Chapter 15 - The Company Becomes Ordinary
Vance Publishing thrived without me controlling it.
That sentence once would have frightened me.
At eighty-eight, it delighted me.
Employee ownership trust held eighty-five percent.
Long-term outside investors held fifteen.
Marcus Wynn served CEO.
Professional board.
No family throne.
The company still published books under the Vance name because brands outlive ownership.
It did not need a Vance executive.
Delilah occasionally worked with them as an outside foreign-rights consultant on specific projects.
Conflict disclosed.
Market fees.
No special access.
No office.
No authority.
She liked that.
Then Vance Publishing’s fiftieth anniversary approached.
The company invited me.
Also Delilah.
She asked:
“Do you want me there?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want people thinking I’m back.”
“You are attending as former executive and founder’s granddaughter.”
“Those are true.”
“Yes.”
We went.
The headquarters displayed a timeline.
My first rented office.
Rebecca working in publicity.
Expansion years.
Employee ownership transition.
No criminal scandal.
Correct.
A company anniversary did not need our family’s worst night.
One retired editor approached Delilah.
“I was angry at you for years.”
She nodded.
“I understand.”
“You were good at rights work.”
“Thank you.”
Both.
Then he walked away.
No forced forgiveness.
Another employee asked me:
“Why did you sell to employees?”
I said:
“Because succession should survive personalities.”
True.
Then someone asked:
“Was it because of Delilah?”
“Partly the crisis forced me to think faster. But employee ownership was not punishment.”
Good.
Then Rebecca’s fellowship announced its tenth recipient.
Delilah had increased the fund over years to $500,000.
No plaque about redemption.
One recipient later became an editor at Vance.
Coincidence.
Fine.
Then my old Chestnut Hill house.
I had sold it a decade earlier to a family unrelated to publishing.
No trust claim.
No life estate.
No secret room.
The dark walnut sideboard went with some furniture auction? I kept? Let's say I sold most furnishings; the sideboard went to Delilah? That could be symbolic. Better I donated dining set to local historic house? Not needed.
I kept one thing from dining room:
Rebecca’s framed photograph.
Not broken glass.
Not chair.
No trauma furniture.
Then Delilah asked:
“Do you ever miss the house?”
“Sometimes.”
“The dining room?”
“No.”
She laughed.
Then:
“Do you remember twenty-three people staring?”
“Yes.”
“I do too.”
Then:
“I used to hate them for not stopping me.”
Interesting.
“Why?”
“Because if someone had, maybe I wouldn’t have gone to prison.”
“No.”
She looked.
“You had already forged.”
She nodded.
Right.
The slap did not create the financial crime.
It exposed it.
Then:
“I blamed everybody.”
“I know.”
“Now?”
“I blame me. Lucas. And maybe our family habits.”
“Fair.”
Then she added:
“But not you for being alive.”
That sentence.
I smiled.
Then one more ownership issue arose.
The outside fifteen-percent investors wanted liquidity.
The employee trust proposed acquiring part over time.
Nothing to do with me.
They did not ask permission.
I loved that.
Vance Publishing was finally ordinary enough to have problems I did not control.
Then Dana reviewed my estate.
“Henrietta, you’re eighty-eight. We need update healthcare and personal-property memorandum.”
“Do we?”
“Yes.”
I groaned.
Delilah said:
“Listen to lawyer.”
“Traitor.”
Then Dana asked whether I still wanted $2 million legacy to Delilah.
“Yes.”
Delilah looked away.
Whether I wanted to increase.
“No.”
Decrease.
“No.”
Perfect.
Then personal items.
Rebecca’s letters and photographs to Delilah.
Martin’s pen to Vance historical archive after my death.
Selected first editions to libraries.
No company stock.
No conditions.
Professional executor.
Then Dana asked:
“Funeral preferences?”
I glared.
“Alive.”
“Planning is not dying.”
I had said similar to authors.
Fine.
Small.
No corporate memorial show.
Then Delilah asked:
“Can I speak?”
“If you want.”
“I do.”
That made me unexpectedly emotional.
Then my ninetieth birthday approached.
This time, Delilah proposed something strange.
“Twenty-three guests.”
I stared.
“Why twenty-three?”
“Same number.”
“No.”
She immediately nodded.
“Okay.”
I thought for a week.
Then called.
“Twenty-three.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Same house?”
“No.”
“Same table?”
“No.”
“Head seat?”
“No head.”
May you like
She laughed.
And for the first time, I chose to recreate the number without recreating the power.
