“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Bartholomew demanded. “Still as clumsy as ever, Bertie.”
His face tightened in the old white-mouthed rage Bird had dreaded once. But she was free of him now. His anger was no longer her problem.
Mikhail started to move forward, his muscles tensing under her palm. But she shook her head slightly. He stopped and stood still, giving her the silence she needed to say what she wanted to say.
“I could say a lot,” she said to Bartholomew, still keeping her voice low, “but in retrospect, I believe that being you is your own worst punishment. Go away, Bartholomew. You’re distracting me from what matters.”
“You fat, stupid—” Bartholomew began in a furious voice.
“The lady has spoken,” Mikhail said in a quiet but curiously compelling voice. “Be gone.”
Bartholomew fell back, his face paling. Bird turned her back on him and walked away, with Mikhail at her side.
Joey appeared, looking chagrined. “Sorry about that. I didn’t see Waterson there—or know that you knew him. But I did hear that masterful summation. ‘His own worst punishment.’ That’s very insightful. So you are the mysterious ex-wife?”
Bird glanced at him in surprise. She thought that she would be utterly forgotten by now.
Joey went on, “Many people were half-inclined to believe you never existed, that those trophies he has on his mantel were fake, except there was the existence of a son and daughter.”
Bird gasped. “He still has my awards on display?”
Mikhail’s arm tightened protectively around her back. She didn’t need his support. It wasn’t as if she was going to faint from shock. But she could luxuriate in his gesture because she wanted to.
Joey nicked his head down in a nod. “I’ve only been to his house once—a pleasure I decided to deny myself forever afterward. He does indeed. Or did, claiming that his had been the real hand
behind their success, and if it hadn’t been for him sacrificing his time and creativity, blah de blah.”
Bird gritted her teeth. Breathe. Let it go.
“He destroyed my creativity,” she whispered, trembling. Breathe! “But I have to admit that I let him. It sounded so sensible to let him handle my contracts and the publicity stuff that I hated. Letting him handle my money was what a good wife does, he said, and I believed him. It was when he started dictating to me what I should write—what the award juries were currently looking for, you know, the latest trendy issue . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s over and done.”
“He still gets your royalties?” Mikhail’s voice was deep and low, almost a growl.
“No longer. At first I didn’t contest it. I thought that at least my earnings supported my children, even if I didn’t get to see them. But when they turned eighteen, my agent went to bat for me. She eventually got all my rights back, but the sales had dried to a trickle anyway. It’s kind of pathetic, if he’s still waving those stupid trophies around. I guess the Great American Novel that my failure as a wife and mother kept him from writing still isn’t written.”
“His two novels are self-published,” Joey said. “That’s not a bad thing in itself. I know a number of self-published successes. But he’s not one of them. I’m not sure he’s sold a single copy of them to anyone but himself. And they’re certainly not taught in English classes, which was his goal and expectation.”
Bird was all too glad to set aside the subject of Bartholomew. But as she looked up, the video ended. The lights rose in the room, and the screen darkened.
“I missed it,” she observed, disappointed.
Joey’s smile was wicked. “So, ask for a private viewing! Excuse me. Time to return to my host duties. Mikhail, back to the podium. Time for questions.”
Mikhail bent to whisper in Bird’s ear, “I felt your distress when that man came to your side. I wanted to rid the world of his obnoxious presence. But your handling was far more effective.”
Bird smiled, her heart full. “I have been so afraid of him for so long. Now . . . I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.” She shook her head. “I figured out during the years of trying to understand what had happened to my marriage that my mother-in-law was the driving force behind the Waterson men. And their pretensions. She has all the poisonous intent of a woman who believes she had married down.”
He was silent, his downcast eyes gray as slate.
She sighed. “In retrospect, I can see that she was determined not to let her offspring, or their offspring, make a similar error. I was bearable when I came with the ‘fame’ of silly awards, until she understood that those didn’t come with pots of money or prestige outside the world of children’s books. Bartholomew knew more about the literary world, and had all kinds of plans . . . well, they weren’t my plans, and my creativity left me. Let’s not talk about him. I’m sorry I missed the video. The little bit I saw looked fascinating.”
“I promise I will take you to see the real thing,” he said, smiling into her eyes. “But at this moment, I had better go with Joey.”
She nodded, and watched him walk to the dais, her throat tight with overwhelming joy, gratitude, and wonder. As Joey opened the gathering to questions, she felt she could ask Mikhail anything, and there would be no fake-patience, or sarcasm, or comment about how stupid her question was.
She breathed out, making an inward decision that it was truly time to purge all the residual poison that had been the legacy of her relationship with Bartholomew Waterson. His view of her, of the world, was not true.
Polite applause broke her thoughts. It was over. Mikhail started back toward her, pausing briefly to accept compliments along the way. He was soon there, holding out his arm and smiling down into her eyes.