The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,121

the kale but this hardly seemed reason for praise.

“Because.” When I looked at him blankly, Calvin swept his arm wide, nearly sloshing tea over the rim of the glass. “Because this. When I left you here five months ago, I wasn’t sure you were going to make it. But you did. The house looks great, you look great, your friends are great—Polly, Teddy, and all the others. You fit here, Celia. You’ve got a life now. A real life.”

“And a baby on the way.” I paused. “Sometimes I still can’t believe it.”

“I know,” he said. “But that’s not what I mean. Remember when you first told me about the baby? You said you were going to transform yourself, become a better person. And you did. No, I mean it,” he said, talking over me when I tried to brush off his praise. “Remember when you got back in touch with me after Steve walked out? You were a hot mess.”

“Who isn’t after a divorce?”

“But there was more to it than that,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll never forget the day we met, when you sat down next to me at the coffee shop. There you were, you and your drawl, trying to be all cosmopolitan and street smart. One minute you were talking about the new exhibit at the Guggenheim and the next minute you launched into a detailed and weirdly earnest discussion of why It’s a Wonderful Life was the greatest movie ever made. And I sat there thinking to myself, ‘This woman is a total nutcase and I absolutely adore her.’

“But the thing that really got to me was when you started talking about your readers. You wrote back to every single person who wrote to you, whether their letter got published or not. Who does that?” he asked, his expression a combination of disbelief and admiration. “I know you’ll hate this, cupcake. But, deep down, you’re really kind of a Crusader.”

“Stop. I am not.”

“That’s a good thing,” he countered. “There’s room in your heart for everybody, Celia. Even strangers. But Steve was one of those people who can’t share the spotlight. He had to have all of you: all your attention, all your love.”

Yes, he did. Which was pretty stupid, considering he never loved me to begin with. Calvin looked at me intently, like he was trying to read my thoughts. His next sentence just about convinced me he could.

“Someday, Celia Fairchild, somebody’s going to come along who’ll love you the way you deserve to be loved. He won’t be perfect but he’ll be caring, and steady, and loyal, smart enough to know how fabulous you are, secure enough to share you with the world, and absolutely crazy about you. And if you’re lucky,” Calvin said, lifting his bushy eyebrows, “he’ll even be straight.”

“Well, there’s a thought.”

I laughed and went back to massaging the kale. Calvin just stood there, slurping tea and staring at me until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“What!” I finally barked, shaking my hands, flinging off shreds of slimy, well-salted kale, and wiping my oily hands onto Teddy’s apron. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

Calvin clicked his tongue against his teeth a couple of times and smiled. “I read your memoir.”

“My what?”

“Your journal,” he clarified. “I read it.”

“Calvin! Nobody is supposed to read that. It’s private!”

He slurped some more tea and shrugged. “Then don’t leave it lying around where nosy houseguests can find it. You know what a snoop I am, Celia.”

Yes. Yes, I did.

So maybe a part of me had wanted him to see it?

“It’s fabulous,” Calvin said with an earnestness that made me feel simultaneously pleased and uneasy. “You’re a good writer, Celia, even better than I realized. I’m serious. It takes guts to be that vulnerable, to open the door to the past, sort through the crap, and plant your stake in the ground saying, This is what’s worth holding on to.

“That’s why I’m proud of you,” he said. “Not that you’ve been transformed, but that you’re more yourself than you ever were. You’re still the Celia who has a heart for everybody, the total nutcase I’ll always, always adore.”

I looked away for a moment. I had to. “Calvin LaGuardia, if you make me cry, I’ll never forgive you,” I rasped, meaning something else.

“I know,” Calvin replied, understanding perfectly, as best friends always do.

Chapter Forty-Three

Standing under an arch of silver balloons in front of a lighted marquee sign reading “A Star Is Born” that hung on the