Chapter Thirteen Fran

Chapter Thirteen

Fran

September 1959

Fran stops in her tracks, standing beneath a cherry tree in Central Park. She simply can't believe it. "So all of that was real ? He changed his mind about marrying a princess?"

"Yes," Maria says. "He did. But why does the script call her a Baroness?"

Fran shakes her head. She doesn't know. She looks out over the reservoir toward the skyline and frowns. Wouldn't it have been more glamorous to call Yvonne a princess? Perhaps they're trying to protect her identity, she thinks, and offers this line of reasoning to Maria.

"Perhaps," Maria huffs, and they continue to walk.

"How much more time do you have in the city?" Fran asks. "Can we meet tomorrow?" Suddenly, it isn't enough that she read Maria's autobiography last night. She wants to hear all of it from Maria herself.

"Same time, same bench," Maria jokes. "Bring those sensible shoes again."

At the office, everyone is headed to lunch.

"You coming?" Jack asks.

It's Thursday, and the lunch counter at Woolworths will have the best baked ham and cheese anywhere in the city for sixty cents. Fran is starving, but there's a pile of work on her desk. She's about to refuse when the door to Hammerstein's office swings open.

"There she is," he says, his voice filling the room. "Author of ‘This Little Town.' Very impressive, Miss Connelly."

"It came out?" Fran exclaims. How could she have forgotten to get a copy this morning?

Hammerstein returns to his office and emerges with The New Yorker, folded open to her story. He hands her the copy and she runs her hand across the page. It's real. She's been published.

"If I may ask, how old are you, Miss Connelly?"

She holds the magazine in her hands, breathless. "Twenty-four."

A smile creases Hammerstein's face. "You have a real future as a writer," he says. Then he notices that she's taken off her jacket. "Aren't you going to lunch?"

"I just returned from another meeting with Maria."

Hammerstein narrows his eyes. "Progress?"

Fran shakes her head. "But she leaves on Sunday, so there's time. Anyway, I have quite a few press releases—"

Hammerstein waves them away. "Go."

She's about to protest, but Hammerstein looks firm. And tired. Does he seem paler than usual? She offers the magazine back to him, but his smile only widens. "Keep it."

In the elevator, Peter is the first to reach out. "Let's have a look!" Of all the young people working now in Hammerstein's office, Fran is the first to be published. "We should hit the kiosk and get as many copies as we can!"

Peter hands Jack the magazine and Jack studies it carefully. "It's four pages," Jack says, and Fran can't make out the expression on his face. It certainly doesn't seem to be excitement. "I thought it was going to be three."

Fran's pretty sure she's glowing. So why doesn't it feel that Jack is just as happy? The other assistants congratulate her, and one of them asks if she might give him a few tips on approaching editors.

On the cab ride home that evening, Jack takes another look at the magazine, lingering on the byline. "Your publication made everyone pretty excited today."

"But not you." It's a statement, not a question.

"Well, of course I'm happy. I mean, obviously, I want to publish, too."

"And what do your writing ambitions have to do with my publication?" Fran asks. "This isn't a competition."

"No? Not even when Hammerstein singles you out to say that you're the one with a future in writing?"

Fran sits back against the leather seat of the cab, taking him in. "You are really unattractive right now." She's not lying. The sneer on his face is ugly.

"Is that right?"

The cab pulls up to the curb and Fran snatches back Hammerstein's copy of The New Yorker. "Yes. Don't bother picking me up tomorrow," she says. She slams the door and is thankful that Eva isn't in the lobby. Because she's in tears by the time she reaches her apartment.

—

"Honey, what is it?" her father asks when her voice catches on the line.

"My story was just published in The New Yorker, " Fran chokes out, and there's whoops of joy as her father leaves to tell her sister. Then her mother is on the line.

"Well, that's wonderful. Really, just wonderful. And how is Jack?" Because this is actually what her mother wants to talk about.

"I frankly don't care how Jack is doing," Fran snaps.

There's a little gasp on the line. "Why would you say that, honey? Did you break up?"

"Maybe." Fran's throat is becoming thick again. "Is Dad there?"

Fran can hear the phone being passed. "Your daughter. She just broke up with Jack."

"Dad, he wasn't happy for me. The story came out today and even Hammerstein congratulated me. But not Jack." Fran begins to cry, realizing what this means.

"Do you want to come home?" her father asks quietly.

Fran wraps the phone cord around her fingers and thinks. "No."

"What will make you happy then?"

The answer comes before she even has to think about it. "Writing."

"Then you do more of that."

"Mom would die," Fran whispers into the phone.

"Mom will be just fine, " he says loudly. "What about your book? Is it done?"

She looks across her bedroom to the stack of printed papers on her desk. Four hundred and fifty-six papers to be exact. "Yes."

"So what are you waiting for? You're a published author now."

The question lingers even after Fran has hung up the phone with her father. What are you waiting for? Her book has been finished for months. Has she been waiting to submit it to publishers until she heard back from The New Yorker ? Or has part of her always suspected that if she were to have success at publishing before Jack, he'd resent it? She thinks of the way Peter's eyes lit up when Hammerstein mentioned her story, how genuinely pleased he was for her success, and suddenly she feels not just angry but disgusted with Jack.

She crosses the room and picks up her manuscript, feeling the weight of it in her hands. Then she sits down and begins her query letter, briefly describing what the book is about and ending by mentioning her publication in The New Yorker. The next morning she puts on her favorite tailored suit with kitten heels and a matching scarf, then hails a taxi. "The Villard Houses, at Madison and Fifty-First."

"Random House?" the man asks.

Fran glances down at her large handbag with the manuscript inside. "That's the place."

By the time the cab pulls into the gravel courtyard of the sprawling brownstone, Fran's pulse is racing. Is she being foolish? Maybe the book isn't ready. But then she hears her father's voice and she knows.

A secretary directs her to the north wing, where she finds another secretary tapping away at the same typewriter Fran uses in Hammerstein's office. "Who's your appointment with?" the woman asks without looking up.

"I don't have one. I've come to drop off a manuscript."

The older woman stops typing. "You a writer here?" She peers over her large glasses at Fran.

"No. But I'd like to be." She fishes in her handbag and lifts out her manuscript. "For Mrs. Ollander. One of your editors." Fran hands over her work, two years in the making, and the secretary leaves it on the corner of her desk. "I'll see that she gets it. Thank you, Miss—"

"Connelly."

"Connelly. If she likes it, you can be sure she'll be in touch."

Fran hesitates. "And if she doesn't, will I get it back?"

"Did you include your address?" She glances at the title page and sees that Fran has. "If it's not Mrs. Ollander's cup of tea—and I'm going to be frank, most things aren't—I'll send it back in the post."

"Thank you. I look forward to hearing, either way."

The secretary indulges Fran with a brief smile and then it's done. All those months of twisting herself into knots over whether she should change the title or do more research, and now it's out of her hands.

Outside, Fran looks across the courtyard to St. Patrick's Cathedral and offers up a little prayer. Then she changes into sneakers and practically runs toward Central Park.