Page 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Mighty Pages conference room is silent save for the tick-tick-tick of the antique clock that sits in the corner.

The clock is GiGi’s, the one she had in her library, which chimed on the hour and whose pendulum always somehow seemed to speak what went unsaid.

I used to wonder why it was here. Why would my parents go to so much effort to move this single heirloom so far from a place they no longer wanted to be?

And now I know.

Because my parents have always honored family more than anything.

But their story was silenced for a long, long time.

The clock suddenly strikes ten, and I jump.

My mother paces around the grand, wooden conference table like a beautiful caged leopard. She checks her reflection in the window, smoothing her hair. She is dressed as if she’s going to appear on Today. Piper always dresses for a fight.

Marcus Flare appears in the wall of glass, and my mother turns to look at each of us as if we’re about to skydive and have entrusted the safety of our parachutes to one another.

“Who’s ready for a life-changing Friday?” Marcus announces as he enters the conference room. “How are you, Phil? Pipes?”

My parents wince. They despise nicknames. You might as well serve them a bologna sandwich, Cheetos and a Mountain Dew for lunch.

Marcus extends his hand to greet each of us. He is drinking a venti Starbucks and is so amped up it appears as if it’s his third coffee of the morning. He winks at me.

He’s accompanied by a man I recognize as his attorney, a handsome, younger man in a suit that is much too tight.

“Greg Matthews,” he says by way of introduction, extending his hand to all.

“It’s nice to see you, Greg,” my father says. “I didn’t realize you were attending the meeting today. It’s just to discuss initial steps for the first Book with Flare.”

“The more the merrier, Phil,” Marcus says. “You never know what might come up. Shall we get started?”

We all take a seat, and Marcus beams looking around the table. He takes a moment to look us each in the eye.

“Everyone’s here,” he says, sounding a bit too much like Hannibal Lecter. “The whole family for Sunday dinner.”

He wants to eat us alive.

“So,” Marcus rubs his hands together. “I know you’ve had a chance to read the opening of our first book together. It’s quite a stunning debut, isn’t it?”

“Stunning,” my mother agrees without a hint of sarcasm.

“As you know, Emma and I are working with the author to perfect the manuscript before you see it. However, I know you trust our judgment implicitly, and I’m hesitant to wait any longer as time is ticking. My writing and travel schedule is insane. We still plan to publish in a year, correct?”

“That is the plan,” my father says.

“Fabulous!” Marcus says. “I think we should make an offer to the author and then set our marketing budget for the book. I’m thinking a million-dollar advance.”

“For a debut?” my mother questions.

“We need to show we’re serious,” Marcus says. “Not only to the author but also the publishing industry.”

“We can show that for a lot less money,” my mother argues. “Does the manuscript have other offers of which we’re not aware?”

Marcus leans across the table as if he’s going to lunge at her. “It doesn’t appear as if you’ve ever had an issue with spending a bit too much money to get what you want, Pipes. Why start now?”

My mother removes an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve, a sign she is ready to gut him.

“Who’s the agent?” my mother presses. “It’s so odd that we haven’t spoken with them or had any interaction.”

“It’s my imprint,” Marcus says.

“It’s our house,” my mother says, “and our money.”

“VV, if you can believe it,” Marcus says with a forced smile. “You can speak with her at any time, right, Emma?”

He turns and narrows his gaze on me.

“Of course,” I say. “I know it might be a bit awkward considering your history with her, Mom, and I know she’s a shark, but I also know she’s beyond thrilled to have her client be our first author.”

“We need to make a statement to the world saying we’ve arrived, and we plan to play with the big dogs,” Marcus says, pressing on. “VV is a big dog, and you know she won’t let this one go for cheap, especially to you.” He laughs. “And I’m a big dog. I promise I will deliver the kibble.”

My mother conjures a seemingly real and appreciative laugh.

“Speaking of big, I would love to make a big splash ASAP as we have so much buzz going right now,” Marcus continues. “I’d like to leak the first chapter to the trades and influencers and was hoping the art department could jump on this and get us a cover.”

“Again, as you know, that’s hard to do when none of us have read the full manuscript,” my mother says.

“But not impossible, correct, knowing the gist of the novel?”

“No, not impossible,” my mother says.

“Wonderful!” Marcus says. “I have been running some numbers and—based on the marketing budgets for my books—I think we should allocate a few hundred thousand dollars for the first book. It will make us or break us, so we need to ante up.”

I try not to look at Jess, but I can’t help it. Marcus catches me.

“Did you have a thought, Emma?” he asks. “Please, share with the class.”

“I think we should go all in,” I say with a nod.

“So we’re looking at being in the red over a million dollars before we even print a book?” my father asks. “That could kill us. You know that.”

Marcus squares his shoulders and stares at my father.

“I’m Marcus Flare,” he finally says, “and you hired me to save you. I’m good for it. You know that.” He smiles and continues. “And that’s a drop in the bucket to me. My publisher spends significantly more on me. If you don’t believe you’ll make your money back then may I ask why we even signed up to work together? I’m sensing hesitation here. I don’t like hesitation.”

My father lifts his hands as if he’s being robbed.

“No hesitation,” he says. “Only an open conversation.”

“I understand,” Marcus says. “You’re such a good father.” He looks around the table. “You’re such a good family.” He looks at Greg. “I did bring my attorney here today because—as part of our contract—you agreed to a certain fiduciary responsibility in our first venture together based on my investment in The Mighty Pages.” Marcus turns to his attorney. “Greg?”

“Yes, as a sign of good faith, to draw the best talent and to ensure we do everything possible to make this launch a success, you agreed to invest up to a million and a half dollars in your first book together,” he says. “This, I’m sure you remember, is like collateral. Once the first book is officially published, it would then trigger the first of Marcus’s investments in The Mighty Pages.”

“Twenty million dollars,” Marcus adds with a smile.

Greg opens his folder. “I have the contract you signed if you’d like to review again?”

Marcus turns to my parents, beaming. “I think our open conversation has closed, don’t you?”

“The contract clearly states ‘up to a million and a half dollars,’” my father says. “Our good faith conversations always centered on the fact that we didn’t want to spend that much if we didn’t have to do so. That’s simply good business.”

Marcus laughs.

“You don’t know a damn thing about running a good business.”

“Are you trying to break us before we’ve even made a penny, Marcus?” my mother asks with a big wink, making it all sound like a joke.

“I think you’re already there,” Marcus says, his voice cold. “Now, Jess, can you start helping us with the reveal to influencers?”

“Of course,” Jess says. “This is going to be huge.” She smiles. “But I do have one question. When are we going to be able to meet the author in person, or virtually? The author has such a wonderful backstory from all we’ve been told, but we don’t know if the author is a man or woman, whether they have a social media platform, whether they are a good public speaker…” Jess looks at Marcus. “We don’t even know if they use a pen name.”

Marcus blinks, once, twice, then smiles and turns to me.

“Emma?” he asks, taking a casual sip of his coffee. “Would you care to illuminate us?”

“I’d love to,” I say. “In fact, I’ve prepared a PowerPoint.”

“No wonder I like you, Emma,” Marcus says. “You are not only always prepared but you also manage to surprise me at every turn.”

He sits back in his chair and folds his arms. I open the laptop before me, and click on a slideshow entitled BOOKS WITH FLARE.

“That has such a nice ring to it,” Marcus says.

I click another slide.

A black-and-white prison mug shot appears.

“Who is that?”

“Don’t you know your own father?” I ask.

“What is going on?” Marcus asks. “Greg?”

The attorney shifts uncomfortably. “I have no idea.”

Another slide.

A newspaper article and photo of little Avery winning the poetry contest.

Another slide.

Emails from GiGi’s blackmailer, her offer to help him, the one telling my father to keep it all a secret. This is followed by snapshots of Marcus’s spending in the press: homes around the world, his own private plane, jewelry for his wife and lavish parties, as well as financial articles detailing his failed business ventures, including a hotel in the Hamptons, two movies that failed spectacularly that he produced and a line of women’s clothing entitled Fashion with Flare.

A FaceTime video of his mother, Jeannette Marcuzzi, pops up next.

“We made so many mistakes, Avery. Let it go. Move on. Hate has consumed our entire lives. Please. I beg of you. You don’t have to be your father. I miss you. I’d love to see you again one day.”

Marcus slams his fist on the conference table.

“Where did you get all of this?”

“We know everything, Avery,” I say. “My sister and I figured out your and GiGi’s big secret, the one she was too scared to reveal, and the one secret you’ve been holding over our heads.”

“It’s over, Marcus,” my mother says.

She doesn’t sound angry or vengeful, she simply sounds like a mother disappointed in her child.

“You actually needed this deal more than we did, Marcus,” Jess says. “You thought you could get retribution on our family by breaking us, but you’re the one who is more extended than an airport runway.”

“This is nothing ,” he yells. “I’ve survived far worse. And who’s going to believe you? You signed a contract. I’ll say you’re wanting to end it because you don’t have the funds to go forward, and I’ll still take over.”

“Then what about this?” I ask.

The video of us at Le Pompeux appears.

“Say goodbye to your reputation as the world’s most romantic author, say goodbye to women across the world buying your books, say goodbye to everything,” Jess says.

“You little snake,” Marcus says, glaring at me.

“There is a price to pay for everything that matters in this world, it just all depends how much you want it,” I say, using his words to me at Le Pompeux. “To truly have someone’s trust you must own them in some way. They must fear you. They must stay awake at night thinking of how I will hurt them if they do not do as I ask. Family, love, a home, a little money, safety, a feeling of warmth. When those things are threatened, simple creatures will follow basic rules.”

“What do you want?” he asks.

“You will rip up the contract,” my father says, “null and void starting today, and, Greg, you will write a new one that continues Marcus’s financial and public support of our new venture without any say or profit in our decisions.”

I click the last slide.

A logo of The Mighty Pages’ new imprint appears:

Pauline Page Books

Where Fiction Feels Like Family

Finally, my grandma’s real name will be said forever.

“You will fail without me,” he seethes. “You don’t even have a book to publish.”

“Yes, we do,” I say. “Mine.”

Marcus’s eyes bulge.

“VV is representing me, and my manuscript is going to auction,” I inform him. “Three of the biggest publishers want it…” I pause for effect. “Including yours. But I’m giving it to my parents for free.”

“We will profit off your legacy just as you did off of ours,” Jess says.

“Every family is flawed and filled with secrets,” my mother says. “The thing that leads us out of the darkness are elders who see the light, those who do not want our children and grandchildren to make the same mistakes that we did. I’m sorry your father damaged you and your family, but know this—should you ever come for my family again, I will burn Marcus Flare alive without an ounce of remorse and without smudging my lipstick.”

“By the end of today,” my father says, “I want the new contract in my hands, and, Marcus, you will help us make a public statement to the press about our new imprint that honors a woman who was harmed by a man her entire life and, thus, could never receive the public and critical attention she so richly deserved. Ironically, you will say, it is her own granddaughter who has followed in her legacy by writing the book of the year, and you couldn’t stand in the way of letting a family honor that legacy. In fact, it was all your idea.”

“Greg,” Marcus says, standing and going into the hallway.

After a few minutes, Greg returns to the conference room, Marcus following, head down like a scolded puppy.

“I’ll have the contract by end of the day,” Greg says, “and let me know when you would like to schedule a press conference with Marcus.”

He gathers his things and leaves.

“Marcus, Emma told us you were a fan of the writer O. Henry,” my father says out of the blue. “He of the surprise ending?”

Marcus looks at my father but doesn’t reply.

“O. Henry was actually a pen name for William Sidney Porter who chose a pseudonym. He allegedly embezzled money from the bank where he was working to keep his struggling magazine afloat, and when that was discovered, he fled to Honduras leaving his wife and young daughter behind. He returned only when he learned his wife was dying, refused to speak at his trial or acknowledge any guilt and was sentenced to prison.”

My father waits until Marcus looks him in the eye.

“That was the secret he spent his entire life trying to hide, even from his own daughter,” he continues. “I’ve lived with a secret much of my life, and I am exhausted. You must be, too. The sad thing is the world will never know the real truth. They will never receive a climactic reveal like in one of his stories. Too many women writers, like my mother, were forced to choose a pseudonym to protect themselves and have their work taken seriously. Men like you and O. Henry hid behind one out of shame.”

Greg ushers Marcus out of the conference room.

As he passes by, I can’t help myself.

I give him the finger just like all those childish boys in college.