Pennies on the Dollar

Pennies On The Dollar

By Sandra McGregor

Copyright 2011 Sandra McGregor

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Thank you

Chapter One

When you’re at the bottom, the only way to look is up.

----Beverly Crystal

Hey, lady, are you this woman?

Beverly started to ignore the young boy staring up at her with hopeful eyes, thrusting a book forward with the back cover facing outward. She opened her mouth to lie and deny who she was, but paused. She was already late for an unwanted appointment with destiny and this would make her even later. With a sigh, she stopped, closed her eyes for a second, and then turned to stare down at the child.

It’s for my mother, he continued eagerly, appearing to gain confidence now that he had her attention. It’s her birthday and I got it on the table inside the store…with my allowance. He beamed, displaying a space where a tooth had once been.

He got it on the table inside. That was another way of saying it was on sale, for pennies on the dollar—the story her life had become.

When Beverly turned away, she left the child standing on the sidewalk, staring at her as she escaped. He was left holding a book he had lovingly bought for his mother. He was left with a scrawled signature: To Mommy, Happy Birthday, Beverly Crystal.

*****

It didn’t really matter to her that she was late since she wasn’t convinced she wanted to bother with Blake McGaven’s project. Like everyone else, since she sold her first book six years earlier, he wanted a slice of her life.

Actually, he wants the whole damn cake, she muttered, flicking her long, dark hair away from her face just before she tripped over an uneven crack in the sidewalk.

I’ll be… She glanced down to see a scuffmark on the toe of her favorite brown boots. She hesitated for a moment, closed her eyes and counted slowly as she willed her breathing and her temper back into submission.

At twenty-nine she had known fame and success with five straight book releases reaching the New York Times Bestseller’s list, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to share her life again with the world. Would anyone even care about a woman who once had it all and let it slip through her fingers? Maybe. Or would they snicker politely behind their hands and whisper that she had gotten what she deserved? Probably.

The brownstone was small, but nicely landscaped with a tiny patch of trimmed lawn and two pots of colorful flowers guarding the top of the steps that led to the small porch. It reminded her of her parents’ house, the only home she’d ever known where laughter was a daily item on her mother’s menu--at least while her father lived with them.

When anything went wrong, when a favorite dish got broken or milk was spilled, her mother would smile and said, There’s always more where that came from. The good Lord will provide. Looking back, Beverly realized that God must have provided for her family…a lot.

At the top of the steps, Beverly rang the buzzer, waiting for the click before opening the door and stepping inside. The entry and the living room off to the left were neat and clean, even pretty in a less is more sort of way. To the right sat a huge oak desk in the middle of what had probably once been a formal dining room. The space was now crowded with overflowing bookshelves that lined all available walls.

The picture on the wall behind the desk was obviously an original oil and very good, but the room and it’s contents were taken in at a glance. Her mind registered nothing else after honing in on the man sitting behind the desk with a phone up to his ear, motioning for her to come in. He was younger than he sounded on the phone, probably only a few years older than her twenty-nine years. Thick, wavy hair draped across his forehead, threatening his eyes, but it was the eyes that held her captive.

When he hung up the phone and turned the force of his undivided stare toward her, she swallowed before she spoke. Blakely McGaven?

Yes, but please call me Blake, he answered, standing as she glanced around once more before bringing her eyes back to his and taking a few tentative steps toward his outstretched hand.

Their palms briefly gripped, just long enough for her chilled fingers to envy his warmth.

Please, have a seat. May I call you Beverly?

Without returning his smile, she nodded and then sat in the chair he indicated. He reminded her of Travis Powell, her former agent, live-in lover and scum. She wasn’t sure if Blake McGaven would turn out to be of the same ilk, but even though she was desperate, she was going to listen to his offer before deciding whether or not to give him what he wanted.

Nice place, she said, allowing her eyes to take a slow trip around the room, hesitating an extra moment on the stuffed monkey watching them from the perch on top of a tall bookcase. Wondering at the significance, but not enough to ask, her eyes finally dropped down to meet his, settling in to analyze the man sitting on the other side of the desk.

Thank you. I’m comfortable here. Now, I’m sure you want to know exactly what I have in mind, so I’ll get right to the point.

She nodded, crossing her legs and reaching into her Coach purse for the engraved, platinum cigarette case and matching lighter.

Um, I don’t allow smoking in here.

She stopped with her hands halfway to her mouth and pinned him with narrowed eyes, holding him captive for a few tedious seconds before she continued. After touching the flame to the tip, she dragged in a deep breath and closed her eyes slightly as she savored the taste before she tipped her chin up and spiraled the smoke toward the ceiling.

I don’t think you understand, Mr. McGaven. If I don’t smoke, I don’t talk. Adjust, she finished, sliding her gaze back to the deep blue eyes that neither smiled nor glared, just watched her every breath.

His face might have been chiseled from stone since he didn’t blink for several moments, but Beverly counted the beats of her heart as she waited for his reaction to her challenge. Blake was the first to break eye contact as he sighed softly, pushed his swivel chair back a couple of feet and stood.

She fully expected him to tell her that the interview was over. In fact, that’s what she wanted. Then she could leave--she could go back to her apartment and do what she had been doing for months until his call ripped through the silence and dragged her up from the paralyzing memories of all her yesterdays.

He hesitated behind his desk, rigid and stoic, like the palace guards she saw once in London. Then as silent as the misty fog on a summer morning, he rounded the end of the desk and stopped beside her chair. The clock ticked several times before he moved past her without a word and stepped over to the window where he flipped the lock open and slid the glass up as far as it would go.

Without looking her way, he returned to the desk, eased into the chair and swiveled the chair around to switch on a small table fan. The hum was the only sound in the room as he turned back, rested his elbows on the desk and linked his fingers. The cost of cleaning the drapes will be taken from your share of the profit.

Beverly narrowed her eyes slightly, but forced herself to relax back into the chair before she spoke. Okay, so what is it you want from me?

I gave you the Reader’s Digest condensed version on the phone. I’ll fill in a few details and see if this is something you’re interested in doing.

His brief smile was probably intended to be friendly, but she didn’t trust him and she didn't like the situation he was putting her in. He won the first round with his little announcement that she would have to pay to clean the drapes, but she intended to win the war. She mentally put a chalk mark on her side of the scoreboard when his smile faded.

He waited for a few seconds until she lowered her chin in a brief nod. I could write your story without your input, but I’d rather hear your side of the events and I’m willing to give up twenty-five percent of my net payment.

Another stream of smoke curled toward the ceiling before being caught in the draft to be blown toward the window. She watched it, but said nothing.

I’ve mapped out a basic outline, a time-line of sorts, but I’d like your version of the events along the journey of your life. He waited, but when she remained silent, his eyes narrowed just before he leaned back in his chair and exhaled in a long sigh. If I can’t get your story directly from you, it will leave me no choice but to research back through the tabloids and the other books written about you and then put my own spin on it.

Bullshit! Her response was immediate, hurled from between compressed lips as her breaths came in rapid succession, accompanied by a glare she hurled at the man sitting in front of her. That was all they wrote. Bullshit. The words were hissed from behind clenched teeth as her fingers gripped the chair’s arm. Her eyes snapped as if she dared him to challenge her opinion.

Her frown deepened as she watched Blake lean over and reach into the garbage can. When he straightened, he had a cardboard coffee cup in his hand, probably from that morning’s trip to the corner bakery. Her frown relaxed a degree, but she wondered what he was going to do with the cup.

When he sat it on the edge of the desk near her right hand, she stared at it for a moment, and with a slight shrug, flicked the ashes into the receptacle he provided.

Beverly, just to put your mind at ease, I never thought they were telling the whole truth. After all, they wanted to sell magazines. That’s why I wanted to give you a chance to tell your story in your own words. I’m confident that it will be the story that the world has never heard, about the woman the world only thinks they know.

Not to mention that you hope to get all the dirt firsthand so you can improve your odds of getting a sale to the right publisher, right?

Miss Crystal, I’m a good writer. I know my agent will be able to sell the book, but I happen to think the tabloids only touched the tip of the iceberg and therefore I’m sure our book will sell much better than one I could write on my own.

This was the critical moment. She narrowed her eyes as he leaned back in the chair and remained quiet. While he waited, her mind whirled with the option he was offering and the corner she felt he was pushing her into.

She forced her legs to remain crossed even though she wanted to squirm under his direct stare. Actually, what she really wanted to do was make a grand statement about not needing him and that she didn't care what he chose to write. Then she would make a dramatic exit.

She was rooted to her chair. Bottom line was that there were only two choices. She could either walk out or agree to work with him. One would feed her ego, but the other might put food on the table.

Two years earlier, the tabloids splashed her picture and her name all over the front pages of magazines to tell the world that Travis Powell had left her. Thankfully, they had been so focused on his being an agent to several New York Times best selling authors that they failed to dig deep enough to discover and report that he had spent all her money and left her with barely enough income to pay the rent and utilities for a small loft apartment. Thank God for royalties that he was bound by law to remit to her—royalties he no longer had personal access to.

She sat staring at the next man in a short but powerful line of males who wants control of her life. Her father was first and then her one and only agent. They had both gotten what they wanted, but at her expense. Well, this time was going to be different. She just needed to think this through.

Several minutes passed before she spoke. How much time would you expect from me?

Well, it will probably take six months, but I wouldn’t need to meet with you every day. I will need time between our meetings to type up my notes. I think twice a week will be enough. Will that fit in your schedule?

Beverly choked back a snort. Her schedule? She didn’t have a schedule—hadn’t followed one for several years. Meeting with him two times a week would only mean that she had to set her alarm twice. Nothing more.

Anything else?

If you’d be willing to do a book-signing tour with me, I’ll add five percent to your fee.

Why would you want me to go? I’m not the author, you are.

You will draw a lot more people and thus sell a lot more books, he answered honestly. We both would make more money.

His words sent a chill down her arms. Even though he was using her, at least he wasn’t lying about it. She had heard enough lies to know the difference. She had been young and naïve when she sold her first best seller. Then Travis entered her life and made promises and she had trusted him. Living with him had taught her some valuable lessons. Now she knew how to recognize a liar.

At almost thirty she should be old enough to weigh the pros and cons of a business proposition and make a sound decision, but she had made enough poor choices in her life to sink a battleship…and a career. She shifted, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward to shove the end of the cigarette into the side of the cup before letting it drop into the ashes.

Well, money is what I’m here about, right? She hated hearing the disgust in her voice, but money was what talked. Money was power, and money was what she had precious little of. Without royalties on her books and the one made-for-television movie, she would be on the street. She shuddered, refusing to linger on the thought of being penniless, yet knowing it was a real possibility if she didn’t get an additional source of income soon.

Blake shrugged but left her to decide without further input from him.

It took only seconds to make up her mind, but she hesitated almost a minute before she spoke. Okay, I guess if you’re going to write it anyway, I might as well make sure that at least one book on the market contains the truth. I want refusal rights on anything you write and on the final manuscript.

Book tour?

She shrugged, a slight nod being her only answer.

Good. I’ll have my attorney draft a contract that you can sign the next time you come. Now, I’d like to get started … He hesitated mid-sentence when she stood.

I have to go. She was almost to the door when his question broke through the roaring in her ears.

Can you start next Monday?

She lifted her hand in a wave without turning to answer. Escape. Right now that was her only priority.

The door slammed behind her, propelling her forward down the steps, faster, faster until she was almost running. She held the sobs until she was in the next block, sobs that gushed out, relieving the pressure of holding them back. What had she done? What had she agreed to? She had just sold herself again. When she thought she had given all she had to give, someone, another man, came along and pushed her into a corner, forcing her to sell off another piece of her soul.

She stood rooted to the tiny space on the sidewalk, the few inches that were hers, at least for the moment, a personal space where no one could intrude. She bowed her head, hardly noticing that several people stared as they walked around her, but no longer caring what people thought about her or the tears that dripped unheeded from her jaw. Why should anyone care about a woman who couldn’t start her day without a double shot of Scotch to put enough steel in her spine for her to even stand and walk? No one really cared anymore. But she had agreed. She was obligated. She would set her alarm.

Chapter Two

Every journey I’ve ever taken started with baby steps.

----Beverly Crystal

Blake had permission to tape record the sessions, but he still liked to take notes. It kept his focus sharp. He sat, leaning over the desk with all his attention on the woman in front of him, the woman who wore designer jeans and ten-dollar deck shoes. She was a contradiction that he needed to resolve in his mind.

Today her hair was twisted into a bun at the top of her head, yet several times she pushed at the few stray hairs that wisped around her face.

What was your childhood like?

A sad smile slowly lifted the corners of her mouth, giving him a glimpse of the woman whose picture graced the back cover of her last hardback book--a cover that said she was in her mid-twenties—at that time, yet her current response hinted that she had lived a lot more life in those years than some might imagine.

Although several years had passed since the book cover picture was taken and the editor’s blurb about her life had been written, she was still young, by industry standards. She dressed with class and despite the cigarette hanging from two slender fingers of her ring-less, left hand, she looked radiant enough to be giving a television interview.

It started in Macon, Georgia.

What’s Macon, Georgia like?

Macon is just a stop along the interstate on the way to Florida. She took a long drag on the cigarette before turning her gaze inward to her childhood.

*****

Mommy, watch me twirl! Beverly spun in a circle until she stumbled into the end table, causing coffee to slosh from the mug to splash on the laminated surface.

Now look what you’ve done, Betty Ann Crystal scolded. I can’t have anything nice in this house without you messing it up. Go on and play outside, she ordered, returning to the book she was reading.

Beverly stopped. Her head tipped forward, sending her chin to rest on her tiny chest as she sucked in her breath, holding it while she turned and left the room. She was five now, old enough to be a lady and not make messes, or at least that’s what her mother was always telling her. But it was hard to always be careful…and quiet. And it wasn’t any fun. It wasn’t the same as when Daddy had lived with them.

Now, that had been fun, but she must have done something really bad to make him angry enough to leave and never come back. If he ever came back, she could ask what she had done and then she would promise never to do it again. Honest—cross her heart and hope to die. If he would just come home.

Her feet dragged as she went out the back door, remembering at the last second to grab the screen and not let it slam. Pick up your toys, make your bed, stop making noise, she mumbled under her breath, darting a fugitive glance toward the door to be sure her mother hadn’t heard her. She’d never forget the last time her mother punished her for being sassy. Unconsciously her hand came up to touch her cheek before it slid to cover her mouth.

With three quick steps, she was off the porch and racing toward the swing her daddy had hung in the big tree in the corner of the yard. After clamoring up onto the plastic seat, she pumped her legs until the swing finally started moving. As it gained height, she leaned her head back and looked up into the tree. A giggle slipped out as she closed her eyes until her stomach dropped from the sky, catching up with the rest of her body when she reached the bottom of the swing’s arch.

I’m my daddy’s beautiful girl, she sang in her lilting voice, and I’m going to set the world on fire, she sang, reaching a high note just as the swing reached it’s highest point before it started down. Her smile slipped away, quickly gone as she allowed the swing to slow until she was sitting with her feet swinging a couple inches above the ground. Daddy, why did you leave me? She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek to get rid of the evidence. Her mommy hated for her to act like a baby.

*****

They had been working for two hours.

Let’s take a few minutes for a coffee break. He marveled at her openness and honesty about the emotional upheaval she experienced as a child. He had expected evasiveness or even outright refusal to answer certain questions, but so far, she was cooperating.

They both stood near the window overlooking the street while Beverly poured coffee in two mugs. Where did your father go? Blake asked the question without looking up from adding powdered creamer to his cup.

I don’t know for sure, but I heard once that he was hired by a company overseas, so that’s probably why I never heard from him—at least that’s what I’ve told myself over the years, she said, adding a slight shrug.

He returned to the chair, putting the desk between them. Today she was dressed more casually. The jeans sported a designer name on the back pocket, and the designer’s emblem was emblazoned across the front of her rhinestone-studded T-shirt, but they fit her like a second skin, leaving nothing about her figure to his imagination. He had forced himself to concentrate on his notes while she talked, not allowing his eyes to wander too far below her eyes--not allowing his thoughts to stray down a road that he had no right or desire to travel. He had enough baggage of his own without getting too involved with this woman. Strictly business was how he wanted it and how it must be.

Despite his self-talk and forced concentration, her perfectly manicured fingernails and makeup caught his attention. After sitting her mug on the edge of his desk, she straightened and clasped her hands together before stretching them over her head. He tried to ignore the way the clothes hugged her back to accentuate her trim waist and the flare of her curved hips and slender legs, but his eyes—and his body, had other ideas.

He was captured, sucked into a whirlpool with every nerve ending on alert when she bent from side to side to relieve the tight muscles in her back. Like a sleepwalker, he was in a trance, instinct now controlling his bodily responses. With a Herculean effort, he brought his eyes to her full lips, registering subconsciously that she hadn’t resorted to injections to achieve the look of someone issuing an invitation to come closer and savor. He wasn’t sure how he knew, he just did.

Her dark-brown hair and clothes were perfect. Classy. When she started to speak again, he jerked his mind back to business, glancing down at his notes and licking his suddenly dry lips.

I actually hired a private investigator about five years ago and it seems my father died in two-thousand and one. He had remarried, so I have a stepmother and a couple half-brothers somewhere out West. Go figure. He apparently stayed with them, she said. She turned, again putting her back toward him as she took her time to refill her half-empty mug from the pot that sat on top of a short bookcase.

Have you met them? The step-family?

No. He was already dead so there was no need to intrude in their lives and stir up any problems. She hesitated, staring down into the black swirling pool she had created with the spoon.

He couldn’t help noticing the frown and then the jerking movement when she abruptly turned, apparently dragging her mind back from painful memories. She faced him and moved slowly to the desk where she sat her cup down before she eased into the chair, dropping the last couple inches as if her strength suddenly gave out.

Blake glanced back at his notes, hoping to hide the fact that he had noticed her boneless slump into the chair. He gave her a few moments before he looked back at her to ask his next question. How about your mother? Is she still alive?

A laugh snorted out as she stiffened, leveling an emerald gaze at him. My mother is a whole other story, she said, sliding up to sit straighter in the chair again and reaching up to pull the pins from her hair. The mass of wavy dark hair cascaded down to rest on her shoulders. After tunneling her fingers through it, she let her arms drop, allowing her hands to rest in her lap as she reflected back more than twenty years.

*****

The night was dark, but she was awake. Bumping noises were coming through the wall, as if maybe her mommy was pounding on it with her fist. One of her mommy’s friends came for dinner, but as soon as she finished all the spaghetti on her princess plate, she had been