Ms. Taken Identity (27 page)

But not me. I decide to take a Native American approach. They had a great knack for calling things the way they saw them.
For example, they noticed that a big river seemed to stretch everywhere, so they called it the “father of all waters”: Mississippi.
Or they noticed a guy who liked to dance with wolves, so they called him “Dances with Wolves.” So what’s this early stage
of being engaged like? It’s like waking up every day and noticing something different, or fresh, or changed from the night
before, that there’s a new bud or bloom or splash of color, and life seems bounteous and bursting at the seams, and it makes
you want to be a poet, even if you should stick to fiction. It’s like spring.
Springtime days!
Only that doesn’t do it. So I go for the Spanish.
Primavera days
. But that sounds like a sales pitch at the Olive Garden. So I narrow it down to the element of spring I like most: the smells.
Flowers, sure, and honeysuckle and jasmine and lilac, but just the smell of grass clippings and wet earth, Mother Nature spritzing
on a bit of fragrance. Perfume days.
Dias perfumados
. Perfect.

Katharine calls from New York a couple weeks into January. At first I think she’s calling to congratulate me on my engagement,
but I’m getting my worlds confused. How would she know? Rosie? Marie’s Uncle Ted?
Page Six
? We chat about the holidays, which I tell her were great, and she says hers were very nice, too, though it wasn’t all fun
and games. She had some work to do.

“We found a publisher,” she says.

“Pardon?”

“We found a publisher. For
Catwalk Mama
. My agent’s on the line with us and she can explain all the details, since she did all the work. Say hello to Susannah Berg.”

I say hello to Susannah Berg.

“I’ll get right to it, Mitch,” Susannah says in a voice that belongs on radio: rich, sonorous, confident. “I made the rounds
with
Catwalk Mama
, and let me tell you she caused quite a stir. People talking beach book of the year. Blockbuster. Movie rights. I almost
took it to auction. But I think I found us an excellent fit: Sheldon Leifer at Regency House.”

Beach book of the year? Blockbuster?
Movie rights
? “Uh, sounds good.”

“And Bradley?” asks Katharine.

Bradley
?
Who cares about Bradley? Oh,
Bradley
. “I can’t speak for her, for certain. But I think she’ll be pleased.”

“Excellent,” Susannah says. “Then we need to move quickly on this one, because Mr. Leifer is over the moon about it and wants
it ready for an early summer release. You know how it works from here, right?”

“Like the back of my hand.” I pause. “A refresher would be good, though.”

“Okay, I’ll break it down. As the agent for the book, I’m the one who’ll negotiate a deal with the publisher. In ordinary
cases, an agent would directly represent the writer, Bradley. But in this case, since she already has an agent—you—both of
you are my clients. Make sense?”

“So far.”

“Good. Now, when I strike a deal with the publisher, he cuts me a check for the full amount, called the advance. Let’s use
real numbers here, just to keep it simple. Let’s say half a mil.”

“Half a what?”

“Half a million. Five hundred thousand. That’s probably not the exact amount, but I want to keep things round. From that check,
I take my share, seven and a half percent. Thirty-seven thousand, five hundred. Then I cut a check to you for the remainder,
you take your thirty-seven five, and Bradley gets the rest.”

“You do have a contract with her, don’t you?” Katharine interjects.

“Oh, sure. No doubt.”

“Smart man. Sometimes people assume just because it’s family, they don’t have to worry about that. But money makes people
do strange things. Sorry, Susannah, back to you.”

“Not much more to say. Other than, after the publisher has recouped the advance amount, based on books sold, we all get a
percentage on each book sold thereafter, called a royalty. And that’s how it works. Any questions?”

“Just one. You used half a million as the advance amount. Why that number?”

“Because I think that’s what we can expect. Probably a little more, but not much.” She pauses. “Unless you want to strike
out on your own with this. If you think you can do better, more power to you.”

“No, no, not at all. That amount sounds good. I was thinking in that range anyway so, no, let’s just stick with it.”

“Great. Now, all I need is for you and Bradley to come up here next week and meet with the publisher to seal the deal.”

All the air gets sucked out of the room. “You mean both of us come up? Bradley
and
me? In person? Aren’t these things usually handled through the mail?”

“Typically, yes. But this is
far
from typical, Mitch. We’re on a crash publication schedule. There’s a half-million-dollar advance in play. We have an author
with two agents.” She pauses. “There won’t be a problem with that, will there?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” Then I explain to Susannah all the Emily Dickinson stuff about Bradley, shy bird and all.
Which means she might not come.

“Oh my,” Susannah says, making no effort to mask her impatience or alarm. “Uh… Katharine, a little help?”

“Look, Mitch,” Katharine steps in, her voice a skosh to the good side of scolding, “I get it that Bradley’s reclusive and
sensitive. And to be honest, Susannah and I both like the mystery-author-veiled-in-shadow part of it. Sheldon does too. But
mystery author or not, Sheldon wants to meet with everyone face-to-face before he signs off on this. And trust me: he’s not
going to budge on that. If you don’t show up with Bradley, the whole deal goes kaput. She needs to be here.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t just
try
, Mitch. Do it. I’ve gone to bat for her in a big way. So have you. Susannah has worked her rear off. I don’t think that’s
asking too much. Do you?”

“No.” I feel like a reprimanded schoolboy.

“Great. Then I’ll let you talk to Susannah about the details, when and where we’re going to meet. You get the two of you up
here, I’ll take care of the hotel. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

I am that close to half a million dollars. And that far away.

When I tell Marie I’m getting published, she throws her arms around me and starts jumping up and down and nearly gives me
whiplash. When I tell her the amount Susannah tossed out, suddenly all the jump is gone and she’s quiet as a monk at a morgue.

“Oh my god,” she finally whispers. Then she looks around the room, like she’s checking for spies or surveillance devices or
hidden cameras. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“I am. And all I have to do is fly out there and meet with the publisher…” But here, where my voice should be shooting to
the moon with excitement, it trails off.

“Except…”

“Except… I have to bring my cousin with me. My female author cousin. Bradley.”

For a long time neither one of us speaks.

“What’re you going to do?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

I remember an old comedy skit where a guy wore half a tuxedo and half an evening gown, split right down the middle, and he
could be a man or woman, depending on which profile he showed. There’s also Robin Williams in
Mrs. Doubtfire
. Those two got away with it. But something tells me none of that will work for me.

“Mitch, let me ask you something.” She rubs her hands on her jeans, a little uneasy, like she’s not so sure about what she’s
about to do. “Does the name Edward Lewis ring a bell?”

“Not at all.”

She gives me a small smile. “Actually, I’d be kind of worried if it did. It’s Richard Gere’s character in
Pretty Woman
. You’ve seen it, right?”

“Yep.” And I want to add “unfortunately,” but I realize just in time that it’s her favorite movie.

“Remember what Edward does?”

I think for a minute about the scenes I actually remember. “Punches out the guy from
Seinfeld
?”

“Way before that. What he does to get the whole movie going.”

“Uh… hires a prostitute to pose as his girlfriend.”

“Exactly.” She pauses to let me make the connection.

“You want me to hire a prostitute to pose as Bradley?”

She just stares at me. “You’re so clueless sometimes.” She puts a hand on her hip and does something I think is supposed to
be a hooker pose, but Marie doesn’t have much of an inner hooker, so it looks more like she threw her back out. “I was thinking
maybe someone closer to home.”

“Ah…
that
close to home.”

I believe I’ve found my cousin. And a kissing cousin at that.

I
know a lot about New York City, since I watch TV and I’ve been to the movies, and it’s the setting for basically every other
TV show and movie ever made (except
Shrek
; I think that was upstate New York). Even so, I wasn’t prepared for this. Just from the limo (that’s right,
limo!
) ride from LaGuardia to our hotel in Midtown, past the Chrysler Building and Grand Central Terminal and St. Patrick’s Cathedral
and MoMA, it’s better than I ever expected.

I have three goals for tonight. First, dinner. We go to a place called Reuben’s (yep, it’s where they invented the sandwich)
and it’s great. Second, I want to take a dry run to the place where we’ll be meeting tomorrow, Michael’s, to make sure we
know how to get there and how long it’ll take. So we swing by. And last—touristy, stupid, I know—we go skating at Rockefeller
Center. It’d be great if they still had the Christmas tree up, but it’s still just fun to be out there knowing you’re not
on a pond in the middle of the woods, you’re in a city, and if you want to walk across the street to Saks in your skates,
you can. Marie spends most of her time sipping hot cocoa, while I do some laps to burn off nervous energy.

Back at the hotel, I take a shower, and when I come out of the bathroom, I expect to see her sprawled on the bed, cozy and
comfortable, doing her nails or combing out her hair or lying on her side, modeling a satin teddy or leopard print v-string
that she had time to buy at Hermès when she slipped away at the restaurant and pretended to use the bathroom, since she is,
after all, pulling a Julia Roberts for the weekend. Instead, she’s sitting on the bed, not so cozy or comfortable, in a flannel
shirt and sweatpants that are definitely not lingerie, with her knees pulled up to her chest.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Did I miss something?”

“Uh-uh,” she mumbles. She’s staring over her knees, at a spot on the bed.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. Nothing. That’s why you look like someone just died.” I lay myself across the bed, next to her. “What is it?”

She pulls her arms tighter around her shins. “You’ll think I’m a baby.”

I rub the small of her back. “I already do. Baby.” Cheesy and silly, but that’s how I feel. “Now tell me.”

She does a little rocking thing like an upset child might. “I was just thinking about tomorrow. I’m not good at this kind
of thing.”

“What, lying? It’s easy, once you start. Just ask Jason.”

She doesn’t laugh.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”

But she can’t even work up a smile. “I’ll be walking in there pretending I’m someone I’m not, that I did something I didn’t
do.” She picks at the hem of her pants. “I don’t even know if I’ll be able to get the words out.”

“Then don’t. I’ll tell them you have laryngitis. Wave for hi, thumbs-up for thank you, wave again for goodbye. Hell, I’ll
even tell them you have the bird flu. They won’t want you in there any longer than you have to be. How’s that?”

But she just buries her head deeper against her knees.

“Marie, listen, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s my book. I wrote every single word, so it’s not like I’m stealing it from
anyone or claiming something is mine when it isn’t. I’m just using a pseudonym.” I’ve already told her all about O. Henry
and Mark Twain and George Eliot and she seemed to get it. “Besides, they don’t care if my shoe wrote it. They like it, they
want to publish it. No one’s getting hurt here.”

I give her a moment to come around, but she doesn’t. Then I hear little noises. Sniffling noises. “Hey, are you crying?”

“No,” she says thickly. She wipes her eyes and sniffles.

“Jesus, I had no idea this had you so worked up.”

“I’m sorry, Mitch. I thought I’d be okay with it. But I keep thinking about how it’ll be, me trying to laugh and smile and
act like this is one of the happiest days of my life.” She gives her nose a sloppy wipe on the top of her knee. “I can’t explain
why it bothers me so much, you seeing me lie like that, even though you know why I’m doing it. But it just… it just makes
me feel like such a…
fake
.”

I put my arms around her, and as she just sort of collapses into me, I know what this means: I’ll never have to worry about
her being dishonest, or cheating on me, or deceiving me in any way (the only downside being that I’ll never get one of those
grand surprise parties for my birthday, since pulling off one of those requires at least a small measure of trickery; but
it’s a small price to pay, all things considered). She’s too genuine and honest, and ever since the first night in the bar
when she found a way to tell me I was handsome, to this day she’s never given a hint that she’s capable of anything less than
the truth. Not till I needed a flesh-and-blood Cousin Bradley and she got roped into this mess. She’s not like my mother or
father, capable of hanging on to a secret for years, and she’s especially,
especially
not like me. Or Jason.

That’s when I realize I’m fucked.

Back when I was still with Hannah, we played a “would you rather?” game called Zobmondo one night with some of her friends.
It’s a pretty crude game, with questions like, “Would you rather get a paper cut on your eye, or have a toothpick shoved underneath
your fingernail?” or “Would you rather eat a bowl of live crickets or a tarantula’s legs?” But some of the non-gross-out questions
were actually provocative, and one that really heated things up was, “If your significant other had a fling on a business
trip, and there were no repercussions—pregnancy, stalking, ongoing relationship—would you rather know or not know?” Here’s
what I said that night: Yes, I’d want to know so that I could have the opportunity to address the deficiencies in the relationship
that caused her to cheat, and try to fix them. But here’s what I was thinking: Hell, yeah, I’d want to know, so I could either
dump her or have a get-even lay of my own.