Everything's Relative

by Jenna McCarthy

  “You made copies of my sketches, and you did what with them exactly?” Lexi asked, glaring back and forth between her sisters.

  “I brought them to The Perk. It’s just a coffee shop, but they have a rotating art installment and a lot of really big artists have been discovered there.” Brooke hung her head.

  “I had nothing to do with this,” Jules said, raising both hands as if someone were pointing a gun at her. Lexi thought she looked awfully guilty if that was indeed true.

  “I just thought—” Brooke tried, but Lexi cut her off.

  “What did you think?” Lexi shouted. “That some talent scout would see my pathetic excuse for art in the local fucking coffee shop and hire me to illustrate some stupid book? Or make me into the next Picasso? Is that what you thought?” She could feel her blood boiling with rage.

  “Well, actually, yes—” Brooke stammered.

  “How did that work out for you?” Lexi screamed. “Do you think the janitor lady liked my stuff? Because I didn’t get a chance to ask her.” Lexi wasn’t sure if she was more angry or humiliated, not that it mattered.

  “Alexis, Brooke was just trying to help,” Jules said, coming over to sit by Lexi. She pulled away from her sister.

  “I don’t want her help, and I don’t need her help,” Lexi said, jumping up. “I told you both that those sketches were private. How would you like it if I took your manuscript and started shopping it around to see if anybody thought it was any good? Huh? Would you like that, Jules?” She brushed past her sisters toward the office.

  “I’m sorry, I really am,” Brooke said, following her. She was crying softly, but Lexi had no urge to comfort her. She did this to herself. Lexi slammed the office door in her face.

  First Rob, and now this. How much humiliation was she supposed to take?

  “Alexis, please,” Brooke was whimpering through the door. “Please come out and talk to me. I should have asked you first, okay? But I knew you’d say no and the thing is, you’re a really good artist. No, that’s not even true; you’re an amazing artist. I’m sorry that I didn’t get it to the right person, but now you have a portfolio. It’s all together, and you could send it out to agents or magazine editors or . . . someone. I’ll help you figure out who to send it to if you want. Alexis? Please come out.”

  Lexi put the portfolio down on Jules’s desk, then laid her head on it. Goddamn her, Lexi thought. Goddamn her for trying to make me think I have some sort of talent, and for putting all of that pressure on me to do something with it. Now Lexi hadn’t just let herself down, she’d let Brooke down, too. She wanted nothing more than to fall into Rob’s arms and weep, and to have him tell her everything would be okay. But of course that was never going to happen, because she’d blown that, too.

  Jules

  “That was really sweet of you to do, and I’m guessing that portfolio cost a fortune,” Jules said, rubbing Brooke’s back. “But you probably should have asked her first.”

  Brooke heaved a giant, snotty sigh. “I know,” she said. “Obviously I hoped it would turn out a little differently.” She managed a weak smile.

  “She’ll come around,” Jules said, even though she wasn’t convinced of this herself. She tried switching gears. “So what’s your work thing tonight?”

  “Oh, just some of the teachers are going out,” Brooke said. “Group birthday celebration for a few of them.”

  Jules had her meeting with George Kaplan tonight and Shawn had class, so Lexi would be alone. Jules wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

  “Sounds fun,” Jules said distractedly. “You look great, by the way.”

  Brooke snorted. “Really? I do? I look great with big puffy red eyes and snot hanging out of my nose?”

  “Well, you looked great.” Jules laughed. “And you’ll clean up okay. I’m positive.” She gave Brooke a hug. She was glad she wouldn’t have to explain where she was going tonight, since she almost never went out, at least not without Shawn.

  When Brooke was gone, Jules thought about what she had tried to do for Lexi. It really was a sweet, generous gesture—and it wasn’t like it had anything to do with their inheritance, either. It was completely selfless, a gift, really. Why couldn’t Lexi see it that way, and thank Brooke for the effort? Jules shook her head. For a while there, it had looked like she and her sisters were coming together, forming genuine bonds and becoming a family again. And Lexi, damaged little Lexi, had made the greatest strides of all. She’d become what Jules would almost call warm and might dare to consider happy. The worst part was, Jules had no idea what had happened—and despite her repeated reconnaissance attempts, Lexi was showing no signs of clueing her in.

  Jules tried to shake off the feelings of despair. She was meeting with an agent tonight—a hotshot L.A. agent at that. She’d Googled this Kaplan guy, whom the Los Angeles Times called “a tenacious and talented miner of literary talent,” and had nearly fainted when she saw who some of his other clients were: famous actors and acclaimed doctors and global thought leaders and political luminaries. There were several names she didn’t recognize on his author list, and she’d looked each of them up in turn, hoping at least a handful were nobodies like her. But they weren’t. The lowliest name on the list was a syndicated advice columnist. Jules wanted so badly to stay hopeful and optimistic, but her spirits were beginning to sink.

  An author is someone who writes, she told herself as she pulled out her vintage Sunset Holiday Cookbook, conjuring Shawn’s words. She was an author. An unpublished author with a manuscript in serious need of help, but an author nonetheless. At least, until George Kaplan told her otherwise.

  And what if he did? She couldn’t go there. She just couldn’t, not yet. Her sisters’ fates—and futures—depended entirely on her. In this whole crazy inheritance scheme, she was the holdout. How had she let that happen?

  Between anticipating her meeting and worrying about Lexi, this day was going to be endless. Jules pulled out a fresh sheet of notebook paper to start her Thanksgiving shopping list, mostly to distract herself. She flipped through the tattered cookbook—the person who wrote this book probably considers herself an author, she mused—dog-earring the familiar recipes. There was the baked sweet potato casserole she’d helped her mom make as a child; the apple and sausage stuffing she’d suffered through alone when Juliana had been unwilling to participate in the meal prep; the pull-apart rolls she’d proudly produced for her first Thanksgiving as Shawn’s wife. Jules thought about all of those meals now, and the time that had passed and where she was today. She had a great husband, a roof over her head and more than enough money to put on an elaborate holiday spread. She had her health, and after so much heartache she had her sisters back in her life, for better or for worse. No matter what happens at this meeting tonight, I have a lot to be thankful for, she reminded herself. She prayed she would never forget that.

  Brooke

  Brooke had tried to put Lexi’s art portfolio fiasco out of her mind all day, but it refused to budge. She hated having anyone be mad at her, for one thing, and for another, why couldn’t Lexi see that she’d just been trying to help? Brooke was frustrated beyond words, and now she was on her way to meet with George Kaplan. She was going to have to tell him the truth, and she was positive it wasn’t going to go well. There was really no way that it could.

  When she arrived at Kushiyu, George was already there waiting for her, just as last time.

  “Jules,” he said warmly, his face brightening when he saw her. “Again, you continue to look lovelier each time we meet. How is that even possible?” He kissed her on each cheek, European-style, and Brooke breathed in the heady scent of his aftershave. It smelled of moss and oak and fresh-cut grass, and she wondered if that was what heaven smelled like. She hoped it did, even though they probably didn’t let in liars like her.

  “It’s nice to see you, George,” she said sheepishly, high on
fumes and forgetting for a split second why she was there.

  “And nice to be seen,” George said. “I hope you like sushi. I don’t think I even asked you.”

  “I love sushi!” Brooke gushed, even though she’d never technically had it. At least, not the raw-fish kind. But she did like teriyaki sauce, so she felt like this was probably true.

  “Fantastic,” George said, steering her toward the hostess station.

  “Do you have a reservation?” a pretty young girl dressed in a kimono asked.

  “We do,” George told her. “The name’s Kaplan.”

  “For three?” she asked, putting a fat red grease-pencil check on her laminated sheet before George even had a chance to answer her.

  George nodded and Brooke raised her eyebrows at him. “A colleague may be joining us,” he explained. “Another author, actually.” She smiled in response, a wave of nerves crashing over her. She had no idea what that meant. They followed the hostess to a table that had been elegantly laid out with three place settings. She sat and pulled her napkin into her lap timidly.

  “So, Jules,” George said when they’d been seated. “First of all, let me say how much my associates and I have enjoyed discussing your manuscript.” His eyes had that unnervingly mischievous twinkle again.

  Brooke opened her mouth to say something, but George continued.

  “It’s not every day we see such promising writing from a mysterious and unknown author.”

  “Well, thank you, George, that’s sweet of you to say—”

  George cut her off.

  “And the fact that it’s a true story—and you’ve assured me that yours is indeed a true story?” He paused here, looking at Brooke expectantly. She nodded dumbly. Well, it was indeed a true story.

  “Well, then that makes it even more extraordinary,” George continued.

  “George, I wanted—”

  A sommelier appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “Your Kenbishi, Mr. Kaplan,” he said, holding out a bottle with Japanese lettering on it. George nodded at him and the sommelier bowed back and opened the bottle swiftly. George swirled the small pour he’d been given thoughtfully, tasted it and nodded again. “Lovely, Masato.” Masato filled both of their glasses and backed away from the table with another bow.

  “I’m sorry, Jules,” George said. “You were about to say something. But first, a toast: to you and your incredible story.” He lifted his sake glass toward her, and Brooke had no choice but to clink her glass against his. Then she lifted her glass to her lips and took a small sip, a fusion of sweet, slightly nutty flavors dancing on her tongue. She closed her eyes to savor the incredible tastes.

  “Brooke?”

  Brooke’s eyes flew open and she nearly choked. Her brain couldn’t process what was happening. Jules—her sister Jules, the woman she was at this very moment pretending to be—was standing beside her table. She looked wildly from Jules to George and back again, utterly unable to speak.

  Jules looked at the hostess, who nodded in George’s direction.

  “Mr. Kaplan,” she said, bowing deeply.

  “George Kaplan?” Jules asked, visibly confused.

  George nodded and extended his hand.

  “Then you must be . . .” George began; Brooke let out a tiny, barely audible yelp.

  “Jules Richardson,” Jules said, shaking his hand firmly. “But how . . . I mean, I didn’t know that you knew . . .” She looked pleadingly at Brooke, whose face had turned the color of an overripe Roma tomato.

  “George,” Brooke croaked. “This is Jules. She’s . . . She actually wrote my book. Well, obviously it isn’t my book—but it is my story, too. I’m her sister. Brooke. From the book. The book I didn’t write. There, I said it.” Brooke slumped down in her chair, trembling with a mixture of relief and mortification.

  “Where are my manners?” George asked, thumping himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. “Jules, please have a seat.” He stood and pulled the third chair back for Jules. She sank into it, her eyes saucer-wide. George sat back down, looking not the least bit flustered.

  “Brooke, would you mind telling me what’s going on?” Jules said. To an outsider, she sounded almost warm and friendly, but Brooke could see the clench of her jaw and the vein pulsing in her forehead.

  “I think I can explain, if that’s okay, Brooke?” George raised his eyebrows at Brooke, and she hesitated before nodding ever so slightly.

  “Your lovely and loving sister sent your manuscript to an associate of mine, and I was fortunate enough to intercept it,” George said. “I’ve surmised that she pretended to be you because she was shopping your material, as we say, without your knowledge or consent. What she didn’t take into account, however, was that I might actually read the thing and hastily discern, thanks to your detailed descriptions of your characters, that she was not the author, Jules Richardson, but her eager and well-meaning middle sister, Brooke Alexander.”

  Jules just stared at Brooke, her mouth agape. George looked from one sister to the other, and when he did, Brooke would have sworn she saw traces of a smile fighting their way to his lips.

  “Well? How’d I do?” He directed this question at Brooke.

  “You pretty much nailed it,” she admitted. She turned to Jules. “Wait, why are you even here?”

  “He invited me!” Jules said loudly, pointing at George. Several heads turned in their direction. “Oh, sorry for pointing. And shouting. I sent my manuscript to Mr. Wiley’s friend Derek Stanford, and he passed it along to George, who called me and said he wanted to meet with me. But obviously he only wanted to meet with me to humiliate me. Well, us. So thanks for your time, Mr. Kaplan. I’ll be going now.” She pushed herself back from the table and stood up so quickly that her chair fell over backward, clipping the one behind it on its way down. The deafening crash that followed got the attention of the half dozen or so tables who weren’t already watching the drama unfold.

  George stood and placed his hand gently but firmly on Jules’s arm. “Please, Jules, wait,” he said calmly. Her eyes were brimming with tears and Brooke had never felt more helpless. A server swept in and righted the chairs.

  “Is there more humiliation to come, Mr. Kaplan?” Jules asked. “Because I’d rather not—”

  George put both of his hands on Jules’s shoulders. “I invited you here this evening to ask you if you would allow me the pleasure of representing you as your literary agent,” he said, speaking slowly and over-enunciating each syllable.

  “You did?” Jules and Brooke asked at the exact same minute. George beamed and nodded.

  “I did,” he insisted. Jules sat back down tentatively.

  “But what . . . I mean why . . .” Brooke couldn’t even formulate a coherent question.

  “Well,” George began, pausing to take a healthy swig of sake and directing his reply at Brooke. “I made it clear that I was intrigued by your story and also attracted to you when I met you, she-who-called-herself-Jules. So when I read the manuscript and realized you weren’t who you said you were, I was planning to see how that played out, you know, how and when you were going to come clean. But then my colleague Derek started telling me about this fabulous manuscript he’d read, and it took me a while but I started to put two and two together. Oh, fine, it wasn’t nice to spring this on you two ladies the way I did tonight, but I’ll be honest. It’s going to make one hell of a scene for that book.” He sat back in his chair, the picture of smug satisfaction.

  “Are you serious?” Jules asked finally. “You actually want to represent me, and you think you can sell my manuscript to a publisher?”

  Brooke was too busy relishing the fact that George had declared, in front of Jules, that he was attracted to her to think about anything else he’d said.

  “Dead serious,” George said. “About all of it. But I have to know: Where are you in terms of your mot
her’s deadline?”

  The sisters exchanged nervous glances.

  “About eight weeks away,” Jules admitted.

  “That’s cutting it close,” George said. Jules looked forlorn. “Although, technically you’ve already made the requisite concerted effort. Still, since lawyers can be a prickly bunch, it can’t hurt that I’ve already mentioned it to two editor friends and they’re both interested. One asked for an exclusive read.”

  Jules’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?” she whispered.

  “I’ve already marked up the manuscript with notes on where I think you can expand,” George said, “and I’ll be working very closely with you to see that it gets wrapped up in time. But we’ve literally not a minute to waste.”

  Jules nodded eagerly.

  “And, Brooke,” he said, turning to face her. “Since your sister will be so busy writing, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find someone else to spend your free evenings with. I’d like to suggest myself.”

  Brooke blushed furiously. “I think that can be arranged,” she said demurely.

  “Excellent,” George said, lifting his glass. “I’ll have the agency agreement and my notes sent over tomorrow. In the meantime, cheers! Jules, welcome to the agency, and Brooke, it’s lovely to remeet you.”

  “Would you like to join us for Thanksgiving dinner?” Jules blurted out.

  Brooke’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “I’m sure George already has plans,” she said, desperate to save him—or herself, she wasn’t sure which.

  “Actually, that sounds wonderful,” George said with a wink in Brooke’s direction. “What can I bring?”

  Lexi

  Lexi checked her phone for the billionth time. No message from Rob. Not even a “Happy Thanksgiving.” Her heart sank even lower, something she hadn’t even thought could be possible. How in the bloody hell was she going to get through this day, surrounded by two disgustingly lovey-dovey couples? She was sure Jules was already pissed at her because she wasn’t helping her cook, but Lexi didn’t care. She’d just as soon eat a bowl of Lucky Charms alone in the office anyway, so Jules could kiss her ass.