia we stayed up till five A.M.”

  “You must be a lot younger than I am,” he said ruefully. “The last time I stayed up till five A.M. was when my son was born.”

  “Me too. But I went dancing with my grandchildren. You have to stay on top of it for them.”

  “Fortunately, mine aren’t old enough to go dancing yet. And when they are, I’ll be in a wheelchair in a nursing home somewhere.”

  “I hope not,” she said, laughing at him.

  “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the press has been agitating about the child labor issue at the factories in Asia again.”

  “I know. I got a memo about it from my office two days ago, and I told them to copy you on it. Do they know anything we don’t?” She sounded concerned. She had tried not to get upset about it on the trip, but it was an issue she always wanted to keep a close watch on. And if they were going to have to make major changes, she wanted to be prepared. The interview she had done before the trip had gone well, but the press was always unpredictable, and they both knew that the tides of public favor could turn at any time.

  “I don’t think so. I just think they like stirring the pot, to see what bubbles to the surface. I don’t think there’s anything new. Those countries are always going to be a problem on human rights issues, but we have no solid proof that any of our factories are out of line.”

  “I just want to be sure.”

  “I know. We’re as sure as we can be. If anything changes, I’ll let you know. How long will you be in London?”

  “Till tomorrow.”

  “I’m going back to the city tomorrow too. I’ll see you in the office next week. Have a safe flight home.”

  “Thanks, Peter. It was nice of you to call me.” She had been feeling lonely when she got to London. Getting back to real life seemed harsh now without her kids. She was even missing Joe. It had been nice to hear a familiar voice when Peter called. “I’m checking out the remodel of the London store.”

  “I figured that was what you were doing. I hope your re-entry won’t be too tough.”

  “Hopefully not. Enjoy the last of your vacation too.”

  “Thanks.” They hung up then, and she ordered a bowl of soup from room service. She wasn’t even hungry. Nothing seemed like any fun now without her kids.

  And an hour later, she was off to the London store. It tugged at her heartstrings to see the old familiar location, and she spent the afternoon looking at the remodel and meeting the new manager of the store. He was taking her to see their new warehouses outside the city the next day, and then she was catching a flight home.

  When she got back to Claridge’s at eight o’clock that night, she was too tired to even order dinner. She had just turned seventy, a fact she tried to ignore and which seemed hard to believe, but she felt a hundred years old that night. All she wanted was to go back to the boat and start the trip all over again. Or better yet, rewind the film all the way back to the beginning of her life, and do it differently this time. But there was no rewinding the movie. She just had to go forward, and do the best she could. The rest of how the story turned out was up to Sophie and Alex, and their children after them. She was just a link in the chain. She and Joe had started something, and their grandchildren would finish it, or their children. And for now, all she could do was move ahead, and keep building the empire for them. She had nothing else to do.

  Chapter 11

  When Liz got back to the house in Connecticut, it was so empty and silent that it seemed morbidly depressing. Like her mother, she had loved being with her kids, and it was painful to no longer be with them. She looked in the fridge and it was empty. She made herself a cup of instant soup, opened her suitcase, and decided to go to bed. She called Carole and Sophie, and both of them were out with their friends, respectively in New York and Boston. The lives they had come home to were far more entertaining than hers. All she had to do was two weeks of laundry, and as she lay in bed with her mug of soup, she remembered the manuscript in her bag. She took it out and looked at it again. She could see a dozen places she already wanted to change. And she found herself wondering again if Sarah was right about it. Maybe her mother had just been kind to her. She was suddenly filled with self-doubt again.

  She fell asleep too early that night, because of the time difference, and she was wide awake at six o’clock the next morning, and read the manuscript again. She didn’t know if she had the guts to call her agent, and by nine o’clock, she was in a state of total nerves. She decided to put it off till the next day, until she got a text message from her mother. All it said was “Did you call your agent yet? Do it! The book is great! I love you, Mommy.” Liz smiled when she read it, and gritting her teeth, she called her agent at ten.

  She waited to hear the familiar voice of her agent and was startled when a clipped British male voice answered instead.

  “Is Charles Halpern there?” she asked politely, and the British voice sounded as startled as she had. There was a long pause before he answered.

  “No. He died two years ago. This is Andrew Shippers, I bought the agency from him when he got sick. Is there something I can do for you?”

  They kept surprising each other. “My name is Elizabeth Grayson. He represents—er … used to represent me, I guess. I was calling him about a … well … uh … about a book.”

  “You don’t sound too sure of that, Ms. Grayson. Are you sure it’s a book?” he said, laughing at her, and she could feel her face flush bright red. This was harder than she had expected, and she was nervous enough about it, without having her agent die and sell the agency to someone else.

  “Well, actually I’m not, sure it’s a book, I mean. I don’t know what it is. I was going to ask him.”

  “I see,” the new agent said, although he really didn’t. She wasn’t sure if it was a children’s book, a book for adults, or a fantasy of some kind that fell through a crack somewhere between the two. “Would you like to show it to me?” She really wouldn’t, but if she backed off now it would seem rude.

  “I … well … it’s kind of a strange little fantasy book. My sister-in-law, who teaches literature at Princeton, hated it. And then my mother read it and she loved it. She said I should call you, so I did. But that was when I thought you were Charlie Halpern. Now that you’re someone else, I don’t think you represent me, do you?” She sounded utterly confused.

  “I can if you want me to, if he represented you, since I bought the agency from him. Of course, if you want to take it to someone else, I understand, and you have no obligation to me.”

  “Thank you.” She didn’t know what she wanted to do. She felt utterly frightened and confused.

  “And with all due respect to your sister-in-law who teaches literature at Princeton,” he continued, “academics aren’t usually the best judges of commercial fiction. So your mother might have the right idea.”

  “That’s what she said. About academics, I mean.”

  “Precisely. Would you like to come in to see me? I have some free time this afternoon.”

  “I … uh …” She hadn’t expected him to offer her an appointment so soon. “I just came back from Europe yesterday, and I have a lot of laundry to do.” She couldn’t believe she was saying
that to him. She was willing to use any excuse to escape having someone read her book who might hate it as much as Sarah had, and then she decided to screw up her courage and go into the city to see him. If she didn’t, her mother would be on her back until she did. “Okay, never mind. What time this afternoon?”

  “Is four o’clock too late for you?”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll be there … oh … did you move?”

  “No, same place. I’ll look forward to seeing you at four, Ms. Grayson,” he said formally.

  “Liz. Call me Liz.”

  “Fine, see you this afternoon then.” She felt like a total idiot as she played the conversation over in her head, and slid under the covers with a groan. This was harder than she’d expected it to be, now that it involved someone new.

  She got out of bed at one o’clock, showered and put on blue jeans and sandals, and at two-thirty she got in her car with the manuscript and drove into the city. She was at Charlie Halpern’s old address ten minutes early, and she had a knot in her stomach the size of a fist. She could hardly breathe. She parked her car, waited ten minutes, and then went up in the elevator, wondering what the new agent was like. Charlie had been in his late seventies, and had always been very fatherly, which worked for her. The person who had replaced him sounded like a grown-up. The British accent made him sound formal and official, and she was convinced he was going to hate her book. He didn’t sound like a man who liked fantasy, and if he had free time on this hands the day she called him, he was probably no good.

  She walked into the outer office, in the small building on Madison Avenue where his offices were. Charlie had had an ancient secretary she’d always suspected he was sleeping with, but she was gone too. Liz sat down in the waiting room, and a moment later a very attractive man walked in, wearing blue jeans, an impeccably cut striped shirt, and immaculately shined shoes. He looked about her own age. And he was so handsome, she didn’t know what to say. She sat mute in her chair, clutching her manuscript to her chest.

  “You must be Elizabeth Grayson,” he said pleasantly. “Liz.” And with a gesture, he invited her to come in. She couldn’t move, she sat frozen in her chair with a look of fear. He realized this was going to be hard. “And that must be the manuscript your sister-in-law hated. I’d love to have a look.” With that, Liz stood up and followed him silently into the other room. She noticed that he’d had the entire office repainted and fresh carpeting put in. There were new paintings on the walls, of hunting scenes in England, and he had a handsome antique partner’s desk. There was a comfortable leather chair for her to sit in, facing him across the desk. He was much too good-looking to be an agent, she told herself. He was probably some sort of con artist or playboy who had nothing else to do. She sat looking at him with suspicion as he held out a hand for the manuscript she was still clutching. And then she realized how neurotic she must seem.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just strange dealing with someone new,” she said as she finally handed the manuscript to him. It was looking a little beaten up after making the round-trip to Europe in her handbag, but he didn’t seem to care as he glanced through it.

  “I’m sure it is. Did Charlie sell a lot of work for you?” he asked her candidly.

  “Just short stories, and some poetry. I wrote two novels, but they weren’t any good.”

  “Did your sister-in-law tell you that too?” he asked with a look of amusement. He looked very British, and seemed to be amused by almost everything.

  “No, she didn’t. Charlie said it wasn’t my best work, and he was right. I don’t know what to think about this one. My mother was probably just being nice.”

  “Possibly. I’ll give it a read and tell you what I think. If you jot your number down for me, and your e-mail, I won’t have to look it up in the files. My assistant is out sick.” She wrote both down for him on a piece of paper, and she wasn’t sure what else to do. She realized that she was so nervous, she must have looked more than a little nuts to him. She was terrified of what he was going to say about her book. Sarah had probably been right.

  “Your sister-in-law might be jealous of you too,” he suggested. “The book may be very good.” He tried to reassure her, but he could see how unnerved she was.

  “I don’t know. See what you think.”

  “Happy to,” he said, smiling at her, and she thought he looked like the cover of GQ. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing as an agent. He looked as though he should be an actor in British films. He had a kind of Hugh Grant quality about him, with even better looks.

  “Have you been an agent for long?” Liz asked him in a strangled voice that sounded more like a croak to her.

  “I worked for Richard Morris in London for fifteen years. And then I went out on my own, and moved here. It’s worked out very well. Charlie had a lot of very nice clients, and I’ve added a few of my own in the past two years. I’m sorry we haven’t met before. But I’m very happy to be reading your book.”

  “Thank you … thank you … Mr. Shippers—”

  “Andrew.” He smiled his dazzling British smile at her, and she stood up out of the leather chair, ready to retreat. “We’ll talk about the book when I’ve read it.”

  “I’ve done some editing on it already,” she said nervously.

  He walked her back through the outer office then, and held open the door for her. She fled down the stairs, instead of waiting for the elevator, and stood on Madison Avenue with a dazed look.

  She got back in her car and sent her mother a text message immediately. “I did it. Just left the agent’s office. Old one died. New one. British. I left the manuscript with him. See you soon. Love, Liz.” She took a deep breath then and called both her daughters. Carole was at a shipping company, picking up boxes to pack her things for L.A., and Sophie was in Boston getting ready for school. There was nothing left for her to do except go home.

  She drove back to Connecticut and tried to tell herself that the book wasn’t important to her. And if he hated it, sooner or later, she’d write something else. Besides, he was too good-looking. The last thing she needed was an agent who looked like a movie star. It would be too distracting to work with someone like him. She went home, unpacked her suitcase, and did three loads of laundry. She went out and bought groceries, and she made an omelet and big green salad for dinner. It was a far cry from all the elegant service and delicious meals on the boat. It was embarrassingly hard to get used to real life again. She felt like Cinderella after the coach had turned back into a pumpkin, and the coachmen into mice. She fell asleep on her bed at nine o’clock, fully dressed with all the lights on, and woke up at nine the next morning to the sound of the phone. For a minute, she thought she was still on the boat, and then reality hit her again. She was home.

  “Good morning, I hope it’s not too early to call you.” It was Andrew Shippers on the phone.

  “No, not at all. I’m usually up long before this. I’m a little jetlagged. I just got up.”

  “Well, I’ve got good news for you. Your sister-in-law doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Your mother does. I read your book last night, and it’s a piece of sheer genius. It’s one of the most whimsical, delightful pieces of brilliant writing I’ve read in a long time.”

  “You what?… You did?… It is?” She felt like she was about to burst into tears. And she was just as tongue-tied as she’d been the day before. Only now she was smiling and there were tears of joy and relief running down her face. She hadn’t realized how much she cared about it, and what he had just said to her was like getting a gift, or winning the lottery. She was so excited she wanted to scream. “Oh my God—you liked it?”

  “No. I loved it. And if you don’t let me represent you, I’ll come to your house and stalk you. I want to sell this book.”

  “Oh my God,” she said again. “Yes, of course. Sell it. I want you to represent me. Do you really think someone will want to buy it?”

  “Very much so. If you e-mail it to me, I’ll get it into the
right hands immediately. The only thing that might slow it down a little is that people are on vacation. But in a few weeks, everyone will be back at work. I have a few editors in mind who would be just right for this book.”

  “I think I’m going to faint,” she said in a choked voice.

  “Please don’t. Just hang on to your hat, and I’ll get back to you in a few weeks.”

  “Thank you, thank you very much, Mr.… er … Andrew … just thank you, and good luck with it!”

  He wondered if she was always that nervous, or if it was just with him, and about this book. He could tell how personal it was. It was a beautiful piece of writing that had come straight from her soul. He was sure he was going to do very well with the book. He hadn’t sold anything he liked as much in months, maybe even years.

  After she hung up, Liz called her mother’s BlackBerry. She thought she’d been due back in New York the night before. And she was right. Olivia was in her office, going over some charts and e-mails, and she answered on the first ring.

  “Oh my God, Mom, he liked it—he loved it—”

  “Who did?” For a moment Olivia was confused and then she understood. “He did? The agent? What did he say?”

  “That you were right. He thinks it’s ‘brilliant.’ He thinks he can sell it. He doesn’t even want me to change anything.”

  “I’m so pleased,” Olivia said, beaming from ear to ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Mom. How was the rest of your trip?”

  “It was okay. I missed you all like crazy when you left. I came back late last night. How’s everything with you?”

  “Fantastic. I’m going to sell a book.” As soon as she said it, she realized that was the next thing she had to worry about. What if he was wrong and no one bought the book?

  “We’ll have to celebrate,” her mother said generously.

  “Not until he sells it.”

  They talked for a few more minutes, and then Olivia had to take a call from Europe. Their store in Madrid was in the midst of a renovation and something was going wrong. A plumber had soldered a pipe badly the day before and destroyed a new ceiling.