The Dirty Book Club(80)
I flew back home two weeks later, medicated and motivated, ready to make up for lost time. But your father saw it differently. He thought my diagnosis was French for “bat-shit crazy” and filed a restraining order against me.
I called the apartment day and night. I waited outside his office for hours. I even stormed the court during one of his racquetball games. And he arrested me for harassment.
I stopped by the house when your nanny was there and he had me arrested for trespassing. But I was determined. So much so that the girls made me go back to Paris because the next time—and there would have been a next time—I’d be sent to prison.
They promised a steady flow of pictures, report cards, and updates if I promised to stay out of trouble, get a lawyer, and fight this the smart way. So that’s what I did. But Charles fought, too, and he always won. But I never gave up. Getting you back was all I thought about for fourteen years. Because fourteen was the magic number. When you turned fourteen you could live with whomever you wanted. And when you heard what a terrible man your father was, you’d choose me. You’d choose light.
But the girls refused to let me go through with it. You were having a hard time fitting in at school (you were an early bloomer and had been getting teased), your father’s new wife was a twat, and you and David Golden had just been suspended for smuggling booze into a dance. They thought even the tap of a feather would hit you like a ton of bricks and meeting your “dead” mother was no feather. And so I died all over again.
I invested the money I had saved for our new house in Liddy’s bookstore. I knew you were a big reader and I liked imagining you surrounded by the stories and adventures we never got to share. It’s my only legacy, Addie, and it’s all for you. Make it your own or sell it. It’s worth more than the last present you got from me. Do you remember it? It was a gold wing necklace. I bought it after I read Fear of Flying because I wanted to wear my freedom where the world could see it. Unlike Gloria, Dot, and Liddy, flying was never my fear, landing was. That’s what got me into trouble: when to land, where to land, and what situations were worth it. I never could figure that out until I had you, and well, we all know how that turned out.
I’m certainly not suggesting that you stop flying. I gave you that necklace so you never would. What I am saying is: look down every once in a while and if you spot something that matters, find the courage to land. And wherever you end up—be it right or wrong, good or evil, light or dark—know that I love you. That you, Addie Oliver, are worth landing for. Maybe someday you’ll let me prove it.
Heart, soul, and wings,
Marjorie Richards-Oliver
(Mom)
CHAPTER
Twenty-Six
New York City, New York
Friday, September 30
New Moon
“YOU’RE NOT HAVING second thoughts, are you, Ms. Stark?”
M.J. glanced up from the contract, the tip of her pencil still pressed firmly against the blank line that awaited her signature. “No.” She smiled. “Why?”
The Suit removed a pen from his breast pocket, demonstrated its usefulness with a jaunty click-click, and then slid it toward her. The Godfather with an offer she couldn’t refuse. “My client has concerns.” He blinked twice, a nervous tic that couldn’t have served the lawyer well in other, more heated, negotiations.
“Concerns?” Ignoring the pen, M.J. leaned back against her rigid chair, gripped the velvet upholstered armrests, and wondered how Louis XIV remained king of France for seventy-two years with such uncomfortable furniture. “What kinds of concerns?”
“That you’re going to back out at the last minute.”
“Why?”
“They’ve wanted this for a while now and—” He folded his hands across his ink blotter and managed a How shall I put this? smile. “Let’s just say erasable signatures don’t exactly scream, ‘binding.’?”
Blushing, M.J. apologized, though more to her parents than the suit. Had she gone with them to the Montblanc store she wouldn’t have needed his pen, her “pencils only” rule wouldn’t exist. But that afternoon, M.J. took the gold-plated Parker, and for the first time in three years, used it anyway.
“Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He blinked as he placed the contract in his briefcase, snapped it shut.
“It really wasn’t,” M.J. said. And then, instead of a handshake, she hugged him. Because after months of aimless flying M.J. finally knew where she wanted to land. And he was the only one there when she made it official.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Seven
The Good Book
Pearl Beach, California
Eighteen Months Later
New Moon
HANDS GRIPPING THE sides of the podium, silver neck of the microphone arched toward her mouth, M.J. looked out at the filled-to-capacity crowd, who were finally seated and silent, and blanked.
Why had she been so averse to note cards? Who cares if her sentiments seemed staged? At least she’d be saying something right now instead of catching whiffs of her melting deodorant.
M.J. reached for the bottle of Smartwater, lifted it shakily to her lips.
She could always begin with her background: loving parents; the outstanding writing program at NYU; the years she spent at City magazine “paying her dues”; Gayle, her mentor, who was kind enough to attend the event and was still doing that restless cross-uncross thing with her legs.