by Wendy Wax
Tanya snorted at the understatement.
“But I’m right about him. You be careful you don’t run so fast that he can’t catch you.”
“Oh, Mama.” Despite all the heartaches and disappointments that were part and parcel of being Trudy’s daughter, Tanya still felt a wallop of love when she looked down at the battered shell of her mother. By most standards Trudy had failed miserably as a parent, but she’d done far better by Tanya than her own mother had done by her. Trudy might have side-stepped much of her parental responsibility, but she’d never abandoned her daughter. Mess that she was, in her own way she’d soldiered on.
“I don’t have the time or energy for running. Or for playing any other games for that matter.” Another understatement, Tanya thought. She was weary deep down into her bones. In just a few hours she’d have to jump on the treadmill that was her life and start up all over again.
Trudy’s eyelids fluttered shut and she began to breathe noisily through her mouth.
“I’m right in the middle of my very own reality edition of Survivor, Mama,” Tanya said as she tiptoed out of the room, “and I can’t figure out how in the hell to get myself voted off.”
Faye spent the morning making notes for the upcoming conference call with Kendall, Mallory, and Tanya, then finished a chapter of her own work in progress and roughed out the first scene of the next chapter before breaking when Sara dropped off Becky for the afternoon, fresh from kindergarten.
For a treat, they strolled hand in hand along Central Avenue, the tree-lined two-lane main street of Highland Park, walking west, away from the lake toward the shops and restaurants, while Rebecca explained her plans for famous bal lerinadom.
Promising Rebecca an ice cream from the Dairy Queen for the walk home, Faye paused outside the Borders bookstore and noticed a window display of Mallory St. James’s latest hardcover, Hidden Assets. “My friend wrote that book,” she said to Rebecca. “She’s gotten really famous.”
“Cool!” Rebecca peered through the window. Her head turned slightly toward a display of historical romances by another author Faye had met at conferences.
Rebecca scrunched up her nose in concentration as she sounded out the words on the cover. “One Night with You.” She looked up at Faye, her brown eyes wide. “Is that one of those porn-io-graph-ic books my mommy tole me about?”
Faye squeezed Rebecca’s hand and knelt down so that she could look straight into Rebecca’s eyes. “No, of course not.”
“But that lady has her lips poked out to kiss that man.” She pointed at the cover, her finger unswerving. “And his chest doesn’t have any clothes on it.”
This was true, Faye thought as she searched for the right words of explanation. In her mind, a clinch cover did not pornography make.
“It’s a book about a man and a woman who fall in love and try to live happily ever after,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” She continued to look into Rebecca’s eyes, not wanting to undermine her daughter’s authority, but once again disappointed by and irritated with her daughter’s narrow-mindedness. She and Steve had gone out of their way to try to instill empathy and open generosity of thought in their offspring, yet with each year, Sara aligned herself more and more with the ultraconservative faction of Steve’s congregation. She seemed to spend much of her time in judgment of others.
“Let’s go in and pick out some books. Then we’ll see how Gran Gran’s new release is selling.”
Inside they went to the children’s section where Rebecca immediately found two Junie B. Jones books, one she couldn’t live without and one for the children’s library at Rainbow House. On their way to the religious fiction section, where Faye’s inspirational romances were shelved, they passed a table display of books by the now notorious erotica author Shannon LeSade. Faye clutched Rebecca’s hand more tightly in her own, intending to simply speed past it, but Becky must have felt the urgency in Faye’s grasp. She stopped right in front of the display and began to gawk.
“I bet that’s porn-i-ography,” the child said, with absolute certainty. “What are they doing on that cover?” She moved closer, practically sticking her face into a stack of books.
Faye pulled her away. “That’s not exactly porniog . . . pornography,” Faye said, at a loss as to how to continue. She didn’t particularly want to add the word “erotica” to her granddaughter’s vocabulary. Sure as she did, it would be the first word Becky shared with her mother when she got home. “But it is for adults, not children.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s too . . . grown up for kids.” This she knew for a fact.
“Why?” Rebecca’s trusting brown eyes stared up at her waiting for an explanation from the one person who up until now had always told it like it was.
“Because it is!” Despite attempts to stop it, Faye could feel her face flushing. She knew she was handling this badly. Overreacting would impress the book even more strongly in Becky’s mind, but she couldn’t seem to help it.
She was tugging on Becky’s hand in an effort to move her away from the display when the store’s customer relations manager, Judy Winslet, approached, an enthusiastic smile on her face.
“Mrs. Truett!” The manager stopped next to them. “We’ve been hoping you’d stop by to sign some stock.” Her gaze moved from Faye and Becky to the table display in front of them. “It’s amazing how big LeSade’s gotten,” she said. “Erotica’s so hot right now—pun intended—but I think part of it’s how reclusive she is. Have you ever met her?”
Faye cleared her throat and shook her head no. She was growing increasingly uncomfortable with their proximity to the display and to their conversation. She could practically see Becky’s ears growing larger, the better to suck in their conversation for repetition later.
“I heard her publisher is getting ready for a big publicity push. Maybe that will bring her out of hiding.”
Faye could have told her exactly why this was not going to happen, but since she wanted only for this conversation to end, she didn’t say so. Instead she widened her eyes and tried to use them to motion toward Becky in warning, apparently a much too subtle form of communication for the woman.
“Maybe not though,” the young woman chirped, now not only asking questions, but answering them. “They say her agent doesn’t even know her real identity.”
Faye took a firmer hold of Rebecca’s hand, intent now on changing the topic of conversation as well as their location. “Judy,” Faye said, “this is my granddaughter Rebecca. I was just explaining to her that these books are only for adults.” She shot the manager a final look of warning then turned her back on the display and began to move toward the religious fiction section, pulling Becky with her. Judy followed.
“Becky’s five and she loves Junie B. Jones.” Faye was the one chattering on now as she led her granddaughter by the hand and the manager with her voice.
“I’m getting two of them,” Rebecca chimed in, mercifully distracted. “One for me and one for Rainbow House.”
“Junie B. is very cool,” Judy said to Rebecca. “And so is your grandmother.”
They came to a halt at the information desk. “In fact,” she said, “if you all wait here, I’ll go get the copies of In His Image off the shelf so you can autograph them.”
She and Becky waited for the manager to return.
“How’s it doing?” Faye asked, when Judy returned with a stack of books balanced against her chest.
“Great. We have two book clubs reading it and a third has expressed interest. One of them wanted to know if you’d be willing to come speak to their group.” Judy stacked the books on the counter in front of Faye and pulled out a Sharpie and autograph stickers.
Faye felt a flush of satisfaction as she handled the books, carefully signing her name and a personalized message on the front title page of each book then handing it to Judy who put an autograph sticker on each cover.
Having booksellers excited about your work was critical.
In the end a book purchase often came down to a salesper son’s recommendation. Some store personnel loved books and were excited about having personal contact with the authors who wrote them, and would then go to great lengths to hand sell an author they knew and liked.
Others had no interest in knowing or meeting you. Faye had once had a bookseller disdainfully refer to her mass-market paperback as one of those “little books.”
From early on Mallory was sent on multicity tours where crowds of readers queued up to buy her books. Faye’s first few book signings had generated much less fanfare and had consisted of her alone at a folding card table in the back of a bookstore. Selling books in this situation required either attracting the buyers to the store or somehow convincing someone already browsing to buy a copy, which left an author feeling like a Girl Scout hawking cookies in front of a grocery store.
All too often the only thing an approaching customer wanted was directions to the restroom.
Fortunately Faye was no longer unknown and this bookstore was on her home turf. As she signed the books a small knot of customers wandered closer, turning the stock signing into an impromptu event. Faye smiled encouragingly at them. She might not do the numbers or generate the same level of excitement as Mallory, but she knew how important one-on-one contact could be.
“I loved In His Name,” one woman said. “I can’t wait to read this. Can you make that out to me? And I think I’ll take one for my sister, Claire, too.”
Faye finished signing and then stayed to chat with the women now vying for her attention. When she felt Becky growing restless, Faye offered her good-byes and led Becky up to the checkout line to pay for their purchases.
“Wow, you must be famous, too! Will you just keep getting famouser and famouser?”
Faye smiled at her granddaughter’s enthusiasm. “I’m nowhere near as famous as my friend Mallory,” she said, as she handed her credit card to the clerk. “But I’m famous enough for me.”
They stopped at the Dairy Queen as promised then walked toward home, Rebecca greedily licking her ice cream cone while Faye reflected on the pros and cons of both fame and notoriety. At Central Park, opposite the house and overlooking the lake, Becky played happily on the equipment while Faye watched from a shaded spot on a nearby bench, her mood still reflective.
A certain amount of name recognition was necessary to build a career. But too much exposure could be a dangerous thing. Especially if you were married to a prominent televangelist who had no idea his wife was the notorious Shannon LeSade.
Lacy was beginning to feel like a mailman. Despite the fact that Scarsdale had interoffice mail and many other mechanisms for communicating with and sending things to others in the building, Jane Jensen, who would probably be using the Pony Express if it still existed, appeared to believe that everything, really, every little thing, would be better delivered and/or communicated by her lowly assistant.
Actually, compared to the mindless errands that took her out of the building—to Jane’s dry cleaner, the corner news-stand, the nearest Starbucks, the not-so-nearby theater box office to pick up Jane’s tickets—the time she spent going floor to floor and department to department on Jane’s behalf had become the best parts of Lacy’s day.
She took her time as she made her deliveries and pickups and as a result got to know people throughout the publishing house that she might not have otherwise met. Happily, almost all of them were more pleasant and accommodating than Lacy’s own whacked-out boss.
Lacy especially liked editor Hannah Sutcliff, whose office was located as far as one could get from Jane Jensen’s office, without leaving the editorial floor. Although it was about half the size of Jane’s, it had a small reading nook anchored by a brightly patterned wool rug and a chenille-covered love seat. Framed posters for several of Hannah’s authors’ works filled one wall. Family photos dotted her desktop. A vase of fresh-cut flowers sat on a small end table next to the love seat.
“Hi, Lacy.” Despite her seniority, Hannah always made a point of being friendly and seemed to consider their punishment at Jane Jensen’s hands as a common bond. “You ready for more reading material?”
Unlike Jane, Hannah encouraged Lacy’s interest in the editorial process and had allowed Lacy to read several recently purchased manuscripts and then taken the time to explain her acquisition criteria. Today she handed Lacy a sealed packet for Jane and a copy of a partial she’d received. “I thought you might like to read this and tell me why I won’t be requesting the full manuscript. Sometimes knowing why someone doesn’t buy is more important than knowing why they do.”
“Thanks.” Wishing for about the thousandth time that she’d been assigned to Hannah rather than Jane, Lacy moved on, taking the elevator up to the art department where she found the art director, Simon Rothwell, dealing, rather badly, with his recent nicotine withdrawal.
“Hi, love,” he said, in his lilting British accent. “You don’t happen to have a smoke with you, do you? Not that I’d smoke it, of course. I’d just like to smell it. Or maybe I could hold it between my fingers and caress it for a while?”
Lacy took the manila envelope he handed her with a slightly shaky hand. She eyed him fondly, glad she’d come prepared. “There will be no caressing of cigarettes, Simon; it’s way too dangerous. But I did bring you something that might help.”
From her jacket pockets Lacy pulled out the miniature candy bars she’d stashed there. With a flourish, she piled them on his drafting table in an impressive mound.
Simon’s face lit up. “Bless you, love. Those should see me through the afternoon.” He unwrapped the first candy and popped it in his mouth, then smiled in mock ecstasy. “I’m going to weigh ninety kilos before this is done and my dentist will probably kill me. But you, my girl, are a wonderful human being.”
His grandiose expressions of gratitude followed her down the hall. In the publicity department she stopped to pick up a copy of an interview that had run in Library Journal and an itinerary for an upcoming book tour from Cindy Miller, who’d just been named an assistant to publicity head Naomi Fondren.
“Hi, Cindy, how’s it going?” Lacy and Cindy lunched together on occasion and shared in-house gossip whenever the opportunity arose. They chatted while Cindy got the things together for Jane.
“I’m good, just busy,” Cindy said. “Lots to do before the sales meeting.”
“Any news?” Lacy asked.
“I heard Carol Lloyd in marketing is hot for Cash Simpson.”
This was not exactly a news flash. Much time was frittered in the halls of Scarsdale discussing Cash, who was not only the head of the sales department, but the best-looking heterosexual male at Scarsdale, not to mention a former winner of the Gawker’s “Hottest Straight Guy of Book Publishing” title.
“I’m headed up to the sales floor next,” Lacy said. “I plan to keep a sharp eye out.”
“Good luck with that.” Cindy giggled. “And if you get anywhere near him, be sure you have a big stick with you so you can fight off all the other women.”
As she traversed the sales floor Lacy did in fact keep an eye out for Cash Simpson. Despite the company policy forbidding cross dating and/or mating there were lots of in-house romances currently under way.
Beginning to realize just how long she’d been away from her desk, Lacy headed for the elevator and pushed the down arrow, slightly disappointed that she hadn’t had a single Cash sighting. She’d stepped on and was already reaching for the floor button when a male voice called out, “Hold that elevator.”
Lacy looked up to see none other than the hunky Cash Simpson covering the carpeted floor in long unhurried strides. His layered blond hair moved with him and he had a stylish-looking five o’clock shadow, even though it was barely 11:00 A.M.
“Thanks.” His voice was a baritone saved from complete cockiness by a note of warmth.
“No problem.” Lacy held the Door Open button as he stepped onto the elevator and promptly filled it up. Having been
compared unfavorably to a string bean, Lacy’s height had always been an embarrassment, but next to the NFL-sized Cash, she felt practically petite.
“What floor?” Her voice came out in an embarrassing squeak of longing and attraction.
He gave her a closer look and she thanked God for making her wash and blow-dry her hair that morning. “Ground please.”
She pressed the appropriate button then turned her gaze on the numbers, waiting for what felt like an eternity for the doors to close. His cologne was masculine and compelling; his shoulders were as wide as a doorway and triangled down to a trim waist. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if washboard abs lay hidden beneath the cotton oxford shirt. For the first time since beginning at Scarsdale, she was in complete agreement with her boss: Cash Simpson was a great-looking guy with charisma oozing from every pore.
When nervous, Lacy felt a compulsion to babble. She fought this off valiantly for several floors, but didn’t hold out great hope for making it much longer without humiliating herself.
“Aren’t you going to a floor?” His question, with its underlying hint of amusement, got her attention.
“What?”
“I think you need to choose a floor or you’re going to end up on the ground floor with me.”
As if this would be a bad thing.
“Oh!” Lacy exclaimed in embarrassment. “Right!” She reached forward and pressed the four for editorial, only realizing after she’d done so that they’d already passed the fourth floor.
He was studying her openly now and with a surprising level of interest. Despite her height, Lacy tended to think of herself as easily overlooked. (Who really looked at a string bean?) But his appreciative gaze made her feel giddily attractive.
“You look familiar, but I don’t think we’ve met,” he said as another floor sped by. “I’m Cash Simpson. What department are you in?”
“Editorial.” She shoved her hand out toward him like some overly zealous business type. “I’m Lacy Samuels. I’m Jane Jensen’s assistant,” she said, wishing she had a title that would make her sound more experienced or important. Her hand in his conducted way more electricity than she was used to, and she hurriedly removed it.