Page 13

Chapter Thirteen

I am on the deck gobbling up the Quaeris novel I started yesterday.

“Just one more chapter,” I keep telling myself.

I still have not heard from my parents or sister since I hightailed it out of the Hamptons three days ago. I have not responded to any offer.

I feel like this is…

I stare into the lake, which is shockingly flat today, not a wave, a blue carpet stretched to infinity.

…the calm before the storm.

I return to reading and when I finally look up from my chair on the deck, late morning has turned to early afternoon, and the beach is packed.

A good book always defies time.

The lake remains calm, and—from my vantage point—the summer sun has made it look as if I’m peering through a glass-bottom boat.

I can see striations below the surface, children’s feet churning sand. The wind whispers through an aspen growing from a nearby sand dune. It is the voice of my past. Not GiGi this time, but the voice of my mother.

They muddy the water to make it seem deep.

My cell trills.

It’s my mother.

How is it she can always read my mind?

It rings again.

This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.

It rings again.

I don’t want to talk to her. I’m worried my big mouth will make me say the wrong thing, but time is wasting, and if I wait too much longer, Marcus might have done something to hurt my family irreparably. They might have made a rash financial move—like bought that Hamptons home.

I inhale sharply.

“Hi, Mom.”

“You’re alive.”

Another breath.

“One would think a daughter would call her mother to let her know she’s made it home.”

Vintage Piper.

Don’t say it.

“One would think a mother would call her daughter to make sure she’s made it home.”

Vintage Emma.

I can hear my mother cover her phone with her hand. At first, I think she is—quite literally—muting me, but I can hear her speak to someone in her office in a clipped tone. The staffer must be new because she keeps addressing my mom as “Mrs. Page,” which is the equivalent of calling my mother “Grandma,” dousing her in a knockoff designer perfume and dressing her in an off-the-rack outfit from TJ Maxx.

“Piper,” my mother keeps correcting. “Call me Piper please.”

“Emma?”

“I’m still here.”

“Did you see the article in the Times ?” she asks.

My mother has already moved on from the fact we have not spoken to one another since I stormed away. Her conflict resolution is to steel herself with another round of lipstick.

I did see the article. VV sent it to me when she asked about the status of my book.

Remember , she texted. There’s never a right time. Only a moment to hold your breath and jump.

“Yes, I saw it.”

“Isn’t it amazing? So much buzz. Our phones have been blowing up. Everyone wants to work with Marcus. Everyone wants to work with us. With book sales slowing, I think we have momentum and a new path into accounts.”

“That’s great, Mom.” My tone is as calm as the lake.

“You know, Marcus actually asked about you.”

It’s go time.

“I was just about to apologize,” I say.

“Marcus doesn’t want an apology,” she says.

“What?”

“He wants to work with you.”

It worked! My silence worked! The narcissist couldn’t take it.

“What?” I blurt again, acting surprised.

“I was as surprised as you are considering what transpired.”

“But…why?”

“He said he admires your book smarts and tenacity. He said you are a very strong woman. He forgives your breach of etiquette and said it was nice to see such passion in a young person today. He’d like to help you mature.”

I’m sure he would.

My mother takes a breath. “It’s also because he’s a kind man. I hope you will eventually see that one day.”

He’s a liar, Mom! I scream inside. He wants to hurt you.

I suddenly want to throw my cell into the lake and start a tidal wave that will reach New York, but I realize that’s sort of impossible considering it’s a Great Lake and my phone only weighs a few ounces.

My mother continues.

“Honey, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about the deal with Marcus, but we were under a confidentiality agreement.”

“But Jess knew?”

“She’s part of our company,” she says, keeping her voice even. “She has a relationship with Marcus. She needed to know. And it all worked out perfectly.”

For him.

My mother continues. “I know this is a very uncertain time in your life, a time of great transition. You just finished college. You’re unsure of your future. You miss GiGi.”

She pauses. I can hear someone say something to her. I can hear her whisper, “Shoo!” She continues, her voice soft as a kitten’s purr.

“But a bright future awaits you in publishing, be it with us or someone else.”

Oh, she’s good.

How do I respond?

Like the character who just learned a valuable life lesson.

“Thank you for saying that. And you’re right, everything after college just seems like I’m walking a tightrope with my future, and I just don’t want to take the wrong step.”

“You won’t,” she says, “because you are the most amazing woman I know.”

The tone of her voice touches me. What is going on with my mother?

“Um, thanks, Mom.”

“May I make a suggestion?” she asks. “As a temporary solution?”

“Of course.”

“We need readers to go through the onslaught of manuscripts we’re receiving for Books with Flare. Marcus asked specifically for you. Would you consider culling them? It’s sort of what you would do with She Who Has No Name, should you choose to be an agency assistant. It’s what you would work your way up to do with us should you join our team with the offer we extended. It would sort of allow you to test the waters before making a final decision. I think it may be the perfect temporary solution for you in so many ways.”

I sit up in my chair.

This is working out better than I imagined.

I’m catching more flies with honey than vinegar.

Or, am I being set up? What does he want? To keep an eye on me so I don’t ruin his plan? To drive an even deeper wedge between me and my family before he ruins us, so I literally have nothing when he’s done?

But shouldn’t I keep an eye on him?

Or is my mother playing me like Marcus is playing her?

I feel trapped between two very heavy bookends.

Think, Emma.

“I still don’t understand why he would want me to do that,” I explain. “We, um, don’t have the most amicable relationship. And he made me look like a fool in the press.”

My mother clears her throat as if to silently say, You did that yourself, sweetheart .

“As I said, he knows you’re smart,” she says instead. “He knows you know books. He said he needs a young, savvy reader and confidante who has her finger on the pulse of what’s going to be hot. You understand both commercial and literary fiction, Emma. You know classics and our cultural zeitgeist. You are the biggest and best reader I’ve ever known. He trusts you, Emma. So do we.”

He doesn’t trust me. He despises me. And our entire family.

“We are a family, but this is also a business. We have a lot riding on this deal.” I hear her exhale. “Including our entire future.”

You have no idea.

“So no pressure,” I joke.

She releases a hollow laugh.

“How bad is it, Mom?” I ask, suddenly serious. “Please. I need to know. I think I deserve to know.”

She sighs.

“You are my daughter, and our children should not carry the burdens of their parents. And yet no matter how hard parents try to keep their babies safe, we still place our boulders of burden upon your hearts.”

My mother’s unfiltered—albeit erudite—semi-honesty stuns me.

“I will say this—we are facing the same pressures all of the major publishers are facing,” she admits. “But we do not have the cushion they do, so we’ve had to release a little air from our financial tires. But we will rebound. We always do. We are a resilient family.”

Gut punch. Mom wins.

“You’d just be reading manuscripts and offering your thoughts. Oh, and Marcus said he will be paying you nicely for it out of his own pocket.”

Hush money.

“It’s essentially what you’re doing right now anyway, right? Reading for pleasure?” she presses. “And no matter what decision you make about your future, this will look great on your résumé. I mean, you’re helping decide which books will be part of the debut list from the hottest new imprint in publishing. It’s a win-win.”

“Would I have to deal directly with Marcus?”

My mother laughs, hard this time.

“God, I hope not.”

I laugh, too.

“It feels good to laugh again with you,” she says. “I missed you while you were at college. We used to have such great debates. Jess was my let’s-go-shopping girl, and you were my let’s-go-there girl.”

My mother missed me?

“I envy that you had the quintessential college experience,” she says. “Not the one I would have chosen, of course, but you made great friends, had a great time and received a great education.”

“Has someone kidnapped my mother?” I ask.

She laughs again.

“Let me know what you think,” she says. “We will need a decision about Marcus by the end of the week. And we’ll need a decision about your future with us…”

If you have a future.

“…by month’s end.”

She hesitates.

“You don’t want to upset Marcus?” I ask sweetly.

“I don’t,” she says. “We can’t.”

“And you think I can help?” I continue.

“I do.”

“You know I’d do anything for this family.”

And I have no choice. I must play a game of cat and mouse with Marcus, who fell for my silent catnip. Saying yes is the perfect way I can stay in the know and help protect my family until I can figure out what Flare has planned for our family in his burn book.

And yet I can’t just give Marcus a yes that easily. I want him to know I’m good at playing games, too. A little more silence will completely unnerve him and convince my parents I haven’t altered my entire being.

“Can I think about it?” I ask instead. “Just for a day or two.”

My mother sighs. It’s not the answer she wanted, but it’s not completely unexpected either.

“Until the end of the week,” she says. “That’s it, okay?”

“Okay.”

My mother clears her throat.

“I also want you to know how sorry we are that we sprung the Hamptons house on you, but we didn’t want you to leave without knowing what we envision for our future,” she says.

“I appreciate that. I’m sorry about how I reacted.”

“I understand, Emma. Eyebrow Cottage is a wonderful part of our family’s history, but I do think it’s time we consider creating new memories together,” she says. “There is a lot of pain associated with the cottage for you, for all of us, and I’d love us to start new lives in a new place where we’re not surrounded by death at every corner. You need a new start, Jess needs a new start, we all need a new start, don’t you think?”

My heart pangs.

I look around the deck.

GiGi found Grampa here. I found her.

Am I chained to this place by love or guilt?

Does my mother actually have a point? Or is she writing a story she knows I need to hear?

I think of Jess, Capote, her Swans, his Swans, Marcus.

It’s always hard to trust a writer.

My eyes scan the beach, lake, lighthouse, horizon.

“You know there’s a big ol’ ocean and beach here, too,” she says, reading my mind again. “And your family, most importantly. We love you.” She pauses. “I love you.”

Emotion from my mother. My heart melts just a little bit more.

“I love you, too, Mom,” I say. “I just think I need a touch more time regarding that decision, too. This still feels like home to me. It’s the only stable place I’ve ever really known.”

My mother sighs again. This is also not the answer she wanted either, but it’s not the one she perhaps expected to receive either.

“ We should be home to you, Emma, no matter where that is.”

“I know, but I grew up here,” I say. “Going to boarding school, I never really felt like I had a landing spot. This was always it for me.” I try to soften my reaction with a joke. “ Jonathan Livingston Seagull ’s landing spot.”

She doesn’t laugh.

“Are you angry with me for boarding school?” she asks. “For sending you away?”

Her tone has changed.

“No,” I say. “But GiGi…”

“I allowed GiGi to be the hero in your life, Emma! It wasn’t easy for me to be the bad guy all the time.”

My heart jumps.

Where did this come from all of a sudden?

I can hear my mother stand and shut her office door.

“Someone had to make hard decisions, Emma. GiGi wanted you with her all the time. Yes, you can get a wonderful education at a public school, but that was not my experience. GiGi never had a formal education. You needed to see the world. You needed to be around peers and faculty that challenged you. What’s so wrong with a mother wanting to give her daughter every opportunity she never had?”

“Mom,” I say. “Please.”

“I speak the truth,” she says. “You speak your mind all the time whether we want to hear it or not.”

My face flames.

“GiGi made her own way, Mom. I admired her for that.”

“Your grandfather lifted her out of her circumstances.”

“No, she did that on her own. She changed her life. You’re the one who was lifted out of her circumstances, by Dad. GiGi made all the money that you are now spending.”

I wish I could take it all back as soon as I say it. What happened? We were doing so well.

“Emma,” my mother says, her tone now a warning despite being the one to start this new war. “It’s not like I just sat back and crocheted all day. I instilled a vision into your father. He needed me, or he would have ended up in that house and that town forever, being…”

“Happy?” I quip.

“Trapped!” my mother snaps. Her breath is ragged. She inhales deeply. I can almost hear her counting to ten. “This is not the way I intended this conversation to go, but since it has veered in this direction, I’ll be the one who needs to say what everyone is thinking. Don’t throw your life away. You need to think about your future, Emma. It’s not there in Michigan daydreaming about trying to bring a dead woman back to life. It’s not there fantasizing that old books are going to give you the happy ending you want. It’s not there pretending that the novel you were writing in college is a masterpiece.”

A dagger to the heart. I won’t let it hurt me.

“How did you know?”

“Your friends talk to me, Emma.”

“Why are you so cruel?”

“I’m honest, Emma. There’s a big difference. You need to learn that difference. Your future is here, putting your expensive degree to work and contributing to the dream I thought we all shared. You’ve always painted me as the villain simply because I wasn’t GiGi, and that’s not fair.”

“I think you sort of primed that canvas and painted that self-portrait all on your own, Mother.”

“GiGi gave you advice, and you listened. You never have with me.”

“Because she loved me!”

“She also needed you because she no longer had a captive audience of boarders in that house who treated her like she was their savior. She basked in that glow. And when it was gone, she tried to make us her minions.”

I am so angry I can no longer see the beach.

“Stop it, Mom. Stop it. Please. You cannot just sell your entire history and reinvent your life overnight. It doesn’t work that way.”

“But it does,” she insists. “You have been so blessed, and yet you are so naive. How do you think most people make it through this existence? They sell off their bad memories of childhood and family like the last ugly chair at an estate sale and move on so the past doesn’t consume them whole.” My mother takes a deep breath. “You will leave that cottage, Emma, and restart your life, or, God help me, I will force you out of it. I’ve played nice long enough.”

I end the call and scream into the sky.

Tears of frustration rise, but I will them to stop. I will not cry. Instead, I take the book and bash it against the deck a few times to release my frustration.

I lift my face to the sky.

“Help me, GiGi,” I whisper. “What should I do?”

Children scream happily in the lake water. They are kicking up so much sand that the clear lake looks like a muddy river.

“They muddy the water to make it seem deep.”

I didn’t understand this Friedrich Nietzsche quote my mother used to say to me as a girl, but I do now: deliberately trying to make a situation more confusing and complicated than it really is.

I stare at the lake until it clears. I sigh.

Uncomplicate it, Emma.

I pick up my book and escape once again into its pages where, for a moment, I can be safe. And that’s when I see it: the edge of a leaf peeking from the pages.

A tangible time stamp.

I open the book to reveal the leaf. It is dry, crumbling and yet still intact. I scan the pages the leaf has marked. My eyes swim when I come upon a passage that makes everything muddy again:

An acorn is like a secret: whether or not it ever grows to see the light depends on how deep you bury it.

Word for word, just like GiGi used to say, just like the sentence in the Marcus Flare novel.

Word for word, just like the author’s acknowledgments.

Did S. I. Quaeris plagiarize?

But this book was written before Marcus’s novel.

Did Marcus?

Or was this simply a favorite quote from a favorite author that GiGi loved?

I mean, I quote authors all the time.

I get this tingly, creepy, out-of-body feeling that Marcus has been playing me since my college days, before I even knew him.

My mind spins in confusion.

My cell trills.

And then it twirls even more.

Incoming call: Jess

My mother has already called in a hostage negotiator.