Hanging Hannah (17 page)

“Take it,” Goddess said in a bored voice.

“Take it! But we haven't even negotiated.”

“You just said it's the best they can do.”

“I said he
said
it's the best they can do. They always say that, but they usually don't mean it. They're testing us. You're one of the biggest stars in the world. You're worth far more than that. But we're probably going to have to go to another publisher to get it. I'd like to get something on paper and auction this project. That's how you drive up the money.”

“I don't want the money ‘driven up,' ” Goddess said flatly. “I just told you to take it.”

“The one-point-five million?”

“Yeah, whatever. The money doesn't matter to me.”

Maybe not to you
!

“I want Corsair to have this book. They . . .
get
me. They understand where I'm coming from. Take—the—deal.
And don't blow it
!” Goddess hung up.

“Why the arrogant little . . .” Jane muttered, and fiercely punched Layton's number.

“We would consider four million,” she told him.

“Good-bye.”

“Wait! What's going on here, Jack? You know you'll make back far more than you're offering. Why are you lowballing me on this?”

“Because I can,” he said simply. “Goddess wants this deal, she wants it with us, and she could care less about money. She told all this to Holly. Let's face it, Jane, the girl's got more money than you and I will see in ten lifetimes. So you've got zero leverage and a client who wants to close fast. I'd say you'd better do so, or you're in serious danger of losing your client.”

Jane didn't know what to say. It didn't matter, though, because Layton rushed on.

“Besides, you
owe
us this book, Jane. After all, Corsair brought Goddess to you. She was practically a gift.”

“Excuse me, Jack,” Jane said, fuming, “but you've contracted a common disease known as publishers' amnesia. It wasn't Corsair that brought Goddess to me; it was Holly Griffin.”

“For Pete's sake,” Layton said, exasperated. “Holly worked here. It's the same thing.”

“I'm surprised you remember who she was. How long did it take you to move someone else into her office?”

“What, now you're insulting me? Of course I remember who she was. But life goes on. Now this is your last chance. One and a half mil, we work the rest out later. Are you taking it or not?”

“Yes,” Jane said numbly.

“Thank you, Jane,” Layton said sweetly, and rang off.

When Jane looked up, Daniel was hovering in her doorway with an armful of mail.

“I'm afraid I was eavesdropping,” he confessed.

“No prob,” she said, banging her pen on her knee in irritation. “He's insufferable.”

“Jane—don't you realize you just made your biggest deal ever? A million and a half advance! I don't see Bertha getting that.”

Jane looked at Daniel, brightening somewhat. “You're right. We should be celebrating, shouldn't we?”

“Absolutely.”

“It's just that the advance should have been several times that—you know that, and I know that, and Jack Layton knows that.”

Daniel shrugged. “Doesn't matter. Your client is happy, and you got the deal, a
great
deal. I insist on taking you to lunch to celebrate.”

“You're on. Thanks,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “You always know the right thing to say.”

He smiled back and dropped the mail onto her desk. On top was this week's edition of
Publishers Weekly
. As Daniel left her office, she picked it up and leafed through it. Something caught her eye and she spread open the magazine to look at it.

Jane could only shake her head. She threw down the magazine and dialed Goddess.

“You've got your deal,” she said with forced cheerfulness.

“Fine. I've been thinking about it, though, and I want a different editor.”

“A different editor? Why?”

“That Kiels guy is a total nerd bomb. I want that Layton guy.”

“But he's the editorial director. He doesn't do much actual editing.”

“He does now. Besides, he's way cuter than Ham bone. I want him.”

“I can ask,” Jane said, holding her head with her free hand, “but keep in mind that Hamilton Kiels is reputed to be quite a good editor—better than Holly.” Jane grimaced at what she'd just said. “Sorry—I shouldn't have said that. Holly was your friend. And I should be grateful to her for recommending me to you.”

“What did you just say?”

“I said I should be grateful to Holly for recommending me to you when you were looking for an agent.”

There was a long silence on the line. Finally, Goddess spoke. “When the contracts come,” she said distractedly, “send them to Yves. That's Yves Golden—”

“Yes, I know—your manager.”

“You catch on fast.”

It was three days later, Thursday, and it was time to leave the office for the day. Daniel poked his head into Jane's office and they bade each other good night.

From her desk, Jane could see Daniel leave the office by the front door. He stepped onto the sidewalk but, instead of heading toward his car in the municipal lot around the corner, he walked to the curb and simply stood, as if waiting. Jane frowned, curious.

It was a beautiful evening, the weakening sun casting a golden glow over the village green, its tall lush oaks, the ornate white Victorian bandstand. Daniel seemed to be admiring all this, turning his head from side to side, craning his neck a bit as if to see Center Street at the other side of the green.

Jane rose from her desk and went to the window. Just as she reached it, a black limousine pulled onto Center Street at the far end of the green and drove around it, stopping, to Jane's surprise, right in front of Daniel.

A chauffeur got out, came around to the rear passenger door, and opened it. An elderly African-American man, heavy and gray-haired, in a dark suit, slowly got out of the car. He and Daniel stood regarding each other for a moment; then Daniel stepped forward and offered the older man his hand. The older man stepped forward, took Daniel's hand, and then suddenly the two men were embracing. When they broke apart, they spoke for a few moments. Then Cecil Willoughby—for that, of course, was who it must be—ushered Daniel into the limousine. The chauffeur closed the door, got back behind the wheel, and the car pulled away from the curb.

Jane, stepping from the window, wiped a tear from her eye.

 

Saturday, the day of the wedding, had dawned sunny and mild, a glorious day. Jane, Nick, and Florence, arriving at Eleanor's, found tables set up on the back lawn, which sloped gently down to the millpond, on which three swans glided.

“Very beautiful,” Florence breathed.

Jane scanned the crowd, from which rose laughter and happy chatter. There was Ginny; Cecil Willoughby; a red-haired young man Jane presumed was a college friend of Daniel's whom Daniel had mentioned; Rhoda Kagan; Doris; Penny, Alan, and little Rebecca; Greenberg; several young women, who must have been friends of Laura's from Unimed, with their husbands; Nell and Ann, who owned the gift shop next to Jane's office, with
their
husbands; an uncomfortable-looking Louise and Ernie.

Jane went to the punch bowl. As she filled a glass for Nick, she glanced up and saw a yellow New York City taxi pull up in front of the restaurant. “What on earth . . .” she murmured, and her jaw dropped when she realized that the woman getting out, dressed in a tiny dashiki and a feathered African-style headdress, was Goddess.

The other guests had noticed, too, and there was a flutter of whispers as they all watched Goddess pay the driver and saunter down the lawn, smiling a broad smile. She walked up to Jane.

“Surprise. Bet you're wondering what the hell I'm doing here.” Before Jane could respond, Goddess went on, “Laura invited me, kind of a last-minute thing, and here I am.” She winked at Jane. “Thought I'd give all the little people a thrill.”

Insufferable as ever, Jane thought, and wondered if the African getup was in Daniel's honor.

The wedding ceremony, held under a white tent, was picture-perfect. Laura was magnificent in her Christian Lacroix, Daniel heartbreakingly handsome in a tuxedo. There were lots of tears. After the ceremony, Jane managed to get Daniel alone for a moment.

“Jane, you're crying.”

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “What can I say? I'm a crier! I want to give you your gift—a little something just for you, and something for both of you.” She handed him a gift-wrapped box containing the lapis desk set she'd bought him. Then she handed him an envelope containing a check.

“Thank you, Jane.”

“You're welcome. Something toward the down payment on that house you and Laura want.” She started to cry again. “You know I love you like a son.”

“Nick's big brother!” he joked, and they both laughed. Then Daniel grew serious. “I feel the same way, Jane. Thank you for all you've done.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “Speaking of sons, your father is absolutely
charming
. Good-looking man, too.”

“Thanks,” Daniel said, nodding thoughtfully. “Dad's always looked well. Even years ago, just after he'd started
Onyx
and was heading for a whopper of a heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery. Dad says his doctors are all surprised he's made it this long.”

“Let's hope he lives a lot longer,” Jane said, “especially now that you two have reconciled.”

“Amen,” he said.

Luncheon was served. Jane sat next to Greenberg, handsome in a navy suit. On his other side sat Nick, and then Florence, Daniel, Laura, Mr. Willoughby, and between him and Jane, Goddess. Jane, munching on her salad, noticed that Mr. Willoughby and Goddess were engaged in lighthearted conversation, Willoughby's manner almost flirtatious. Mr. Willoughby must have said something funny, because suddenly Goddess threw back her head and laughed. Then she turned to him. “In that case,” she said, sounding quite serious, “why don't you have me appear on the cover of your magazine?”

This captured everyone's attention. The table grew silent.

Mr. Willoughby smiled. “Thank you for the kind offer, but unfortunately—your lovely African costume notwithstanding—all the models on the cover of
Onyx
are of true African-American background.”

“But that's reverse racism!” Goddess protested, her smile fading.

Mr. Willoughby looked surprised. Before he could respond, Jane rushed in with a comment about how moving the ceremony had been. Goddess shot Jane an exasperated look, then reached down to the big jute macramé bag at her feet and reappeared with a flattish gift-wrapped box. She handed it to Laura.

“Thank you,” Laura said.

“Open it,” Goddess urged.

Laura looked surprised, then shrugged. “Okay,” she said graciously, and unwrapped the gift. “Ah,” she said, and held up an ornately framed photograph of Goddess.

“Thank you,” Daniel said, and shot Jane a look when Goddess wasn't looking.

“You're so welcome,” Goddess said, as if she'd given them all the riches in the world. She looked about her. “This whole middle-class marriage thing—I find it very interesting.”

Jane noticed that Laura was watching Goddess with a slight frown.

Goddess swept on. “It's so . . . innocent or something. You know, in one of my music videos—the one I did for ‘Always a Virgin,' I played a bride, except that my gown was pitch-black and I was barefoot.”

No one seemed to know quite what to say. Jane saw Nick whisper something to Greenberg, who shushed him.

Laura threw out her hands. “Well, I admit to being totally middle-class, as you put it. Totally traditional. I mean, look at me! I'm wearing something old . . .” She held out her hand to display a large gold ring. “I've had this for years. Something new: my beautiful gown—which Jane helped me pick out. Something borrowed: this bracelet Jane lent me. And something blue: my garter! Can't show you that!” She blushed slightly.

Goddess, looking totally bored, turned to Mr. Willoughby. “What'd you give ‘em for their wedding?”

Mr. Willoughby, taken aback by her bluntness, gave a little cough. “Why, I gave them their honeymoon,” he said. “Three weeks in Italy.”

“That's right,” Daniel said, beaming. “Laura and I are leaving right after Jane and I attend the romance convention.”

“Don't remind me,” Jane groaned, and they all laughed.

Just then Goddess grabbed a flute of champagne at Mr. Willoughby's place and, with a grimace of disgust, spilled it onto the ground. “Yuck, there was a caterpillar in it. That must be one drunk caterpillar!”

Again everyone laughed. Mr. Willoughby thanked her, making a joke about the worm in a tequila bottle, and everyone fell to talking amongst themselves.

Later, there was dancing. Jane danced with Greenberg, and a few feet away Daniel danced with Laura. The band was playing a song Jane loved, Burt Bacharach's “Walk on By,” and she lost herself in the good feeling of Greenberg's body pressed to hers as they swayed to the music.

Suddenly there was a commotion at Jane's table. Craning her neck, Jane saw Mr. Willoughby lying on the ground. “Oh my God!” she cried, and rushed over to him. His face was bright red, and he was clearly in great pain. “Call an ambulance!” Jane yelled to a waiter, who ran toward the restaurant.

Within a few moments the wail of an ambulance could be heard. It pulled to an abrupt stop on the restaurant's drive, and two paramedics jumped out.

“Over here!” Jane called to them, and a moment later they were attending to poor Mr. Willoughby, who had not moved from where he had fallen.

Daniel came up to Jane. “It's his heart. I'm going to ride with him in the ambulance. They're taking him to St. Clare's,” he said, referring to a hospital in nearby Denville.

“The poor man,” Jane said. “I'll have Florence take Nick home. Stanley can drive Laura and me to the hospital.”

“That would be great,” Daniel said. “Thanks, Jane.” And he hurried off.

Jane, wringing her hands, went in search of Florence.

 

Jane couldn't concentrate on the copy of
Newsweek
she had grabbed in the waiting room of St. Clare's. Nearby, Greenberg, Daniel, and Laura sat staring blankly. Daniel's father had indeed suffered a heart attack, and was in Intensive Care.

Minutes stretched to hours. When Jane thought she would lose her mind, a doctor emerged from the corridor and approached Daniel. They spoke quietly. Daniel hung his head. “I'm sorry,” Jane heard the doctor say.

Laura took Daniel in her arms. The others stood in shocked silence. Then, like zombies, they all filed out of the waiting room into the sunlight, which now seemed garish and harsh.

“Daniel,” Jane said, embracing him, “I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you, Jane.” He thought for a moment. “I'm only grateful Dad and I had patched things up, that he got to see Laura and me get married. Which, ironically, must have been too much excitement for his poor weak old heart.”

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“I'll go back to Chicago tonight to arrange the funeral. Needless to say, the honeymoon is postponed indefinitely.”

“Daniel,” she said gently, “there's something I've been meaning to ask you, and I hope you'll forgive my asking it now. Why didn't you tell me who your father was?”

He shrugged. “I guess I felt it was . . . irrelevant. Who he was had nothing to do with what I planned to do with my life. Besides, he and I didn't even have a relationship when I first met you and Kenneth.” He shook his head. “I never really stopped loving my father—though I didn't always approve of some of his business practices, and I didn't want any part of them.”

“Well, it's all yours now,” Jane remarked. “Unless you've got a mother hidden away somewhere.”

“No,” Daniel said with a sad smile, “she died when I was seventeen. Ovarian cancer. As for my inheritance, you're right—everything Dad had, including
Onyx
, is mine now.” But clearly this thought brought him neither joy nor comfort. He kissed Jane's cheek and walked slowly away.

Jane called after him, knowing she shouldn't but unable to stop herself. “Daniel,” she said hesitantly.

He turned.

“Do you still want to play agent with me?” She had to know.

He frowned at her. “How can you even ask me that? Nothing will change . . . except that now I guess I can buy Laura that big house she's always dreamed of.”

“Right—with a big nursery!”

He gave a melancholy nod. “The baby—that's one thing Dad didn't live to see.”

Later that afternoon, Jane called Daniel.

“Is there anything I can do for you while you and Laura are in Chicago?” she asked.

“Laura's not going,” he replied. “She was insisting on it, but I told her it wasn't necessary. She didn't even know my father.”

“Daniel, my love, she would be going for
you
, not your father.”

“I know. That's what she said, and I appreciate it, but I told her it would actually be easier for me if I went alone. I'll arrange for the funeral, meet with my father's attorneys to start settling his estate. That should turn into a tangled mess, but I can get things started. As for your doing anything, thanks, Jane, but I can't think of anything. Well, I
can
think of one thing,” he added. “The RAT convention. It's a week from today. It looks as if I won't be able to go with you after all.”