Sweet Forgiveness

A
PLUME
BOOK

SWEET FORGIVENESS

Matthew Dae Smith

LORI NELSON SPIELMAN
lives in Michigan with her husband.
Sweet Forgiveness
is her second novel. She is currently on leave from her teaching job while she works on her third. Please visit Lori's website at www.LoriNelsonSpielman.com.

Also by Lori Nelson Spielman

The Life List

PLUME

Penguin Publishing Group

375 Hudson Street

New York, New York 10014

First published by Plume, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2015

Copyright © 2015 by Lori Nelson Spielman

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Spielman, Lori Nelson.

Sweet forgiveness : a novel / Lori Nelson Spielman.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-0-698-19693-3

1. Television personalities—Fiction. 2. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 3. Forgiveness—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3619.P5434S94 2015

813'.6—dc23 2014048537

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Bill

“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.”

—Lewis B. Smedes

I
t went on for one hundred sixty-three days. I looked back at my diary years later and counted. And now she's written a book. Unbelievable. The woman's a rising star. An expert on forgiveness, how ironic. I study her picture. She's still cute, with a pixie haircut and a button nose. But her smile looks genuine now, her eyes no longer mocking. Even so, her very image makes my heart race.

I fling the newspaper onto my coffee table and instantly snatch it up again.

CLAIM YOUR SHAME

By Brian Moss | The Times-Picayune

NEW ORLEANS—Can an apology heal old wounds, or are some secrets better left unsaid?

According to Fiona Knowles, a 34-year-old attorney from Royal Oak, Michigan, making amends for past grievances is a crucial step toward achieving inner peace.

“It takes courage to claim our shame,” Knowles said. “Most of us aren't comfortable demonstrating vulnerability. Instead, we stuff our guilt inside, hoping no one will ever see what's hidden within. Releasing our shame frees us.”

And Ms. Knowles should know. She put her theory to the test in the spring of 2013, when she penned 35 letters of apology. With each letter, she enclosed a pouch containing two stones, which she dubbed the Forgiveness Stones. The recipient was given two simple requests: to forgive and to seek forgiveness.

“I realized people were desperate for an excuse—an obligation—to atone,” Knowles said. “Like the seeds of a dandelion, the Forgiveness Stones caught the wind and migrated.”

Whether the result of the wind or Ms. Knowles' savvy use of social media, it's clear the Forgiveness Stones have hit their mark. To date, it's estimated that nearly 400,000 forgiveness stones are in circulation.

Ms. Knowles will appear at Octavia Books Thursday, April 24, to talk about her new book, appropriately titled THE FORGIVENESS STONES.

I jump when my cell phone buzzes, telling me it's four forty-five—time to go to work. My hands shake as I tuck the paper into my tote. I grab my keys and to-go mug, and head out the door.

Three hours later, after reviewing last week's abysmal ratings and being briefed on today's riveting topic—how to apply self-tanner properly—I sit in my office/dressing room, Velcro curlers in my hair and a plastic cape covering my dress du jour. It's my least favorite part of the day. After ten years of being on camera, you'd think I'd be used to it. But getting made up requires that I arrive unmade, which for me is akin to trying on bathing suits under fluorescent lights with a spectator present. I used to apologize to Jade for having to witness the potholes, otherwise known as pores, on my nose, or the under-eye circles that make me look like I'm ready to play football. I once tried wrestling the foundation brush from her clutches, hoping to spare her the horrifying and impossible task of trying to camouflage a zit the size of Mauna Loa on my chin. As my father used to say, if God wanted a woman's face to be naked, he wouldn't have created mascara.

While Jade performs her magic, I shuffle through a stack of mail and freeze when I see it. My stomach sinks. It's buried mid-stack, with just the upper right corner visible. It tortures me, that big round Chicago postmark.
C'mon, Jack, enough already!
It's been over a year since he last contacted me. How many times do I have to tell him it's okay, he's forgiven, I've moved on? I drop the stack on the ledge in front of me, arranging the letters so that the postmark is no longer visible, and flip open my laptop.

“
Dear Hannah
,” I read aloud from my e-mail, trying to push aside all thoughts of Jack Rousseau.
“My husband and I watch your show every morning. He thinks you're terrific, says you're the next Katie Couric.”

“Look up, Ms. Couric,” Jade orders, and smudges my lower lashes with a chalk pencil.

“Uh-huh. Katie Couric minus the millions of dollars and gazillions of fans.” . . . And the gorgeous daughters and perfect new husband . . .

“You'll get there,” Jade says with such certainty I almost believe her. She looks especially pretty today, with her dreadlocks pulled into a wild and wiry ponytail, accenting her dark eyes and flawless brown skin. She's wearing her usual leggings and black smock, each pocket stuffed with brushes and pencils of various widths and angles.

She blends the liner with a flat-tipped brush, and I resume reading. “
Personally, I think Katie is overrated. My favorite is Hoda Kotb. Now that girl is funny.
”

“Ouch!” Jade says. “You just got slammed.”

I laugh and continue reading.
“My husband says you're divorced. I say you've never been married. Who's right?”

I position my fingers on the keyboard.

“
Dear Ms. Nixon
,” I say as I type. “
Thank you so much for watching
The Hannah Farr Show.
I hope you and your husband enjoy the new season. (And by the way, I agree . . . Hoda is hilarious.) Wishing you the best, Hannah.”

“Hey, you didn't answer her question.”

I shoot Jade a look in the mirror. She shakes her head and grabs a palette of eye shadow. “Of course you didn't.”

“I was nice.”

“You always are. Too nice, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, right. Like when I'm complaining about that snooty chef on last week's show—Mason What's-His-Name—who answered every question with a one-word reply? Nice when I'm obsessing about ratings? And now, oh, God, now Claudia.” I turn to look at Jade. “Did I tell you Stuart's thinking of making her my cohost? I'm history!”

“Close your eyes,” she tells me, and brushes shadow over my lids.

“The woman's been in town all of six weeks, and already she's more popular than I am.”

“Not a chance,” Jade says. “This city has adopted you as one of their own. But that's not going to stop Claudia Campbell from attempting a takeover. I get a bad vibe from that one.”

“I don't see it,” I say. “She's ambitious, all right, but she seems really nice. It's Stuart I'm worried about. With him it's all about ratings, and lately mine have been—”

“Shit. I know. But they'll rise again. I'm just saying, you need to watch your back. Miss Claudia's used to being top dog. There's no way the rising star from WNBC New York is going to settle for some rinky-dink spot as the morning anchor.”

There's a pecking order in broadcast journalism. Most of us start our careers by doing live shots for the five a.m. news, which means waking at three for an audience of two. After only nine months of that grueling schedule, I was lucky enough to advance to the weekend anchor, and soon after, the noon news, a spot I enjoyed for four years. Of course, anchoring the evening news is the grand prize, and I happened to be with station WNO at just the right time. Robert Jacobs retired, or, as rumor had it, was forced to retire, and Priscille offered me the position. Ratings soared. Soon I was booked day and night, hosting charity events throughout the city, playing the master of ceremonies at fund-raisers and Mardi Gras celebrations. To my surprise, I became a local celebrity, something I still can't wrap my head around. And my rapid rise didn't stop with evening anchor. Because the Crescent City “fell in love with Hannah Farr,” or so I was told, two years ago I was offered my own show—an opportunity most journalists would kill for.

“Um, I hate to break it to you, sunshine, but
The Hannah Farr Show
ain't exactly the big leagues.”

Jade shrugs. “Best TV in Louisiana, if you ask me. Claudia's licking her chops, mark my words. If she's got to be here, there's only one job she's going to settle for, and that's yours.” Jade's phone chirps and she peers at the caller ID. “Mind if I take this?”

“Go ahead,” I say, welcoming the interruption. I don't want to talk about Claudia, the striking blonde who, at twenty-four, is a full—and crucial—decade younger than I am. Why does her fiancé have to live in New Orleans, of all places? Looks, talent, youth,
and
a fiancé! She's one-upped me in every single category, including relationship status.

Jade's voice grows louder. “Are you serious?” she says to the caller. “Dad's got an appointment at West Jefferson Medical. I reminded you yesterday.”

My stomach turns. It's her soon-to-be ex, Marcus, the father of her twelve-year-old son—or Officer Asshole, as she now calls him.

I close my laptop and grab the stack of mail from the counter, hoping to give Jade the illusion of privacy. I thumb through the pile, searching for the Chicago postmark. I'll read Jack's apology, and then I'll compose a response, reminding him that I'm happy now, that he needs to get on with his life. The thought makes me weary.

I land on the envelope and pull it loose. Instead of Jackson Rousseau's address in the upper left-hand corner, it reads,
WCHI News
.

So it's not from Jack. That's a relief.

Dear Hannah,

It was a pleasure meeting you last month in Dallas. Your speech at the NAB Conference was both captivating and inspiring.

As I mentioned to you then, WCHI is creating a new morning talk show,
Good Morning, Chicago
.
Like
The Hannah Farr Show, GMC
's target audience will be women. Along with the occasional fun and frivolous segments,
GMC
will tackle some weighty topics, including politics, literature and the arts, and world affairs.

We are searching for a host and would very much like to discuss the position with you. Would you be interested? In addition to the interview process and a demo tape, we ask that you provide a proposal for an original show.

Sincerely yours,

James Peters
Senior Vice President,
WCHI Chicago

Wow. So he was serious when he pulled me aside at the National Association of Broadcasters Conference. He'd seen my show. He knew my ratings were down, but he told me I had great potential, given the right opportunity. Maybe this was the opportunity he was alluding to. And how refreshing that WCHI wants to hear my idea for a rundown. Stuart rarely considers my input. “There are four topics people want to watch on morning television,” Stuart claims. “Celebrities, sex, weight loss, and beauty.” What I wouldn't give to host a show with some controversy.

My head swells for all of two seconds. Then I come back to reality. I don't want a job in Chicago, a city nine hundred miles away. I'm too invested in New Orleans. I love this dichotomous city, the gentility mixed with grit, with its jazz and po'boys and crawfish gumbo. And more important, I'm in love with the city's mayor. Even if I wanted to apply—which I don't—Michael wouldn't hear of it. He is third-generation “N'awlins,” now raising the fourth generation—his daughter, Abby. Still, it's nice to feel wanted.

Jade punches off the phone, the vein in her forehead bulging. “That jackass! My dad cannot miss this appointment. Marcus insisted he'd take him—he's been sucking up again. ‘No problem,' he told me last week. ‘I'll swing by on my way to the station.' I should have known.” In the mirror's reflection, her dark eyes glisten. She turns away and punches numbers into her phone. “Maybe Natalie can break away.”

Jade's sister is a high school principal. There's no way she can break away. “What time is the appointment?”

“Nine o'clock. Marcus claims he's tied up. Yeah, he's tied up, all right. Tied to his ho's bedpost, doing his morning cardio.”

I check my watch: 8:20. “Go,” I say. “Doctors are never on schedule. If you hurry, you can still make it.”

She scowls at me. “I can't leave. I haven't finished your makeup.”

I hop from my chair. “What? You think I've forgotten how to apply makeup?” I shoo her away. “Go. Now.”

“But Stuart. If he finds out . . .”

“Don't worry. I've got you covered. Just be back in time to get Sheri ready for the evening news or we'll both catch hell.” I point her petite frame toward the hallway. “Now get going.”