I can feel my eyes narrowing. "And you think I can help you out with that?"

"Claudia, dear. Please don't get defensive."

"I'm not," I say, well aware of how very defensive I sound.

"I want to capture your pain."

"I'm not in pain."

"Yes you are, Claudia. You're hurting over Ben. I heard about Tucker," she says.

"I'm fine," I say.

"No, young lady, you are not fine. You are not fine at all."

Jess makes a face as if she's bracing for a traffic accident and then exits, likely to call Trey.

"You are hurting right here , Claudia," she says, crossing her hands and placing them tenderly over her heart. "I'm your mother. I know these things."

"Mother. I really can't deal with this right now."

She purses her lips, stares at me and shakes her head. Then she loads a fresh roll of film, fiddles with her monstrous lens, and raises her camera to shoot me.

I put my hand in front of my face, palm out. "Stop it, Mother."

Snap. Snap.

"Mother!" I say. Then I gather myself, recognizing that my mother probably loves having a pained and angry Claudia, and say more calmly, "Why not photograph Daphne?"

I feel a bit guilty for the suggestion, but then consider that it was likely Daphne who spilled the beans. Besides, Daphne has a much higher tolerance for my mother. They talk nearly every day.

"Because of her infertility, you mean?" my mother asks, as if it is only a minor travail rather than a heartbreaking ordeal.

"It's not the same. There is no grief like heartbreak."

I want to refute what my mother has just said, but I can't, so I just say, "I'm not heartbroken."

"Yes. You are."

"What about Maura? She and Scott are in a constant state of turmoil," I say, figuring that I might as well throw my other sister under the bus, on the off chance that it was she who spilled the beans about Tucker.

"Maura's not in love with Scott," my mother says. "They never had what you and Ben had. You and Ben were so in love. And I suspect you still are," she says, raising her camera again. She squints, zooms in with a flick of her wrist.

Snap. Snap.

"Mother. Enough."

Snap. Snap. Snap.

"I mean it, Mother!" I shout, and as she stands to capture another angle of my angst-ridden profile, I feel incredible sadness commingling with my anger. I put my face in my hands, telling myself not to cry, telling myself not to prove my mother right. When I look up, I see Jess in the doorway with a questioning look: Do you need me ? I shake my head, thinking that I don't need anyone. Jess retreats, looking worried. I watch my mother load another roll of film and sling her camera strap back over her head.

I am back to being only enraged as I say, "Don't you dare take my picture again. I'm your daughter. Not your project."

My voice is eerily calm, but I also hear something in my voice that almost scares me. I wonder if my mother can hear it, if she's listening at all.

I suddenly know that if this woman, who happened to give birth to me almost thirty-five years ago, takes my picture in this moment and seeks to benefit from my grief, I will be done with her forever. I will not speak to her again. I will refuse to see her under any circ.u.mstance, deathbed scenarios included.

Of course I've had this thought many times before, but I have never followed through. I always cave, not for her sake, nor because I need or want a mother, but because I don't want my mother to define who I am, and not talking to her would do that in some bizarre sense. Whenever I read of a celebrity estranged from her mother (Meg Ryan, Jennifer Aniston, Demi Moore; I know these women by heart), I think it says something about the mother and the daughter. No matter how atrocious the mother's offense, it still marks the daughter as unforgiving, self-righteous, cold.

My mother is a nuisance and a trial, but she is not important enough to write off in any bold terms. Still, despite my general feelings about avoiding total estrangement, I have the sense that I am at a crossroads. This time I mean business. If I can get a divorce from a man I love, I can cut off this woman.

I watch my mother furrow her brow and give me her standard look of sympathy. Her best funeral expression. I know what you're going through. I'm here for you . All of that bulls.h.i.t. She has a deficiency of empathy, even for her own daughters, but has mastered the art of appearing to care. She is a fraud. People outside her family might find her engaging, intriguing, compa.s.sionate. Sometimes she even fools Daphne. But I know the truth about her.

My rage gives way, in small part, to curiosity. How bad is my mother? Will she take my picture again, even after I've come to the brink of tears? Even after I warned her in no uncertain terms? I almost want her to take one final photo. I almost want this to be our defining mother-daughter moment. I watch her as she freezes, then lowers her camera to her lap. n.o.body ever stops my mother from doing what she wants, and I can't help feeling triumphant. And very surprised.

She presses her lips together and says, "I'm sorry."

I am both relieved and disappointed by her apology. I can't think of a single time she's ever apologized to me for anything, despite scores of occasions she owed me one. At least she's never apologized without blaming someone else or adding a but . I don't want to let her off the hook so easily, but I am completely drained. So I say, "Okay, Mother."

"But is it okay?" she asks.

I roll my eyes and say yes.

We are both silent as she awkwardly packs up her camera equipment. When it is all stowed at her feet, she looks at me and says another quiet but sincere, "I'm sorry."

I look away, but can still feel her eyes on me. I can feel how much she wants me to say something. Absolve her. Embrace her.

I do none of these things. I just sit there in silence.

A long while later, my mother says, "I need to tell you something, Claudia."

"What's that?" I ask her, expecting something frivolous. The sun will come out tomorrow. The sky is darkest before dawn. Look for the silver lining . Why are there so many trite expressions involving the sky?

But my mother clears her throat and says, "I want to tell you something I've never told you before."

"Go ahead," I say to my mother as I see Jess's shadow in the doorway. She isn't really eavesdropping; she's just saving me the trouble of repeating everything later.

"You were an accident," my mother says. "An unplanned pregnancy."

"I know that, Mother," I say.

She never tried to hide the fact, it was something I knew at a very young age. She'd tell people right in front of me, "I thought I was done. But Claudia here was an 'accident.'" She'd whisper the word accident , but of course I heard it every time. And even if I hadn't heard all the whispers, I certainly heard her when she shouted the word at me after I told her I was boycotting her lavish wedding to Dwight and that she could shove my lavender bridesmaid dress where the sun don't shine. (My favorite expression involving the sky.) "Please," she says now. "Let me finish."

I shrug, thinking that she sure has a h.e.l.l of a way of apologizing.

"So you weren't planned," she continues. Then she raises one finger in the air as if poised to make a grand proclamation. "But just the other day, I was reading the acknowledgments in one of your novels. The one about the guy with the harelip?"

"Cleft palate," I say. She is referring to John Skvarla's memoir. John's birth defect was such a miniscule part of his life story that I wonder if she ever made it past the first page. My mother postures herself as well read and buys hardcover books all the time, but they typically go straight to her living room shelves, unopened. All for show.

"Whatever," she says. "The book isn't the point. The point is, I was reading his acknowledgments, the part where he thanked you for being his editor and friend. And I was filled with this profound sense of pride that you are my daughter."

I know that my mother basks in any form of public attention. She loves telling her friends that she raised a successful editor at a prestigious New York publishing house, and pointing out her daughter's name in the front of a book is just icing on the cake. Still, I am surprised by her words. This is not the language my mother normally speaks in.

"I am so proud of you, Claudia," she continues. "Not just for how smart you are and for all you've accomplished. But because you're the kind of person that people want to thank in the front of a book. People love you and respect you. You are special that way," she says quietly. She looks down at her feet and slides her orange driving moccasins together. Her hands are folded in her lap. She looks contrite and shy and sincere.

"You are the very best thing I've ever done in my life," she finishes.

I don't want to feel moved or grateful, but I am. So much so that I am on the verge of tears again . I wonder how one woman can create such a tsunami of emotion in me, and in such a short span of time? I tell myself to get a grip. I remind myself that my mother is, in a sense, taking credit for the way I've turned out, when she deserves relatively little credit. She used to tell me to get my nose out of my book and go get some fresh air. She was devastated when I was sixteen and applied to work at the library instead of life- guarding at the country club. I am who I am in spite of my mother. But I can't help it, I know I will not forget what she has just told me. I know I will replay her words a hundred times or more. I know that, as much as I don't want to admit it, my mother is important to me.

"Why are you telling me this?" I say.

"Because of the recent choices you've made in your life."

"What about them?" I ask. I know she is talking about Ben and babies, but I am not sure how it all ties in with her out-of-the-blue compliment.

She looks contemplative, as if carefully considering her wording. "I'm not the best mother in the world I never have been," she says slowly. "But always remember, Claudia, you are not me. You are a lot of things to a lot of people. But you are absolutely nothing like me."

twelve.

I never did think I was anything like my mother, nor did I peg her as the main reason I didn't want children. So, despite her intent, my mother's speech did nothing to reverse my position on motherhood.

But there was still something about my mother's words that felt like a revelation to me. Perhaps because it was the first time my mother had ever apologized to me for anything. Perhaps because everyone wants her mother to be proud and, to some extent, we can't help seeing ourselves as our mother sees us. Perhaps because it was a reminder of all that I still have in my life. I have my career, of course. But more important, I have rich relationships that I cherish. I am a good sister, daughter, and friend. My life has meaning and will continue to have meaning without Ben.

So it was my mother, albeit unwittingly, who helped me get to the next level of emotional recovery. Achieve that post disaster glimmer that life goes on. I even began to think about dating again. Not so much because I wanted to but because dating is always the best inward and outward sign that you've moved on after a big breakup. In some ways, I think it might be the only way to move on.

So when Michael strolls into my office one day and says, "Guess who has you in his number two spot?" I feel a bit excited. I know exactly what he means by "two spot." Whether you're an insurance adjuster in Iowa, a schoolteacher in Florida, or an editor in Manhattan, you are familiar with the practice of gathering around the water cooler (or in our case, the automated Euro-coffee machine) and discussing who among your esteemed colleagues is most attractive. It's an exercise largely born out of boredom or long hours at the office, but it is nonetheless approached with tremendous gravity. (And is only rivaled by the list compiled by couples: "Celebrities I Am Allowed to Cheat on My Significant Other With." Obviously my cheating list is null and void, I can do what I want now without an exemption which, unfortunately, brings me no closer to sharing a bed with (1) Sting, (2) Colin Firth, (3) Johnny Depp, (4) Tom Brady, or (5) Ed Harris.) Of course, the problem with playing this ranking game at most publishing houses is that there are slim pickings for a woman. First, the general breakdown of women to men in publishing is about 3 to 1. And of the men, about 70 percent are gay. So you're talking a 10 to 1 female-to-heteros.e.xual-male ratio. On top of that, aside from a few more high-profile departments like publicity, publishing is filled with a high percentage of former nerds (myself included) who spent the majority of their childhood indoors, reading books. My friend Jacqueline, for example, was featured in her local newspaper in North Carolina for reading over five hundred books in one year; she was five at the time. Not that I should talk, my greatest accomplishment as a kid was making it to the state tournament spelling bee, losing in the final round on the word precipice . This is not to say that all former nerds are unattractive. To the contrary, I think we're a great breed, quirky, smart, and far more interesting than your average former cheerleader or ex-jock. Still, the list is not about being quirky and smart or appealing in an offbeat way; the list is about being s.e.xy.

Anyway, one of the perks of being close to Michael is that I'm always privy to the male lists floating around, which is particularly interesting on the few occasions when I've been mentioned. It works like this: Michael tells me I'm on someone's list whereupon I pretend to be some combination of embarra.s.sed, nonplussed, or annoyed, all the while feeling secretly flattered. Who wouldn't be? Even when chosen by a downright geek, it's nice to know you rank.

But I still say, "Two spot?" because the last thing I want to appear is desperate or eager.

"You know. He thinks you're the second-hottest girl at work," Michael says.

"Who?" I say, rolling my eyes. "Gerald from the IT department?"

"Nope." I give.

"Richard Margo," Michael says smugly.

He now has my full attention. Richard Margo is our executive vice president and director of publicity and is very well-known at our house, as much for his prestigious position as his reputation for pitching in the minors for one season and for being a bit of a womanizer, not the sleazy kind, but the "never been married smooth intellect who wines and dines beautiful women" kind. He's in his late forties but, unlike many men his age who are lucky to fetch descriptions like "handsome" or "attractive," Richard can fairly be called hot. He has a very square jaw, deep-set blue eyes, and a slightly receding hairline, a combination of traits that conjures a certain rugged confidence. Even his nose, which looks as if it has been broken at least once is s.e.xy.

Richard has not only been on my list since I arrived at Elgin Press, but he has consistently occupied my top slot, a fact that I've only admitted to Michael and a few other close friends (with others, I hem and haw, pretend to never have considered the subject, and then issue the preamble, "Please know that they are in no particular order," which somehow makes the exercise seem less serious). In fact, Richard not only consistently tops my workplace list, but when Jude Law was caught in bed with his nanny, all his appeal went out the window, and a spot became available on my celebrity list. A spot I gave to Richard. At the time, Ben insisted that I couldn't commingle my lists, whereupon I argued that he was "famous" at work. The point did not go over so well (Ben insisted that the whole theory behind the celeb list was their unattainable nature). So I b.u.mped Richard, replacing him with Ed Harris, who, incidentally, could pa.s.s for Richard's brother.

"Where'd you hear that?" I ask Michael, feeling somewhat shamed by my racing pulse. But in my defense, I haven't had s.e.x in months.

"From the horse's mouth," Michael says, proudly cracking his knuckles.

"You asked your boss that question?" I say, marveling over Michael's ability to elicit illicit information from people, including higher-ups.

He shrugs. "Yeah, so what. Guys over lunch, you know. Phil Loomis and Jack Hannigan were with us, and incidentally, Hannigan had you on his list, too."

"d.a.m.n Phil screwed me out of the hat trick?" I say.

Michael laughs as I casually return to the subject of Richard. "So who is Margo's number one? Stacy Eubanks?"

Stacy Eubanks, a secretary in sales, is Beyonce's blonde, blue-eyed twin and word has it that she moonlights as a p.o.r.n star. (Michael claims to have spotted her in a video called Lezzie Maguire.) "Nope. Stacy didn't make his cut."

"Imagine that," I say, giving Richard's list even more credence.

"I know. Shocked the h.e.l.l out of me, too."

"So who is his number one?" I say nonchalantly.

"That new French chick in sub rights."

"Oh, yeah. Marina LeCroy. She's very French."

"Uh-huh. But apparently Richard's got a thing for redheads because Naomi Rubenstein is in his mix, too."

"I'd hardly call that a thing for redheads."

"Two redheads out of five definitely qualifies as 'a thing.' I mean, you all don't exactly make up forty percent of the general population."

"Fair enough," I say, wondering who the other two non-French, nonredheads on his list are.

"So what are you going to do about this?" Michael asks.

"Nothing," I say, laughing.

"Nothing? Why not?"

"Because I'm a professional," I say in a jokingly prim tone.

"There's no antifraternizing policy here. And you don't work for the guy," Michael says. "You're not even in publicity. What's the conflict?"

"I don't know. It might show an air of favoritism. Somehow discredit my books."

"C'mon. That's a reach," Michael says.

Technically he is right. Richard runs the publicity department, and as such, has responsibility for all t.i.tles in the house. But many different publicists cover my books, and there are other checks and balances in sales and marketing, so it would be virtually impossible for Richard to make much of a single-handed impact on my career or the success of my books. Still, publicity has a huge say in book proposals and they can easily quash a book, so there could be an inference of favoritism coloring my success. Bottom line, I've never dated anyone at work, and I have no intention of doing so now. I tell Michael this and then say, "The whole discussion is moot anyway because Richard Margo is not interested in me. He was only humoring you by playing your little game."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Michael says. "Besides, I totally teed you up."