The Sins of the Mother

Chapter 11


When Liz got back to the house in Connecticut, it was so empty and silent that it seemed morbidly depressing. Like her mother, she had loved being with her kids, and it was painful to no longer be with them. She looked in the fridge and it was empty. She made herself a cup of instant soup, opened her suitcase, and decided to go to bed. She called Carole and Sophie, and both of them were out with their friends, respectively in New York and Boston. The lives they had come home to were far more entertaining than hers. All she had to do was two weeks of laundry, and as she lay in bed with her mug of soup, she remembered the manuscript in her bag. She took it out and looked at it again. She could see a dozen places she already wanted to change. And she found herself wondering again if Sarah was right about it. Maybe her mother had just been kind to her. She was suddenly filled with self-doubt again.

She fell asleep too early that night, because of the time difference, and she was wide awake at six o’clock the next morning, and read the manuscript again. She didn’t know if she had the guts to call her agent, and by nine o’clock, she was in a state of total nerves. She decided to put it off till the next day, until she got a text message from her mother. All it said was “Did you call your agent yet? Do it! The book is great! I love you, Mommy.” Liz smiled when she read it, and gritting her teeth, she called her agent at ten.

She waited to hear the familiar voice of her agent and was startled when a clipped British male voice answered instead.

“Is Charles Halpern there?” she asked politely, and the British voice sounded as startled as she had. There was a long pause before he answered.

“No. He died two years ago. This is Andrew Shippers, I bought the agency from him when he got sick. Is there something I can do for you?”

They kept surprising each other. “My name is Elizabeth Grayson. He represents—er … used to represent me, I guess. I was calling him about a … well … uh … about a book.”

“You don’t sound too sure of that, Ms. Grayson. Are you sure it’s a book?” he said, laughing at her, and she could feel her face flush bright red. This was harder than she had expected, and she was nervous enough about it, without having her agent die and sell the agency to someone else.

“Well, actually I’m not, sure it’s a book, I mean. I don’t know what it is. I was going to ask him.”

“I see,” the new agent said, although he really didn’t. She wasn’t sure if it was a children’s book, a book for adults, or a fantasy of some kind that fell through a crack somewhere between the two. “Would you like to show it to me?” She really wouldn’t, but if she backed off now it would seem rude.

“I … well … it’s kind of a strange little fantasy book. My sister-in-law, who teaches literature at Princeton, hated it. And then my mother read it and she loved it. She said I should call you, so I did. But that was when I thought you were Charlie Halpern. Now that you’re someone else, I don’t think you represent me, do you?” She sounded utterly confused.

“I can if you want me to, if he represented you, since I bought the agency from him. Of course, if you want to take it to someone else, I understand, and you have no obligation to me.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t know what she wanted to do. She felt utterly frightened and confused.

“And with all due respect to your sister-in-law who teaches literature at Princeton,” he continued, “academics aren’t usually the best judges of commercial fiction. So your mother might have the right idea.”

“That’s what she said. About academics, I mean.”

“Precisely. Would you like to come in to see me? I have some free time this afternoon.”

“I … uh …” She hadn’t expected him to offer her an appointment so soon. “I just came back from Europe yesterday, and I have a lot of laundry to do.” She couldn’t believe she was saying that to him. She was willing to use any excuse to escape having someone read her book who might hate it as much as Sarah had, and then she decided to screw up her courage and go into the city to see him. If she didn’t, her mother would be on her back until she did. “Okay, never mind. What time this afternoon?”

“Is four o’clock too late for you?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be there … oh … did you move?”

“No, same place. I’ll look forward to seeing you at four, Ms. Grayson,” he said formally.

“Liz. Call me Liz.”

“Fine, see you this afternoon then.” She felt like a total idiot as she played the conversation over in her head, and slid under the covers with a groan. This was harder than she’d expected it to be, now that it involved someone new.

She got out of bed at one o’clock, showered and put on blue jeans and sandals, and at two-thirty she got in her car with the manuscript and drove into the city. She was at Charlie Halpern’s old address ten minutes early, and she had a knot in her stomach the size of a fist. She could hardly breathe. She parked her car, waited ten minutes, and then went up in the elevator, wondering what the new agent was like. Charlie had been in his late seventies, and had always been very fatherly, which worked for her. The person who had replaced him sounded like a grown-up. The British accent made him sound formal and official, and she was convinced he was going to hate her book. He didn’t sound like a man who liked fantasy, and if he had free time on this hands the day she called him, he was probably no good.

She walked into the outer office, in the small building on Madison Avenue where his offices were. Charlie had had an ancient secretary she’d always suspected he was sleeping with, but she was gone too. Liz sat down in the waiting room, and a moment later a very attractive man walked in, wearing blue jeans, an impeccably cut striped shirt, and immaculately shined shoes. He looked about her own age. And he was so handsome, she didn’t know what to say. She sat mute in her chair, clutching her manuscript to her chest.

“You must be Elizabeth Grayson,” he said pleasantly. “Liz.” And with a gesture, he invited her to come in. She couldn’t move, she sat frozen in her chair with a look of fear. He realized this was going to be hard. “And that must be the manuscript your sister-in-law hated. I’d love to have a look.” With that, Liz stood up and followed him silently into the other room. She noticed that he’d had the entire office repainted and fresh carpeting put in. There were new paintings on the walls, of hunting scenes in England, and he had a handsome antique partner’s desk. There was a comfortable leather chair for her to sit in, facing him across the desk. He was much too good-looking to be an agent, she told herself. He was probably some sort of con artist or playboy who had nothing else to do. She sat looking at him with suspicion as he held out a hand for the manuscript she was still clutching. And then she realized how neurotic she must seem.

“I’m sorry. It’s just strange dealing with someone new,” she said as she finally handed the manuscript to him. It was looking a little beaten up after making the round-trip to Europe in her handbag, but he didn’t seem to care as he glanced through it.

“I’m sure it is. Did Charlie sell a lot of work for you?” he asked her candidly.

“Just short stories, and some poetry. I wrote two novels, but they weren’t any good.”

“Did your sister-in-law tell you that too?” he asked with a look of amusement. He looked very British, and seemed to be amused by almost everything.

“No, she didn’t. Charlie said it wasn’t my best work, and he was right. I don’t know what to think about this one. My mother was probably just being nice.”

“Possibly. I’ll give it a read and tell you what I think. If you jot your number down for me, and your e-mail, I won’t have to look it up in the files. My assistant is out sick.” She wrote both down for him on a piece of paper, and she wasn’t sure what else to do. She realized that she was so nervous, she must have looked more than a little nuts to him. She was terrified of what he was going to say about her book. Sarah had probably been right.

“Your sister-in-law might be jealous of you too,” he suggested. “The book may be very good.” He tried to reassure her, but he could see how unnerved she was.

“I don’t know. See what you think.”

“Happy to,” he said, smiling at her, and she thought he looked like the cover of GQ. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing as an agent. He looked as though he should be an actor in British films. He had a kind of Hugh Grant quality about him, with even better looks.

“Have you been an agent for long?” Liz asked him in a strangled voice that sounded more like a croak to her.

“I worked for Richard Morris in London for fifteen years. And then I went out on my own, and moved here. It’s worked out very well. Charlie had a lot of very nice clients, and I’ve added a few of my own in the past two years. I’m sorry we haven’t met before. But I’m very happy to be reading your book.”

“Thank you … thank you … Mr. Shippers—”

“Andrew.” He smiled his dazzling British smile at her, and she stood up out of the leather chair, ready to retreat. “We’ll talk about the book when I’ve read it.”

“I’ve done some editing on it already,” she said nervously.

He walked her back through the outer office then, and held open the door for her. She fled down the stairs, instead of waiting for the elevator, and stood on Madison Avenue with a dazed look.

She got back in her car and sent her mother a text message immediately. “I did it. Just left the agent’s office. Old one died. New one. British. I left the manuscript with him. See you soon. Love, Liz.” She took a deep breath then and called both her daughters. Carole was at a shipping company, picking up boxes to pack her things for L.A., and Sophie was in Boston getting ready for school. There was nothing left for her to do except go home.

She drove back to Connecticut and tried to tell herself that the book wasn’t important to her. And if he hated it, sooner or later, she’d write something else. Besides, he was too good-looking. The last thing she needed was an agent who looked like a movie star. It would be too distracting to work with someone like him. She went home, unpacked her suitcase, and did three loads of laundry. She went out and bought groceries, and she made an omelet and big green salad for dinner. It was a far cry from all the elegant service and delicious meals on the boat. It was embarrassingly hard to get used to real life again. She felt like Cinderella after the coach had turned back into a pumpkin, and the coachmen into mice. She fell asleep on her bed at nine o’clock, fully dressed with all the lights on, and woke up at nine the next morning to the sound of the phone. For a minute, she thought she was still on the boat, and then reality hit her again. She was home.

“Good morning, I hope it’s not too early to call you.” It was Andrew Shippers on the phone.

“No, not at all. I’m usually up long before this. I’m a little jetlagged. I just got up.”

“Well, I’ve got good news for you. Your sister-in-law doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Your mother does. I read your book last night, and it’s a piece of sheer genius. It’s one of the most whimsical, delightful pieces of brilliant writing I’ve read in a long time.”

“You what?… You did?… It is?” She felt like she was about to burst into tears. And she was just as tongue-tied as she’d been the day before. Only now she was smiling and there were tears of joy and relief running down her face. She hadn’t realized how much she cared about it, and what he had just said to her was like getting a gift, or winning the lottery. She was so excited she wanted to scream. “Oh my God—you liked it?”

“No. I loved it. And if you don’t let me represent you, I’ll come to your house and stalk you. I want to sell this book.”

“Oh my God,” she said again. “Yes, of course. Sell it. I want you to represent me. Do you really think someone will want to buy it?”

“Very much so. If you e-mail it to me, I’ll get it into the right hands immediately. The only thing that might slow it down a little is that people are on vacation. But in a few weeks, everyone will be back at work. I have a few editors in mind who would be just right for this book.”

“I think I’m going to faint,” she said in a choked voice.

“Please don’t. Just hang on to your hat, and I’ll get back to you in a few weeks.”

“Thank you, thank you very much, Mr.… er … Andrew … just thank you, and good luck with it!”

He wondered if she was always that nervous, or if it was just with him, and about this book. He could tell how personal it was. It was a beautiful piece of writing that had come straight from her soul. He was sure he was going to do very well with the book. He hadn’t sold anything he liked as much in months, maybe even years.

After she hung up, Liz called her mother’s BlackBerry. She thought she’d been due back in New York the night before. And she was right. Olivia was in her office, going over some charts and e-mails, and she answered on the first ring.

“Oh my God, Mom, he liked it—he loved it—”

“Who did?” For a moment Olivia was confused and then she understood. “He did? The agent? What did he say?”

“That you were right. He thinks it’s ‘brilliant.’ He thinks he can sell it. He doesn’t even want me to change anything.”

“I’m so pleased,” Olivia said, beaming from ear to ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mom. How was the rest of your trip?”

“It was okay. I missed you all like crazy when you left. I came back late last night. How’s everything with you?”

“Fantastic. I’m going to sell a book.” As soon as she said it, she realized that was the next thing she had to worry about. What if he was wrong and no one bought the book?

“We’ll have to celebrate,” her mother said generously.

“Not until he sells it.”

They talked for a few more minutes, and then Olivia had to take a call from Europe. Their store in Madrid was in the midst of a renovation and something was going wrong. A plumber had soldered a pipe badly the day before and destroyed a new ceiling.

“I’ll call you in a couple of days,” Liz promised, and after she hung up, she decided to drive to Long Island and visit Maribelle. She was going to tell her about the book. She called Sophie and Carole after that. She missed them both terribly. And she knew it would be even worse when Carole moved to L.A. She would be so far away. But whatever else happened, she had a new agent, and he loved her book. All by herself, she did a little dance around the room.



In a mood of celebration, she drove out to see her grandmother that afternoon. Maribelle was sitting on a sunny patio when Liz got there. She was talking to two elderly ladies, and they were laughing at something. Maribelle was regaling them with funny stories, and she looked up with surprised delight when Liz walked in. She introduced her to the other women, and then she walked away with Liz, to sit in the facility’s well-appointed living room. She had her own apartment, but she liked visiting with people throughout the day in the common rooms. What she liked about living there was all the people she met, and when she wanted time to herself, she went to her own apartment. And most of the time, she took her meals in the dining room. She no longer liked to cook, and never really had. She had cooked for the children when they were young, but Olivia had very quickly gotten them a cook. She felt her mother was doing enough for her, without having to do the cooking too.

Liz’s childhood memories of Granibelle were that her grandmother was a fabulous cook, which included spaghetti and meatballs, with sauce from a jar, hamburgers, meat loaf, and waffles she popped into the toaster. It was only when she grew up that she realized her grandmother’s culinary skills were no better than her own, or perhaps even less stellar. Her grandmother had other, more impressive virtues. A quick mind, a warm heart, a great sense of humor, and tireless dedication to her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren. Liz literally could not remember her grandmother getting angry. She always had simple explanations for things, made reasonable requests of them, and the only thing she wouldn’t tolerate was their being unkind to each other, or critical of their mother, whom she portrayed as a saint to her children, as did their father. At times, they’d all found it irritating.

“Lizzie!” she said as she put her arms around her and hugged her. “You came all this way from Connecticut to see me?”

“Of course! I missed you.” Liz was sincere when she said it. She always missed her. Her grandmother had been one of the important foundations her life was built on. She had been one of three beloved parents.

“What a wonderful trip you all had! Your mother told me all about it. She called me almost every day. I wish I had been there when you all went dancing!” Her grandmother had always loved to dance, and still did, on rare occasions, although not in nightclubs like the Billionaire or Jimmyz. Her grandmother had danced all night at all their weddings. She was a happy, fun-loving person, who always saw the bright side of things. Olivia had inherited that trait from her, along with her father’s dogged determination and perseverance.

Even at ninety-five, Maribelle was an elegant-looking woman. She had the same snowy white hair as her daughter—and in her case it had turned white in her twenties, like her own mother, a trait that none of her grandchildren had inherited. But it gave her a fairy godmother look, with her sparkling blue eyes. She had flawless skin, lovely hands, gentle ways, and was always immaculately put together. She had been tireless when she was younger, climbing trees with the boys, helping all of them with homework, taking care of them when they were sick. They had never had a baby-sitter in their lives or been cared for by an outsider. Granibelle had done it all.

And somewhere in her fifties or sixties, time had simply passed her by. She had changed very little since and looked much the same as she always did. She seemed a little smaller and a little frailer, but she was still lively, agile, and energetic. She would have cleaned her own apartment if they let her. She was still totally clear-headed, and gave them sound advice when they asked her. She was practical and down to earth, and generous of spirit. She still read the newspaper every day, and everything she could lay her hands on, and she had taken computer classes in her eighties. There was nothing old-fashioned about her, except her ethics. Her values were very clear, but she had a sensible view of things too. She told them to follow the most reasonable course, with as little damage as possible to all concerned. She understood the gray shadings of life, and the things one had to do to compromise sometimes. She was never judgmental, and had told them all that forgiveness was always the right answer. And she applied that to her own life as well. She held no grudge against those who had disappointed or hurt her. And Granibelle was nobody’s fool. It had been nearly impossible to pull the wool over her eyes when they were children.

“We had a great time, Granibelle,” Liz confirmed, sitting beside her in the living room, while tea was served from a large silver tray. “What have you been up to?”

“I played poker with some friends yesterday, and won twenty dollars.” Her eyes sparkled as she said it and she giggled. “I went to a wonderful Mozart concert in New York last week, but I couldn’t get anyone to go with me.” Olivia provided a car and driver for her outings, whenever Maribelle wanted one. “Most of my friends just don’t like classical music.” And neither did her grandchildren, except Phillip. “Cass came to visit me when you were all away. She looks awfully thin to me, but she seems happy. She brought me the latest CDs of all her clients. Some of it is really very good.” She loved to play cards and gamble, and had organized a trip to Atlantic City among some of her friends at the residence. She was always busy, engaged, and up to minor mischief.

“One of these days, you’re going to get thrown out of here, for turning it into a casino,” Liz warned her with a chuckle.

“They’re actually very nice about it,” Maribelle reassured her. “I play bridge on Tuesdays with the director.” She was sharp as the proverbial tack, and interested in all their lives. Liz told her about her new manuscript then, and the reaction of her new agent. “I don’t think Sarah sees beyond the kind of literature she teaches. I recommended three books to her last year, and she hated all of them. I think it’s a good sign that she didn’t like yours,” Granibelle said sensibly. “Your mother told me she loved it. You’ll have to e-mail me a copy. I can download it on my computer.” Liz looked at her in amazement. It was like talking to a contemporary. Maribelle loved having all the latest gadgets.

They spent two wonderful hours together, catching up, talking about the trip, and Maribelle mentioned that Olivia was coming out to see her that weekend. “She still works too hard, but I really think it will keep her young forever. There’s no point slowing down—your mind just slows down with it. And what are you going to be writing next?” she asked with interest. Liz hadn’t thought about it yet. It had taken her three years to come up with this one, even if she wrote it in six weeks. Granibelle was never idle, and had never been physically or intellectually lazy. She set an example to them all, and Liz knew her mother was a great deal like her. She couldn’t imagine her mother slowing down either. She had stopped expecting that years before. And at seventy, she was no different than she had been at forty or fifty, just like her own mother. None of them could believe that their mother had just turned seventy. She’d made very little fuss about it on the boat, it was a birthday like any other. Olivia said she didn’t like the sound of the number, but she certainly didn’t look it. And it was just as impossible to believe that Maribelle was ninety-five. They were all sure she’d easily reach a hundred. Time had stood still for her. They were good genes for all of them to inherit.

Liz had brought her a stack of new magazines and left them with her. Maribelle subscribed to some of them, like Time, Newsweek, and Fortune, but she loved foreign fashion magazines too, and Liz had brought some home for her. She read The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal every day. She always warned her contemporaries never to stop keeping abreast of the news, which was good advice. And she was also grateful for good health. Life was so different if you fell ill. She got regular checkups and a clean bill of health every year. Her own grandmother had lived to a hundred and two, in surprisingly good health, and she seemed to have inherited her vitality from her.

“Give the girls my love,” she said as she walked Liz to her car. She had a sure step and a straight back. She still had the perfect posture she’d been taught as a young girl. “I know you’ll miss her, but I think L.A. will be very good for Carole. She has a lot of illusions about her father, I think it will ground her to add some reality to it, and I don’t think she’s happy in New York. The art scene is just too much for her.” She had analyzed the situation perfectly, and Liz agreed with her. She was sad to see Carole leave, but in some ways she was relieved. Her youngest daughter seemed a little lost, just as she herself had been. “And don’t forget to send me your book,” she reminded her.

“I won’t, Granibelle, I promise. Try to behave yourself, and don’t fleece your friends here out of too much money. You’re a card shark,” she accused her, and they both laughed. She had taught them all card games when they were children, and now her grandchildren loved to play cards as much as she did. Cass had always been the best at games and beat them all. And Olivia was pretty good too, although she didn’t love playing cards as much as her mother. She had played every day on the boat with Alex, but for Olivia it was a pastime, not a passion. For Granibelle, it was nearly a vice, except that she’d never had a gambling addiction—she just loved the game.

“Take care of yourself,” Granibelle said as she kissed her goodbye. It was warm out, and Liz told her to go back to the air-conditioned rooms. “And get back to work on a new book,” her grandmother exhorted, wagging a finger at her. “You’ve done a good job with this one. Now you need to get on to something new.” Liz saluted as she got into the car, and blew her a kiss as she drove away, and she saw Maribelle walk back into the building with a sure step through the rearview mirror. She was one of the greatest blessings in all their lives, and a strong role model for them all. The woman for whom time had stood still.