No Relation (43 page)

“I’ve heard of them. They’re huge! How did this happen? What did we pay for this? I knew nothing about it! It must have cost a fortune! Where are the billboards?”

“Whoa! Calm yourself, Sarah. Not that we’d ever admit this publicly, but this is pure serendipity, not savvy marketing. I stumbled across the billboard this morning. I saw it, stared at it, and walked right into a parking meter while I dragged my jaw along behind me. One of my NameFamer friends, Jesse Owens, is actually related to them. I was pretty sure she had something to do with it. I called her after I’d recovered enough to construct complete sentences. Under some heavy questioning, she admitted that she’d given them our product and suggested they wear them for the cover shot if they liked them. They both loved the underwear and the rest is marketing history. In addition to the album cover, it’s been released in print ads and billboards across the continent, and it all hits Europe next week. But there was a quid pro quo.”

“Okay, here we go,” Sarah said with a sigh. “What does she want?”

“Well, it’s pretty onerous. But as of this morning, I’m now chairing the fundraising committee to help collect the dough we need to transform her dental clinic into a full community health centre in a part of town that could sure use one.”

“And? What else?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it? She arranges for us to get millions and millions of dollars of free advertising and all you have to do is chair a committee.”

“Well, it seems like that right now. But her second cousins were always going to wear underwear. Most people do, you know. They just happened to be wearing the family brand. A bit of a nudge from her, and then plenty of blind luck.”

“Well, that blind luck is clearly boosting sales, and judging from the retailers seeing the biggest kick, it’s right in the younger demo we’ve had trouble reaching,” Sarah replied. “At this rate, we may need to add a second shift on the women’s line to keep up.”

“The world should have your problems.”

“You should talk to Dad, and bring it up at the next foundation meeting. I’d suggest we match whatever funds you’re able to raise in the community and maybe make a donation on top of that. Seems the least we can do.”

“That, and buy lots of albums.”

About three months earlier, Dad and Sarah had asked me to chair the Hemmingwear Foundation and manage the company’s
charitable and philanthropic investments. Doling out money to worthy causes was a role I thought I could handle.

We talked for a few more minutes, but Sarah was up to her ears and needed to get off the phone and back to work.

“Hem, send me addresses for your Jesse Owens friend and her hip-hop second cousins, too. A skid of underwear is heading their way, on the house.”

Soon after Sarah had taken over, Dad appointed Carlos Mendez as the new chief operating officer. I was thrilled for him. His longevity with the company, not to mention his personality, attitude, and understanding of virtually every aspect of production at Hemmingwear made him the logical, if overdue, choice. Sarah reported that he was really stepping up and doing a great job in the face of considerable change in the manufacturing process. I have to say that it was wonderful to hear all of this and, for the first time in my life, not feel any formal obligation to do anything other than wish them well. The curse had lifted.

As I finished my call with Sarah, Marie was sitting on a stool at the counter on what was obviously a catering call. I could only hear Marie’s side of the conversation but that’s all I needed to hear.

“That sounds fantastic. Thanks so much.

“Yes, January is fine. That gives us heaps of time to plan. How many people are you expecting?

“And how many different kinds of cakes would you like?

“Well, for 175, I’d suggest at least three different kinds, and ideally four or five. You want enough variety for it to be memorable.

“And the venue is …

“Hmmmm. The Yale Club. Near Grand Central, right, on Vanderbilt? Very fancy. But do they know about this? Usually, the Yale Club kitchen staff would want to handle this themselves.

“I see. Interesting. Well, if they’re all right with it, far be it for me to question it. We’ll be there. Can I ask how you heard about us? Just curious.

“Well, thanks so much again. This will be a fun one for us. What’s your email and I’ll forward some seasonal cake recommendations, a price list, and the contract.”

Marie made a few notes as she deftly cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear, something I’d never been able to master.

“Excellent. Thanks again.”

I tried not to look at her and kept my eyes on my unfinished marketing plan.

“Well, that was a little strange. Wonderful, but strange,” she said.

I lifted my eyes to hers but said nothing.

“An anonymous sponsor for the annual gala of something called” – she checked her notes – “the Baker Street Irregulars at the Yale Club has insisted that we cater desserts for 175 Sherlock Holmes disciples in January.”

“Hmmm, that is strange,” I said.

“I wonder if James had anything to do with it?” Marie speculated. “Okay, are you ready?”

“Yep, I guess I am.”

Marie left Peter in charge and we headed out the door. We walked a well-worn path to the Manhattan
SPCA
, as we had at least weekly for the last several months. Learning about my encounter with Chi Chi Rodriguez as an infant made it easier for me to follow Professor Moriarty’s prescription. He proposed that I start having contact with small dogs, thereby confronting a fear it seemed I’d had for my entire life. It had been going well, and I could feel a difference in my panic level the more time I spent with whatever small dogs they had in the shelter.

We waved to Shelagh, the shelter manager, who ruled the roost with a perfect blend of authority and compassion. She pointed to a big cage in the corner. We walked over. Marie was all doe-eyed at the sight of the smallest brown poodle puppies I had ever seen. She cooed at them as you might to a newborn baby. The pups were tiny and could not have been more than a week or so old. They were very cute. Shelagh explained that they been left in a box on the shelter porch a few days ago.

I pointed to the one off by himself in the corner of the box. Shelagh nodded, and Marie reached in to fish out the brown bundle of fluff. My heart rate elevated, as it always did when we reached this part of the therapy. I sat cross-legged on the floor and cupped my hands in my lap. Marie lowered the pup into my hands. I relaxed as soon as I was holding the little guy. He made a few soft mewling sounds and looked up at me. It didn’t even faze me when he chomped down on my thumb. I could barely feel it.

“I think you could take him home this time next week, if you’re up for it. I’ll get the paperwork together,” Shelagh said. “Have you picked out a name yet?”

“Watson,” replied Marie. “A good friend of ours suggested it.”

In case it wasn’t already obvious, I like a nice neat package in the end, with all the loose ends tied up, nothing outstanding. By my count, there’s really only one matter of real significance left. The novel. My novel. Well, even though my writer’s block lifted after my father and I had our little breakthrough, I never finished the novel I’d been working on for so many years. Chapter 12 and everything thereafter was left unwritten. Why? The short answer is that it just really wasn’t very good. I no longer felt connected to the story or to the characters. And I didn’t like what I’d written when I went back to the beginning and read it out loud to myself. No, it just wasn’t very good. That story had passed me by, or I had moved beyond it. So I wrote a different book instead. It’s the one you’re holding in your hands. As you can see, I finally decided to go with a pseudonym. I know it’s a rather bland and boring name, but believe me, a bland and boring name is just what I was going for. Nothing wrong with that.

We were back at the café-bakery around 5:30. Marie had to head straight into the kitchen to join Peter to get ready for the dinner
crowd. I went back to work on the marketing plan until a FedEx guy arrived with a large package. I read the manifest and saw that it was a big stainless steel mixing bowl Marie had ordered online.

“Here you go,” Mr. FedEx said as he handed me the electronic slate to sign.

I scribbled a signature and handed it back. He looked at it and frowned.

“I can’t read that. Can you give me your name and I’ll just note it below? The company needs to be able to identify the person who signed for the item.”

I reached for the slate again.

“Sure, but I think it’s easier if I just print it below, myself.”

I finished and handed it back to him. Again, he looked to make sure it was legible. Again, he frowned.

“Trust me, that’s my real name,” I assured him with a smile. “No relation.”

Despite appearances, when writing novels, writers are very seldom completely on their own. I, more than many novelists, lean on others. I’m grateful for the guidance and friendship of my editor, Douglas Gibson, who took a chance on me at the very beginning of what still seems to me a miraculous journey. Beverley Slopen has also been there from the start and I thank her for her wise counsel. At McClelland & Stewart, Frances Bedford, Bhavna Chauhan, and the eagle-eyed Wendy Thomas, have been stalwart supporters. Of course, it’s wonderful to have Ellen Seligman, Kristin Cochrane, and the rest of the M&S team in my corner. I also thank Scott Monty for his Sherlockian expertise, and Noah Morris for directing me to Hemingway’s Toronto apartment.

The seed of this novel was sown at a chance encounter many years ago with a talented lawyer whose name was, and still is, Brian Mulroney — no, not that Brian Mulroney. This particular lawyer
had never run for political office and I suspect never will. He may have been the first person I’ve met afflicted with what I call in this novel, “NameFame.” I figure I owe him a debt of gratitude.

Some fine writers read this manuscript and offered encouraging words. In particular, my thanks to two fellow Leacock Medal winners, Will Ferguson, and Trevor Cole. I’m honoured to be anywhere near their company.

Finally, to Nancy, Calder, and Ben, I am only a writer through your patience, encouragement, and love. I hope, over time, I can return at least a share of what you’ve given me.

TF

November 2013

ISBN:
978-0-7710-4758-9
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK