Second Chances (18 page)

Pashmina handed her a glass of water. “This is all way more complicated than I realized,” she proclaimed between non-alcoholic sips.
Duh
. She bit her lip trying to think of something else to say, something ingenious, something that wouldn’t have Pashmina doubting her mental aptitude. “But it could be worse, you know?”
Oh yeah, that was much better. Solid.

“It is a predicament,” Pashmina agreed. “But I’ve made up my mind.
“Family Secrets”
can’t be published.” She felt terrible, after all it was her fault they were in this jam but it wouldn’t be the first time an editor had to clean up after an author either. It was time to see what Amelia was really made of.

Amelia was nauseous. How did this happen? Her world was imploding in epic proportions and she didn’t have a clue what to do about it. She thought about her mother and for the first time in a long time wished she was here. From the day she was born it seemed she’d been locked in battle with Francesca, arguing constantly over everything from hemlines and hairstyles to college and career choices. Francesca had an opinion about everything and pity the fool who didn’t share her thinking. She was hard-headed and strong-willed, a one-two punch combination that infuriated Amelia even as she secretly admired her mother’s seemingly infinite strength, a resilient force that had carried them both through some difficult times.

When Amelia was five years old her dad had suffered a heart attack. She’d woken up one night to the sound of crushing stones and an ambulance speeding up their white pebbled driveway. From her bedroom window she’d watched as the EMT’s wheeled her dad from the house, a plastic oxygen mask covering his face. Weak as he was he’d waved to her barely managing to move his hand back and forth, and she’d waved back uncomprehending.

“Amelia, go back to bed,” her mother called from beside the ambulance. She’d looked sad, sadder than Amelia had ever seen her, resigned to the fact she was losing her husband. But to her daughter, she’d looked like an Amazon, tall, strong, and invincible. A widow at thirty-five, she never remarried but dedicated herself to Amelia acting as both mother and father, struggling to find the balance between the two and not always succeeding.

Francesca was a tough taskmaster and though Amelia understood why it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. She’d spent her youth challenging her mother at every turn, pushing every single one of her buttons whenever she had the chance. But no matter how bad it got, how long they went without speaking, Amelia always knew her mother loved her and like it or not, her mother was usually right about most things. So what would Francesca say now, what would she do if she was in her shoes?

Channeling her inner Francesca, Amelia called on her mother’s practical sense of logic and cool objectivity. There had to be something she could do to make things right.
Ignore the hype, pinpoint the problem, and focus on the facts.
She could almost feel Francesca beside her. Ok, so the problem is Pashmina’s refusing to release her book and both of our careers are headed down the drain.
Forget the hype and stick to the facts.

Fact, Pashmina is Tim’s mother. Fact, George is Tim’s father. Fact, Pashmina loves Tim and hates George. Fact, George wrote a self-incriminating manuscript and Pashmina has it. Fact, Pashmina intends to break George and destroy him with his own manuscript. Fact, if she hurts George she hurts Tim too. Fact, she won’t hurt Tim, she loves him. Fact, Amelia’s screwed.

Stop personalizing. Tell me about the book, is it good?
Really good, she thought but different, not Pashmina’s usual style.
Well obviously, she didn’t write it.
Yes and no, she actually re-worked the book extensively in places to make it more hers.
So would you say she co-wrote the book?

Amelia had to think about that for a minute. Technically George and Pashmina had both contributed to the story but could you call them co-authors if one didn’t know about the other? Not that it mattered. They weren’t even speaking to each other much less working together. No, it was pretty safe to say that Tim would be their one and only collaboration.

Ok, what else?
Amelia scowled. If I knew what else would I be sitting here having an imaginary conversation with my mother?
Testy, testy, but remember dear your mother is always right.
I know, I know. I’m trying but I just can’t figure it out.
Can’t or won’t? The Amelia I raised never took ‘no’ for an answer.

Well that was true. Amelia almost laughed remembering all the times she faced off against her mother. It was nice to be on the same side for a change. “That’s it!” she squeaked, startling Pashmina out of her own thoughts.

“What, what’s ‘it’?”

“We’re going about this all wrong. We’re acting like this is a war we have to win.” Amelia spoke firmly, “I’m telling you right now Pashmina, if we fight this we’ll lose, everything.”

Pashmina’s stomach knotted. “So what do you suggest we do?” she asked.

“Play nice,” she said ignoring Pashmina’s dubious stare. She didn’t care, for the first time in a long time, she felt good better yet she felt confident. It took a while to put all the pieces of the puzzle together but she’d finally done it and now she understood exactly what she had to do. “We need to work together, as a team. Do you understand what I’m saying? ”

Pashmina waved her hand dismissively, “Not at all. What the heck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about getting your book published with your reputation intact, and a second chance at a fresh start with your son. Isn’t that what you want?” Pashmina nodded. “Then hear me out.” Feeling like General Patton, Amelia began to pace, her hands clasped behind her, explaining as she went.

“Right now you and I are the only two people who know the truth behind
“Family Secrets.”
Pashmina started to object but she steam rolled on. “Of course George knows it too but he doesn’t know that you’re planning to tell his story to the world. And Tim knows nothing about any of this but when he finds out he’ll be devastated. What we need to do is publish the book without endangering George and enlightening Tim.” She glanced at Pashmina still looking skeptically back at her.

“I know, I know,” she said raising her hands in mock surrender, “it seems like a mission impossible, but maybe not. What if you were to change the book’s most incriminating details like names and places to protect George’s identity? It’s still a great story but no harm’s done to George.”

Pashmina was quiet. “What if George told Tim about his past?” she asked at last. “He’ll know the book is about his father even if it doesn’t name him and he’ll hold it against me.”

Amelia knelt in front of her ready to share the final details of her plan. “But what if it’s not your book?” she asked. “What if someone else wrote it?”

Incredulous, Pashmina looked at her. “Who else could have written it?”

Ignoring the question Amelia asked, “Have you ever heard of a book called
Primary Colors
? It’s a fictional novel based upon the real life characters and events making up the political scene of the 1990s. Long story short, it’s the most talked about political novel ever, three million copies sold and nearly one million dollars in sales generated in the first year alone and do you know why?” Excited, Amelia didn’t wait for her to respond. “Because
Primary Colors
was put out by an anonymous author, a fact that many people credit for the book’s incredible success. Curiosity about a book written by Anonymous produced more publicity and generated more sales without anyone even questioning the author’s personal knowledge or involvement.”

“That’s your plan?” Pashmina was coming out of her stupor. “You want to release
“Family Secrets”
from an anonymous author?”

“Exactly!” Amelia began pacing again. “We publish
“Family Secrets”
as a novel written by an anonymous author. Of course we at Dewes know that it’s your work so the terms of your contract are met in full AND quite possibly generates book sales that exceed projected numbers. George’s identity is protected and he’ll never argue the use of his manuscript since that would only bring unwanted attention on him and his past indiscretions. And Tim will know beyond a doubt the lengths you went to to ensure that no one was hurt by your professional obligations. It’s a win-win-win-win situation!”

Time stood still as Pashmina considered her options. This was it. This was the way out for all of them. Amelia felt like she’d just ascended the summit of Mt. Everest. Suddenly everything was so clear, so obvious. Her plan could work but only if she had Pashmina’s support too. From the corner of her eye she could see Pashmina sitting on the couch where she’d left her, hands clasped, head bowed. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.

Was this madness or genius Pashmina wondered? More importantly, would it work? So many questions, so many unknowns it made her nervous, downright scared in fact but what choice did she have? She could break her contract and suffer a professional tar and feathering and still be without her son or she could join Amelia’s ‘team’ and maybe win big all around, big emphasis on maybe. So who was the crazy one now, Amelia with her swing-on-a-star optimism, or her saddling up for the ride?

Amelia turned nervously as Pashmina approached, hand extended. “Hello,” she said her voice strong and clear, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anonymous.”

*   *   *

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Surrounded by darkness, Pashmina lay in bed taking no comfort from the soft caress of the silky sheets or the weighted warmth of the duvet covering her protectively. The eerie glow emanating from the digital alarm clock beside her was mesmerizing as she watched the minutes tick by, one hundred and eighty minutes to be exact since she’d first laid her head on the pillow, no closer to sleep now than she’d been three hours ago and she was beyond exhausted.

What a difference a few hours can make. Earlier, waving an excited Amelia off to her office eager to get their crazy plan underway, she’d felt almost euphoric. This was going to work and when it did she’d be the happiest woman on Earth. And the luckiest, thanks to Amelia. She’d really gone above and beyond this time.

And then she thought of Tim and was gripped by a sudden rush of love. She’d seen her son only three times in twenty-nine years, but it was the first time she’d treasure the most.

It had been dark and rainy when the taxi pulled up in front of the Horizon House of Hope for Mothers and Their Babies. Reluctant to leave the comfortable warmth of the cab, Pashmina peered out the window to examine her temporary new home.
Our home
she thought unconsciously rubbing her rounded belly and eliciting a resounding kick in response. She smiled, they were quite the pair.

Paying the driver she thanked him and made a mad dash for the door as the rain pelted down, cold and wet. Wrapping her coat securely around her precious cargo she bent low determined to protect her child as best she could in the time they had left together. It wouldn’t be long. She could already feel the heaviness moving down her body as the baby made ready for its arrival. Soon she’d give birth to a baby boy or girl, her constant companion all this time, and she was terrified.

What if she couldn’t go through with it? When the nurse came to take her baby from her, what if she wouldn’t let go? She knew it was the right thing to do. Her baby deserved a good home and a family that would give it all the things she couldn’t but her heart broke just thinking about it. They belonged together.

It was true. Somewhere along the way she’d fallen in love with her unborn child and now her love would be tested in the worst way possible. She needed to be strong, strong enough to let her baby go.

When her water inevitably broke, she cried. This was it. The fierce cries of her newborn child filled the room as the doctor handed the baby to her, “This little one refuses to be ignored.” Extending her arms she welcomed the baby into her embrace. It was a boy, beautiful and healthy with ten fingers, ten toes, a shock of thick hair and almond-shaped eyes just like hers. He was perfect; her heart broke.

“I’m sorry dear, but it’s time to say good-bye.”

She looked at the nurse with tear-filled eyes, her arms trembling as she gave the child to her like a precious gift. “Wait,” she called before the woman could leave the room. “I almost forgot.” She reached around her neck unclasping the only thing of value she had left. Her mother had given it to her, the gold medallion of St. Barbara, the patron saint of protection. Still warm with the heat of her body, she placed it carefully over the baby’s head. “Be safe Little One, be strong,” she whispered, her voice cracking as a fresh wave of tears overtook her. If she was doing the right thing, why did it feel so horribly wrong?

“Please go,” she begged the nurse, “before I change my mind.”

Nodding sympathetically, the nurse left the room without another word.

*   *   *

Tears trickled down Pashmina’s cheeks leaving a maze of salty tracks in their wake. Rubbing her hands across her face like an absorbent cloth, she grabbed a robe from the end of the bed and stumbled through the darkness, her mind too busy for sleep, too tired to bother with lights, and headed for the oasis of her moonlit kitchen.

Bathed in blue-white beams, she warmed a pot of milk on the stove watching with fascination as chocolate shavings swirled and danced, blending delicately into the foamy white liquid. With a cup in hand she made her way to the parlor, a small hexagonal room, filled with an eclectic collection of personal memorabilia and treasured memories. This was her private sanctuary, the place she came to escape and get away from it all.