The Restoration of Celia Fairchild Page 3

  Those letters are kind of my specialty.

  Dear Grammy in Miami,

  When I was twenty-two years old, I left home and moved to New York City, one of the most crowded pieces of real estate on the planet. Every place I went, I was surrounded by other people, yet I’d never felt so alone.

  That’s the worst kind of loneliness, isn’t it? The kind that comes from feeling unknown and unrecognized even when you’re standing in a crowd. Everybody feels that way at some point—invisible, irrelevant, obsolete, alone, and terribly, terribly afraid.

  Sound familiar?

  It’s not just you, Grammy in Miami. It’s everybody. I’ve got proof.

  A couple of weeks ago I took a cab ride with a driver who had the radio tuned to a Christian station and liked his music loud. I could have asked him to turn it down, but though she has lived in the big city for many years, Calpurnia has never cottoned to confrontation, especially when it is raining out and she might be unable to find another ride should an angry driver eject her from his cab. This being the case, I held my tongue.

  But before the passage of many blocks, the words to one of the songs caught my attention. The singer voiced a prayer for deliverance from the things that made her feel most afraid and alone . . . the need to be understood, the need to be accepted, the fear of being neither and being humbled in the process, the fear of death, and trial, and having nothing, and being nothing.

  The needs and fears that woman sang about are the same needs and fears that once made me feel like the lone castaway on an island with a population of a million and a half. They are the same needs and fears that are making you feel so lonely and unhappy now, the ones everybody faces at some point in their lives, when all that was familiar has been stripped away and we’re thrust, willingly or unwillingly, into the next phase of life. It’s not just you. It’s everybody.

  How do I know this?

  Because somebody wrote a song about it. Because somebody else recorded it. Because my cab driver cranked up the volume when it came on the radio. Because my eyes welled up when I heard it, and because, even after all this time, I remember how it feels to be so alone and so afraid. Sometimes I still feel that way.

  If you had been in the cab and heard that song, you’d have felt the same, like you wanted to cry. But you wouldn’t, would you? Somewhere along the way, you learned that it wasn’t acceptable to cry. Or maybe it wasn’t safe? Instead of crying, you’d swallow your tears and shout at the cab driver to turn down the damn radio, then maybe stiff him on his tip. I’m not sure about the details but somehow or other, you’d react. Because admitting you’re scared is just too scary. It makes you feel vulnerable and more alone than ever. I get it.

  It isn’t just you, Grammy. It isn’t just me. It’s everybody.

  It’s your son, and your daughter-in-law too. It’s definitely your grandson. You said he’s off to college in a few months, to a school that was far from his first choice that is also far from his friends and family. Small wonder he’s snappish and sarcastic and even rude. Like you, he’s afraid of the unknown, and so afraid of being lonely that he’s already isolating himself. Like you, he’s reacting.

  Exactly like you.

  (Those pippins don’t fall too far from the family tree, do they, Grammy Smith?)

  Talk to him, buttercup. Start a conversation. An exchange, not a lecture. Let him know that you understand what it feels like to be scared and lonely and lost. Be real with him.

  If you are, chances are good that he’ll return the favor. When he does, listen. Listen as hard as you can. Then repeat the process with the rest of your family. And the neighbors. And the guy who rings up your grocery order. And the lady who checks in your books at the library.

  I think you’ll be amazed at how much you have in common but even more amazed at how quickly bitterness and isolation are replaced by acceptance and even love, love for your family, love for your friends, love for your new life.

  Loneliness is hard, Grammy. Really hard. But the antidote is easy: connect with the people who are already all around you. They need you as much as you need them, maybe even more.

  Sending you some sugar,

  Calpurnia

  “Celia?”

  I gasped. Dan McKee was standing in front of my desk. This was unusual. When Dan wants to talk to somebody, he stands at his office door and shouts, “Get in here! Now!” (Though he never adds a name to this command, the person who is about to get chewed out always knows who he means.) Even stranger than Dan’s making a personal appearance at my desk was the look on his face.

  He was smiling. It made me nervous.

  “Sorry. You were really focused there, weren’t you?” He chuckled.

  What was going on? Dan McKee chuckled? Out loud? And apologized?

  “Is this a good time?” he asked. “Jerome said you were looking for me.”

  “Uh . . . yeah. Now’s good.”

  “Great. I wanted to talk to you too. Why don’t we head over to my office?”

  DAN OFFERED ME a seat in the dreaded wobbly chair. When he closed the door, I took a deep breath and catapulted into my pitch.

  “Dan, apart from the big news stories, my column gets more traffic than any other Daily McKee feature. Page views for Dear Calpurnia are up seventeen percent, which means the advertising revenue I’m generating—”

  “Is a big contributor to our bottom line,” Dan said, finishing my sentence for me.

  I stopped and tried to regain my bearings. Calvin and I hadn’t role-played a scenario where Dan agreed with me. The way it was supposed to work was that he’d argue with me, downplaying my value to the paper, and I would come back at him, saying my effort added a lot of the bottom line and that I should be fairly compensated for that contribution. Then I was supposed to demand a raise.

  Having Dan agree with my main point was throwing me. I felt like a performer in a two-person play when the other actor inexplicably skips a few pages of dialogue. I was confused to the point of stammering, trying to figure out my next line.

  Dan took a blue box with a white ribbon out of a drawer and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “A present. To let you know how much I appreciate you. Open it.” When I hesitated he said, “It’s a bracelet. Or a bangle. That’s what the lady called it. Rose gold with two diamonds. Small ones.” He smiled. “I bought it at Tiffany’s.”

  “Wow.” I sat there. “I really don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Listen. Celia. I wasn’t going to say anything to anybody until tomorrow but . . .” He leaned forward in his chair, eyes glittering with the secret he was dying to tell.

  “I sold the company today.”

  “Wait. What? You mean this company? You sold Daily McKee?”

  Dan nodded.

  “Oh. Wow. Well . . . congratulations.”

  Was it cause for congratulations? His grin indicated it was, at least for him. I wasn’t so sure about the rest of us worker bees.

  “Who bought us? I mean it . . . the company. Who bought it?”

  “Tate Universal.”

  My mouth went dry. As the name indicated, Tate Universal was a media behemoth, an empire composed of newspapers, a cable network, hundreds of small- and mid-market television stations, a movie studio, and a theme park. Like any good empire, they made their money by gobbling up the smaller provinces and wresting every bit of profit, productivity, and life’s blood from the unfortunate conquered noncombatants, pawns to the ambitions of more powerful and more ruthless people.

  The worker bees were not to be congratulated.

  Dan started to laugh, not chuckle, but really laugh and in a voice that was strangely high-pitched. He sounded almost giddy, like an anxious schoolgirl who had finally nabbed a date the day before the prom.

  “I did it,” he said, getting up from his chair and pressing his palms to his temples as if to prevent his head from exploding. “I actually did it. When I started Daily McKee, I told myself I was going to make enough to retire by the time I was forty. Now I can. And with six weeks to spare.”

  “How much did they pay you?”

  The figure he named almost made my head explode. For that kind of money, my entire apartment building could have retired, in luxury.

  “Finally. After all these years, I can have a life! I can travel, get a girlfriend. Sleep in! Do you know the last time I got more than five hours’ sleep? Fourteen years ago, the day before I started the paper.” He leaned against the edge of his desk, shoulders drooping as he exhaled an enormous, relieved sigh.

  “You’ve worked hard. And I’m happy. For you. But . . . what happens now?”

  “I’m not one hundred percent sure.” He laughed again. “I’ve been so busy pulling the deal together that I haven’t thought it out entirely. But a week from tomorrow, I take delivery on a new sailboat. Three berths, four sun decks, sixty-two feet long.”

  “I meant what happens to us? And to Daily McKee?”

  “Oh. Well. It’ll go on like it always has,” Dan said, “just under the Tate Universal umbrella. I doubt readers will even notice. Tate wants to keep the name.”

  “And the staff? Does Tate want to keep them? Or are there going to be cuts?”

  “A few, I imagine.” He shrugged. “But that’s not really my problem anymore.”

  No, indeed. It’s ours. And mine.

  “What about my column? Are they keeping it?”

  “They are.” He got up and walked around to the front of the desk. “Tate wants to syndicate it to all their publications. Without Dear Calpurnia, I’m not sure I’d have been able to pull off the deal. Thus the present,” he said, nodding toward the still-unopened box in my lap as he resumed his seat.

  My stomach un
clenched a little. I still was concerned for my coworkers but it was a relief to know that my job was safe. And even, possibly, my hopes for a raise? And a baby? If Tate wanted to publish my column in their many publications, they’d have to increase my salary, wouldn’t they? Maybe I should get an agent. Negotiating with a big corporation would be different from dealing with Dan. But could I make a deal quickly enough to get a bigger apartment before the home visit? Doubtful. Maybe Dan would intercede on my behalf? After all, the deal might never have happened without me. He said so himself.

  “Listen, Dan. Something has happened, something great. And I need a —”

  But Dan wasn’t listening.

  “Tate is keeping Dear Calpurnia,” he said, cutting me off. “But they’re not keeping you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I blinked, certain he must be joking. But he wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “That’s crazy. They can’t publish the column without me. I am Calpurnia.”

  “You’re Celia Fairchild. Calpurnia is a persona, a pen name. Somebody else can assume it and write her just as well as you did, but for less money.”

  He pulled a sheet of paper out of the same drawer where he’d stowed the Tiffany’s box and laid it on the desk in front of me.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a letter of termination and separation, with a one-year severance attached. Sign it and you’ll get a check today.”

  “What!”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Celia. Do you know how hard I had to battle with Tate to get this for you? I went to the mat for you. The others won’t get even half as much. A whole year. You’re going to come out money-ahead. It won’t take you nearly that long to find another job.”

  “Not one that pays anything close to what I make writing the column,” I snapped, knowing it was true. “And I don’t want another job. Calpurnia might be a persona but she’s my persona. If Tate isn’t willing to pay for her, someone else will.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Our contract was for three years, which means my noncompete will be up at the end of next month. After that, I can write for anyone I want. I don’t care how much money Tate throws at me, I’m not signing away the rights to Calpurnia.”

  “Celia. You already did.”

  Dan stared at me. I stared back.

  “Your last contract says that the name Dear Calpurnia in all its forms belongs to McKee Media and that in the event of the company’s being sold during the duration of the contract, the rights transfer to the new owner.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “No. I would never have agreed to that.”

  “But you did. It’s all there—clause sixteen, paragraph nine B.”

  He opened his desk drawer again, this time to extract a copy of my employment contract, which just happened to be turned to clause sixteen, paragraph 9B and highlighted in yellow marker. Clearly, Dan had spent a lot of time preparing for this meeting, I guessed about three years, starting on the day he’d watched me sign a contract that he knew I didn’t completely understand.

  For a moment I was struck dumb, overwhelmed by the realization of my own stupidity and the depth of Dan’s deceit. How could he have done something so . . . so evil? Then I thought about the adoption attorney and the bigger apartment I needed to convince her that my home would be a fit place to raise a child and that I would be a fit parent. But was I? With no husband, no job, no visible future in front of me? How was I going to support a baby if I couldn’t even support myself?

  Maybe I should sign the letter. The severance wouldn’t get me into a better apartment—every building in town would want confirmation of employment—but a year’s salary wasn’t exactly chump change. Could I walk away from that? On the other hand, how could I walk away from Calpurnia? If not for her, I wouldn’t even be in the running for this baby. Without Calpurnia, I was nothing and nobody.

  I considered my options, which were precisely none. Dan held all the cards. Maybe if I told him about the baby? Appealed to his sense of decency?

  Then I remembered: he had none.

  How could I ever have trusted him? And why, oh why, after advising so many of my readers to have an attorney look over any contracts before signing, hadn’t I done so myself? Because I had trusted him, that’s why.

  Which was stupid. Really, really stupid.

  I dropped my head and saw the Tiffany’s box sitting in my lap. So he’d bought me jewelry because he appreciated me? And he’d fought to get me a year’s severance because I’d been with him from the first?

  Bull. I wasn’t the one who should be embarrassed here.

  I stood up and dropped the blue box onto Dan’s desk. It landed with a thud.

  “You can’t fight this, Celia. It’s already done,” he said as I crossed the room. “Don’t be an idiot. Sign the letter and take the money.”

  I opened the door.

  “Hey, Dan. About your boat? I hope it sinks.”

  Twenty minutes later, escorted by a security guard who had watched me pack the contents of my desk into a box, I exited the offices of McKee Media. I’d started the day resolved to transform myself entirely. Now it had happened.

  I walked in the door as Dear Calpurnia.

  I walked out as Celia Fairchild, a woman I used to know but had lost touch with a long, long time ago.

  Chapter Four

  Lawyers in Manhattan must all use the same decorator.

  In the six days since I’d been unceremoniously escorted out of the offices of McKee Media, I’d had meetings at eight different law firms. Every one of them had glass coffee tables and painted portraits of the founding partners in the lobby, glassed-in conference rooms lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves of hardbound law books that I’m sure were just for show (Seriously, isn’t all the research done on computers by underpaid, overworked associates these days?), and plush, expensive, red Oriental rugs with fringed edges. I’m not making that up: it was almost the exact same rug! And the lawyers appeared to be just as generic, even Carlotta Avilla.

  I had hoped that a female attorney would be a bit more sympathetic to my cause, or somewhat more willing to take a chance. But I guess you don’t pay for ten-thousand-dollar rugs, walls of books that nobody ever reads, or office suites on high floors by taking on cases that are anything less than a slam dunk, especially when the client is an out-of-work advice columnist who has big alimony payments and next to nothing in savings.

  But at least the coffee was good. Apparently, really great coffee is something else you can afford to buy when you only bet on sure things.

  “The thing is,” Ms. Avilla said, putting a blue demitasse cup of espresso down on the glass conference table after I finished my story, “you did sign the contract. No one made you do it.”

  I nodded. I’d heard this before. “But I never would have done it if I’d seen the part about them getting the rights to my pen name. Dan never mentioned anything about that during our negotiations, and the first draft of the contract didn’t include that clause.” I’d confirmed this. In the original contract Dan had emailed for me to look over, clause sixteen didn’t have a paragraph 9B. “He added it later on purpose, knowing I wouldn’t read the whole thing before signing.”

  “But you should have read it.” Ms. Avilla looked almost apologetic, as if she was genuinely sorry to be the bearer of bad news. She definitely was more sympathetic than the male attorneys I’d spoken to but no more helpful. “You should have hired a lawyer to look it over before you signed.”

  “I know, I know. But . . . better late than never?”

  I smiled, hoping to win her over. For a moment, I thought I might have. She chuckled a little, then made a church with her hands and tapped the steeple against her lips. She was thinking about it. That was more than the others had done. I clenched my fists tight but said nothing, waiting for the verdict.

  “Miss Fairchild, it’s obvious you’ve been taken advantage of. But McKee Media is a big company with deep pockets. Now that it’s been acquired by Tate Universal, those deep pockets are basically an abyss. These huge corporations have teams of lawyers on staff and they hate to lose. They’ll do everything they can, spend any amount of money, fighting this. Even if I took on the case, the firm would require a one-hundred-thousand-dollar retainer. I’m serious,” she said, obviously noticing the way the color had drained from my face.