In Michael’s absence, friends who had once distanced themselves began to reenter Margaret’s life. Some may have disapproved of her relationship with Michael; others had just hated to see Michael’s condescension of Margaret and her career. Rosie Bliven urged Lucy Mitchell to invite Margaret back to the Writers Laboratory. Rosie had told Lucy that their friend was still up to madcap adventures. As she saw it, Margaret had been entranced by Michael because she needed a mother figure in her life. Margaret filled her time with crazy, amusing activities because she was a lonely soul. She was, though, loveable—still the old imaginative person they knew.
Condolences from Margaret’s friends poured forth. Dot encouraged Margaret to remember the good days and happy hours. Though this chapter of her life with Michael was closed, the vibrancy of their life together would linger. There was much to look forward to in life, Dot promised her grieving friend. She had a host of people who loved her, and though that wouldn’t take away the sorrow, she should know she was much loved. She encouraged Margaret to come visit whenever she wished. Other friends also invited her to spend time with them—in Virginia, Connecticut, and France. One friend in Key West urged Margaret to throw Crispian in her jalopy and head south.
Posey Hurd’s note was one of pure sympathy, even though she and Clem had not liked the way Michael had treated Margaret. They loved Margaret and grieved for her loss. Bruce Bliven urged Margaret to remember that Michael would be the one snorting at her sad solitude. She knew the line between sorrow and self-pity, and, as Michael would have wanted, Margaret should remember the happy moments of their time together.
Lucy Mitchell did invite Margaret to come back to the Writers Laboratory for a visit. Both were aware that their writing styles had landed on opposite ends of realism. Lucy was working on a geography book, and Margaret was writing a tale about fairies in the woods. Lucy knew full well the grief of losing the person closest to you because her husband had died two years earlier. She had just recently completed a biography on their life together. Margaret was honored when her old mentor and friend asked her to edit her biography of her late husband.
The majority of Michael’s estate had been left to her children, who were considerate of Margaret’s relationship with their mother. They gave Margaret the use of Michael’s furniture and deeded the house in Maine Margaret had built for Michael back to her. Michael had appointed Margaret as her literary executor, which made Margaret consider her own publishing legacy. Too many of Margaret’s own manuscripts were lying fallow at publishing houses as editors delayed their decisions to accept or reject them. When Margaret reviewed the status of her projects still awaiting approval, she was livid. Golden had over a dozen manuscripts pending for more than a year, as did Harper. She wanted them to commit to the works or let her sell them elsewhere. Margaret accused both Ursula and Georges of trying to control her output by slowing down their decisions to commit to a manuscript.
She had agreed to Golden’s paltry monthly advance only because Georges said he would publish four of her books per year, not accept and then hold on to the manuscripts. If he didn’t publish her manuscripts, there was no way for her to earn anything past the advance. She would have no more of it. If Golden wasn’t going to publish the manuscripts they were holding on to, then she wanted a kill fee and demanded those works be returned. She refused to sign the new deal with Golden and demanded a quick review of her projects with Harper.
Ursula responded quickly. She told Margaret that she had always appreciated the informality of their working relationship, and she assumed Margaret did, too. She didn’t want to lose the good things about their closeness but was eager to settle the messier aspects that casualness wrought. She promised to give Margaret concrete decisions on submissions quickly and to schedule the publication of accepted manuscripts promptly. She was certain they could find a happy medium of friendship and professionalism. She told Margaret how much it meant to work with her as an editor but also as someone who appreciated Margaret’s talent, then she joked that they should now sing a hymn together.
Margaret did value Ursula as an editor and a friend, so she quickly backed down. She didn’t feel quite the same way about Georges. She gave him a set of dueling pistols and joked that this might be the better way to settle their contract negotiations. She also complained about a small underpayment on a recent royalty statement. Georges sarcastically feigned shock at the company’s gross negligence. He promised to have their accountant shot by firing squad at dawn.
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In October, Margaret and her valet, Pietro, were in her apartment when her ancient refrigerator’s icebox exploded, leaking ammonia gas throughout the rooms. There was no way to escape the long, narrow apartment without going back through the smoke and gas. They were able to grab Crispian and make it to Margaret’s bedroom at the far end of the apartment. Gasping for air, they flung open the window and breathed in the clean air. There was no fire escape, ladder, or rope. They screamed for help and kept their heads out the window. Margaret held the wriggling dog so that his nose, too, would not take in the toxic fumes.
Finally, her upstairs neighbor who had lived through the London Blitz came to their rescue. He brought wet towels to shield them from the gas as they fled the apartment. The gas was so noxious that it peeled the paint off her walls, removed the varnish on her furniture, and killed all her plants. Pietro remained sick for months afterward, and Margaret developed a bronchial condition that lasted into the following year. She became exceedingly frustrated in her dealings with her landlord, Captain Vincent Astor, whose often-unresponsive company had finally replaced the damaged refrigerator with one that was similar in age and just as hazardous. She eventually turned the whole matter over to Harriet, commenting that her landlord’s lackadaisical ways were irritating—who did he think he was? A writer?
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