The Suite Life (43 page)

As for our marriage, only time would tell, but I wasn't yet ready to end it. In spite of all that I'd put up with over the more than twelve years we'd been together—his verbal abuse and self-destructive behaviors, his need for control, his neglect, and the financial crisis he'd created for our family—I knew deep inside me that, for a long time, I'd been silently complicit in all of it, and I believed that deep inside himself Alec needed me more than I needed him. I knew that most people would think I should have said, “Sayonara, you brought this on yourself and you're not taking me down with the ship.” But I just couldn't do that. I'd stood by him this long, and if I didn't leave when he was on top of the world, I couldn't do it to him—or anyone—when he'd hit rock bottom. And, beyond that, I simply couldn't bring myself to destroy whatever family we'd managed to build together.

But regardless of what happened with us, I truly wanted him to make a comeback. I knew he was still brilliant and sharp; even with all that pot smoking that brain of his still worked like a magician's. He still had some great ideas and business opportunities on the horizon, and if he only conquered those as he did Wall Street in the past, the outcome would be inevitable. I was rooting for him, but in the meantime I had business of my own to attend to . . . and I still had faith in the outcome.

That faith was sorely tested when Alec's bankruptcy forced me to file my own, even though I had no connection whatsoever with the family finances. The cost of fighting to get my name off every docket Alec was on would have seemed enormous when we were living the high life and it was now astronomical. But, as with almost every other money issue in my life, I had no choice.

I also had to swallow the ten grand it was going to cost to
come out on the other side of bankruptcy. There was no way I'd even mention this to him, because I knew what he would say: “Don't pay it.”

I knew I couldn't go to Marvin and Gregory. They were comfortable, but wouldn't have a liquid ten Gs to lend me. Moira Jewison was out of the question. Doris Bernstein could work, but I couldn't bring myself to ask her. And I just couldn't ask Spiro—not at this juncture in my life or in our relationship. I decided I'd have to ask Olivia.

What are sisters for, anyway?

My other sister, Debbie Warren, called the day before the lunch date I'd set up with Olivia, wanting to catch up on everything Samantha. I rattled off the latest on Alec and the one or two tidbits about my newest play that were noteworthy, and then I brought her right up to date on my scrounging for the dough to get past my immediate bankruptcy crisis.

“How much do you need?” she asked before I finished my rambling.

“Ten thousand dollars,” I said softly, certain she'd seen my blush over the wires.

“Give me your account information and it will be there tomorrow,” Debbie said with the self-assurance any woman would be proud to have.

“I swear, Debbie, I've never borrowed anything in my life,” I said. “Just give me six months to a year to pay you back.”

“Don't say another word about it,” Debbie said. “And there's no time limit on paying it back.”

“I'm flabbergasted,” I managed to mumble.

“Don't be, Sam. You'd do the same for me.”

Sisters, indeed.

The dust from our financial Armageddon hadn't totally settled by the time my next birthday rolled around, but there was a semblance of order to the family budget as bankruptcy
proceedings went on. The auxiliary blessings of that were numerous, and the lack of threatening notices in the daily mail wasn't the least of them.

To celebrate my day and go out in style I decided we should go ahead and take the nine-day African safari I had booked and paid for almost two years before. What was I to do? It was paid for. I looked at it as a gift. A gift from above for all that I've been through.

Alec adopted a make-hay-from-hash attitude, which he combined with his tour guide persona, while the practical side of me felt guilty as hell for not having tried to cancel and get our money back. But I put my worries about punishment for sin into its appropriate box and set free my feelings about deserving a break. Alec sure needed one, too.

Debbie didn't raise an eyebrow when I told her about the jaunt we were taking in the midst of our dire financial circumstances. Truthfully, I'd already started paying her back, courtesy of medical insurance reimbursements for Alec's care once he agreed that I could handle those “meager” sums. But I know she wouldn't have said a word even if that weren't the case. In the end, I paid her in full within six months of coming back from Africa, and I wasn't even tempted to boast about my financial prowess to Alec. I could handle myself all by myself, and he was going to find that out sooner or later.

“Sooner” had the inside track when Moira Jewison called to say that a publisher was “very interested” in
The Blessed Bridge
and “there was even some talk of a movie.”

“They have a new imprint dedicated to women's interests, and your novel is right up their alley,” Moira continued. “They want to meet you.”

I'd had one of those meetings before, so I wasn't necessarily as excited as I might have been. “What does that mean, Moira?”

“It means they want to make a deal.”

All of the blessings I'd had until that moment—and there were many of those—paled in the light of this opportunity to finally make my mark as I'd always believed I could. I kept telling myself that the crazy energy of that year so far just indicated big changes were happening. Those changes couldn't happen without big disruptions and uprooting, which was also why some of the people around me got so bothered, yet others blessed me.

One of those blessings had been my relationship with Spiro, but based on my decision to stay with Alec, I knew it was time to break it off—at least for now. We hadn't been together since that meeting in his office, but I decided we needed to see each other one more time. I couldn't chance being with him in private, because I wasn't sure my resolve would hold up, so I asked him to meet me for lunch in a small neighborhood restaurant where I knew it would be quiet and I was sure we wouldn't bump into anyone either of us knew.

From the expression on his face when he walked in the door I could tell that he had a pretty good idea what I was going to say. But that didn't make it any easier. Telling Spiro that we needed to cut off our communication even by email was the toughest thing I've ever done in my life. I know he was as devastated as I was, but, gentleman that he always was, he made it as easy for me as he could. Looking straight into my eyes, but without reaching for my hand, which would have been more than I could bear, he assured me that he would honor my decision but also that he would always be there for me if and when I needed him. And I knew he would honor that commitment. I didn't want him to see me cry and try to comfort me, so I held myself together until we'd parted ways, and I'm pretty sure he was doing the same. But we both knew that it was for the best.

He would always remain in my heart, and who knew what the future might bring. God had already given me so much; perhaps there might be more. I could only hope that the words of
the song were true:
Somewhere there's a time for us, someday there'll be a time for us. Time together with time to spare . . .

Meanwhile, I had at least one more bridge to cross, and that was realizing the dream of getting my novel published. Once I got to the other side, which I believed would be very soon, I could begin to think about the person with whom I wanted to be sharing popcorn on a couch. Until we both finally resolved our present situations we needed to let go and let God.

I'll never get tired of signing my name . . .

I'd seen many gorgeous book jackets before, but never one with the story of my life between the covers. The Brooklyn Bridge was pictured in all its sinew and stone, and there was I, about to cross to the other side and embark on my future.

I took a book from the carton of advance copies that had just arrived at my door and reached for a pen. I looked at my daughter, who was sitting on the couch next to me, her eyes alight with anticipation, and felt the slight resistance and stiffness of the binding as I opened it for the first time. I breathed in the smell of paper and fresh ink as I smoothed the already smooth front endpaper.

I hadn't thought about what I'd write to my daughter, but the words came without effort:

Dearest Isabella,

Love yourself as I love you, and as God loves us all.

Mom

I handed her the book and waited while she read the inscription. I don't know which of us shed the first tear as we
hugged each other tight. She was still much too young to read
The Blessed Bridge,
but one day she would read it and know who her mother truly was.

Three days later, on a bright fall day, I took a late-morning stroll to our local bookstore. The red and golden hues of the autumn leaves on the tree-lined streets reflected the warmth I felt in my heart as I saw, front and center in the shop's plate-glass window, a three-tiered display of my novel, the window into my soul. None of the handful of passersby knew who I was, but that was fine by me.
I
knew who I was.

I stood there for several moments before turning and hailing the taxi that was miraculously empty and coming right toward me. Suddenly, I needed to be in a place where I felt truly known.

“Our Lady of Victory Church, please, Pine and Wall streets,” I directed through the open partition.

If seeing my book for the first time in a store window was amazing, it was overwhelming to find myself a week later seated at a table in Barnes & Noble with piles of
The Blessed Bridge
on either side of me, a long line of people in front of me, and representatives from my publisher standing by to hand me books as, one by one, well-wishers came up to tell me their names and ask me to sign a copy for them. One after another they kept coming, until my hand was cramping, but my smile was almost as broad as any one of Alec's jumbo grins had ever been, and I would have been willing to go on signing forever. To think I signed my book deal while Alec was in the psychiatric ward. Now, that would be something to write about. Maybe in my next book.

My publicist had done a great job getting copies out for blurbs and early reviews, and the feedback was unanimously positive. Most gratifying of all for me was the fact that readers really seemed to understand who I was, what I had gone
through, and how I had stuck to my dream and triumphed in the end, despite the odds stacked against me. If anyone found my story inspiring enough to help get them through their own personal problems, the purpose of my writing would be fulfilled.

But I knew that books—and certainly first novels by unknown writers—usually reached no more than a few thousand people at best, so when Moira called to tell me that the early buzz had generated even more serious movie interest, I was over the moon with excitement.

I already had a couple of signings scheduled on the West Coast, and she said that she'd be setting up movie meetings for me while I was there.

I was still convinced that Alec would make a comeback. Men like him just don't disappear into the dust. His lion still lay awake. And I also knew that I had finally found a way to fit into his world
my
way and on
my
terms—as a respected writer, not as just another decoration in his mansion, or any mansion for that matter.

Waiting for takeoff on the plane to Los Angeles I had no doubt that this trip would change my life once again and I was willing to take that chance. I reached into my purse for the rosary I'd found on the day of Mom's funeral. As I did so, I heard Grandma whispering in my ear the words that would protect me on my journey, “
Kinehora, Samelah
.
Kinehora.”