In spite of the feeling of defeat that gripped her, Dorsey said halfheartedly, "Anita, I can't identify myself as the author of this book."
Anita's exasperated sigh was followed by an impatient "Why not?"
Even as the reasons unfolded in her head, Dorsey knew her editor would never understand them. She scarcely understood herself why she was so reluctant to do what Anita was asking her to do. All she'd ever wanted from life was security. Not just financial security, but personal security, too. Psychological security. Emotional security. In her own small way, she had won, or was about to win, all of those things. She was about to earn her Ph.D., was close to nailing down a position at Severn College that would someday lead to tenure. She had a stable income and regular rituals she observed in her life, along with a daily routine that was wonderfully routine. There were no ups and downs for her these days, no unforeseen curves, no hidden trapdoors.
It was exactly what she wanted after growing up in an atmosphere where she and Carlotta had often, quite literally overnight, gone from living in posh apartments to the streets. One day her mother would be bringing home carryout from five-star restaurants for Dorsey's dinner, and the next day they'd have trouble scraping up enough for McDonald's. The quality of their lives had always depended on whether or not Carlotta had a benefactor lined up, and as often as not, those benefactors would disappear without warning. These days, more than anything else, Dorsey craved stability. Security. Routine.
The financial reward that Anita was promising, should Dorsey pose as Lauren Grable-Monroe, would give her mother all of those things, and Dorsey, too, by extension. Contrary to popular belief, she knew money could buy happiness. Because money could buy security. And security was everything—everything—she had ever wanted. For herself and Carlotta.
In spite of that, very softly, very slowly, Dorsey said, "I don't want to identify myself as the author, Anita, because, for the first time in my life, I'm enjoying a quiet, orderly existence. Something like this would wreak havoc in my life, with absolutely no guarantee of anything more. And I don't like havoc. I like even less the absence of guarantee. I'm going to be defending my dissertation in six months. If everybody knows I'm Lauren Grable-Monroe, it's going to totally blow my credibility in the academic community. There's a very good chance they wouldn't let me teach at Severn anymore."
"Dorsey, your mother will have piles of money," Anita reminded her. "You won't need to teach at Severn anymore."
"But what if you're wrong?" she asked. "What if those piles of money never materialize?"
"I'm not wrong."
"But what if you are?"
Anita seemed to sense Dorsey's distress, and, like any good New Yorker, she pounced on it. Ruthlessly. "Dorsey," she said, "if you come forward as Lauren to promote this book, it'll spur sales even higher. It'll garner your mother a fortune. Carlotta could potentially make a ton of money. I thought that was the whole point. How can you even think of balking at an opportunity like this? Lauren Grable-Monroe needs to come out of the closet. Now. We have to put her in the public eye. Now. She has to be made real. Now."
"She's right, Dorsey," Carlotta said, her voice somber, all traces of playfulness gone. "We did this for the money. I know I'll be the one benefiting from the profits—at your insistence—and I hope you don't think me frightfully selfish, but I do wish you'd reconsider."
This time Dorsey was the one to sigh. As cheerful and happy as Carlotta was now, she knew her mother feared growing old like nothing she had ever feared before. Although Carlotta had been the recipient of enormous financial backing over the years, her backers hadn't been heavy on cash. They'd been more amenable to investing jewelry, dinners, and lingerie, with a car or vacation thrown in as a year-end bonus.
They hadn't embraced any long-range goals where their investments were concerned either. They'd stayed for as long as they were interested, and then they'd pulled out—if one could pardon the incredibly tacky pun.
And as Carlotta had aged, her investors had become less frequent and less generous. Certainly she was still an attractive, vivacious woman, one who was capable of doing just about anything she wanted, should she set her mind to it. But what Carlotta wanted was to be cared for by a wealthy man. Nowadays, there just weren't that many wealthy men who wanted to take care of her.
Dorsey couldn't ever understand her mother's ambition. Or, rather, her lack of ambition, as she was more inclined to view it. Her mother was intelligent, resourceful, spirited, and in the prime of her life. Carlotta was capable of achieving so much, with or without a man involved. Convincing Carlotta of that, however, was next to impossible.
As much as Dorsey had tried to dissuade her, her mother was certain she could do nothing but what she had been doing since she was eighteen. Her entire adult life had been defined and made possible by the fact that she was young and beautiful and witty and because of that, rich men enjoyed being with her. She had never worked—well, not at anything that required punching a time clock—had never graduated from college, had never been trained to do anything that might lead to a career.
And because her benefactors these days were more infrequent and less inclined to hang around for long, Carlotta was convinced that she would die a desperate, destitute old woman, having nothing of interest to offer anyone of the male—and economically enhanced—persuasion.
Her position over the years—or, perhaps, positions, if one wanted to be gauche, which of course, Dorsey didn't, but that was how her mind worked sometimes, unfortunately—hadn't provided Carlotta with a nice retirement package. So she'd decided to create her own little financial nest egg. How to go about that, however, had eluded
