Buried in a Book Read online

  We stopped at the end of the hallway. Flora wished me luck and hastily retreated. With her last words hanging in the air, I couldn’t shake the image of Snow White pulling Sleeping Beauty’s hair or Belle biting Cinderella on the hand. Once composed, I knocked on the door.

  “Enter!” an authoritative voice ordered.

  I stepped into the president’s office.

  It was all glass, chrome, and black. A large, black-framed, arched window covered most of the wall facing the door. In one corner, three black leather chairs surrounded a round glass table with chrome legs, upon which sat three tidy and very tall stacks of paper. The austere white wall was broken up with a series of black-and-white abstracts framed in chrome. Black bookshelves with glass doors lined the opposite wall.

  This was definitely not meant to resemble the work of Tasha Tudor. More like Ansel Adams.

  Dominating the room was a sleek glass desk with a chrome lamp in one corner, a black phone in the other, and a laptop computer in the center. Behind it sat a tall, thin woman wearing a tailored peach-colored suit—the only color in the room. Her dark hair, cut short with a line of razor-straight bangs, accentuated well-defined cheekbones. Perched on the end of her nose was a pair of diamond-studded half-moon glasses connected to a gold jeweled chain.

  Ms. Bentley Burlington-Duke.

  She had a decade on me and sat in her chair with the regality of a queen. Attired in a suit that likely cost as much as one of my mortgage payments, she radiated refinement and wealth. I reminded myself that I was a seasoned reporter and this agency was lucky to have me.

  “Hello, I’m Lila Wilkins.” To my relief, I sounded cool and collected. “We spoke on the phone. I’m the new intern.”

  “Sit.” She waved her hand at the chrome and leather chair opposite the desk.

  Perching myself on the edge of the seat, I smoothed my skirt over my knees and wondered what task I’d be given for my first assignment.

  Bentley typed a few more words, then closed the laptop and took off her glasses. They hung around her neck like an art deco necklace. She folded her arms and studied me. “In order to become a literary agent, you need to be able to read a query letter and instantly determine three things. One, can the author actually write? Consider voice, diction, pacing, and the use of correct grammar. Two, is there a market for the author’s idea? Three, is the author sensible and professional or a narcissistic, daydreaming drip? Here.” She slid a piece of paper across the desk. “One of these paragraphs was written by a current client. The other is by an unpublished writer who, if I had my druthers, would remain unpublished until the end of time. You tell me which is which.”

  I reached over and picked up the paper. Slightly perplexed to be given an examination within minutes of my arrival, I started reading.

  Query A: Annabelle is a nurse. She lives with her cat, Furball, who Annabelle believes is the reincarnation of her best friend, Shirley, who was also a nurse at the same hospital when she was alive. When a patient named Ray comes to the ER with mysterious wounds, Annabelle tries to figure out the truth behind his injuries. Annabelle eventually solves the mystery by talking about it to Furball, who shows her who the real culprit is. Annabelle and Ray also fall in love, but they have trouble staying together because Furball gets jealous.

  Query B: A killer walks among the small population of Solitary, an isolated farming community in Wisconsin. On Halloween, a Methodist preacher is found dead in an abandoned barn, and suspicion is thrown first on Will Bradley, the local tavern owner. When Bradley is absolved and a herd of valuable livestock succumbs to an unidentified virus, the townsfolk point their fingers at Fred Hammer, the large animal veterinarian. Yet even after his incarceration, the loss of life continues. The idyllic community begins to crumble. Neighbors turn against neighbors. Secrets come to light that threaten to tear apart families and friends. When state police investigator Sara Carter is called to Solitary to track down a murderer hiding in plain sight, she must negotiate her way through a web of lies and deception to discover the truth hidden deep in the town’s dark and troubled history.

  Was my new boss joking? The difference between the two paragraphs was so obvious I almost grinned. Looking up at her I said, “Query B was written by your client.”

  “Well done,” Bentley said, though the agency head didn’t seem too dazzled by my powers of deduction. She pushed three fat tomes across the desk and stood. “These reference books will provide guidelines as to what makes a good query. Read them on your own time. Starting now, you will fulfill a quota of one hundred queries per day along with doing a critical read-through of two or three proposals as well as an assortment of other tasks. Because our last intern was rather inefficient, we have a shocking backlog of queries in our email inbox as well as in hardcopy form.”

  She paused, using her slim hands to mime a mountainous stack of papers. “I am only interested in stellar queries,” she continued. “Once your laptop arrives, you can email those to me. As far as the rejections, you’re responsible for emailing out a form letter to each author. Be sure to keep electronic files for the rejects and the possibilities. For now, you’ll have to organize hard copies in folders and deliver the possibilities directly to the appropriate agent.” She walked around her desk and shook my hand. “Welcome to the Novel Idea Literary Agency, Lily.”

  “It’s Lila,” I corrected, but my new boss appeared not to have heard. She breezed out of the office, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  Befuddled, I retraced my steps to Flora’s office. “I’d like to ask you something. Do you happen to know the location of my desk?”

  Flora giggled, her multiple chins wobbling in mirth. “The first one you lay eyes on when you come up the stairs to our reception area, sweetie. Bentley will give you a real desk and a laptop on Monday. She wants to make sure you’re really coming back before she sets you up at your own station. For now, I’m afraid you only get a cup holder filled with pens and a few file folders.”

  “Thank you,” I told her and headed back down the hall.

  When I located my desk, I laughed, thinking I was the butt of a hoax traditionally played on the newest intern, but no one popped out from behind the sofa or potted palm to witness my reaction. In the quiet space, I was forced to admit that no one had noticed my arrival at all.

  However, I was expected. I hadn’t seen it earlier when I first arrived, but there, in a corner between the sofa and the wall, to the right of the table with the telephone, sat a student desk with a paper-stuffed file folder resting on its surface. As Flora had warned, there was also a cup holder filled with ballpoint pens resting on top of the folder.

  Serf! Indentured servant! Peon! my reporter self silently screamed in indignation.

  “It’s only for a day,” I spoke loudly into the empty space, hoping someone would hear the determination in my voice. “If they think I’m going to complain because I’ve been assigned this Little Rascals office furniture, they’re wrong. I’m more the Steel Magnolias type!”

  Still, it only took thirty seconds of sitting at the student desk—it was the one-piece kind with the tiny L-shaped writing area and the seat back that not only provided zero support, but also mercilessly poked into the dead center of one’s spine—for my bravado to lose its force. I couldn’t possibly work hunched over like some nearsighted scientist while my rear end ached and my lower back grew more and more fatigued.

  Determined to mark myself as an independent thinker, I stacked the client books from the coffee table and placed them on the student desk. Next, I neatly laid out my materials on the coffee table, kicked off my shoes, and sat down on the carpet. With my back and neck supported by the sofa, I felt right at home.

  Before delving into the query file, I decided to call my mother and surprise her with the news of my change in employment. I should have known better, since she makes her living telling fortunes using a combination of palm and tarot card readings and therefore claimed to have been fully aware of my new job.
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  “I had a feelin’ I should lay out the cards for you last night!” My mother stated theatrically. She never missed an opportunity to be dramatic. “I saw a major change. You got the Wheel of Fortune card in the Present position, after all. Even a monkey could’ve seen this comin’.”

  As always, I allowed her to believe she had an accurate foreknowledge of everything that was going to happen in my life. “Well, you’re not called Amazing Althea for nothing.”

  My mother sniffed, as though I’d caught her crying. “Oh, sug! I can’t hide the truth from you. Your readin’ was the scariest thing I ever did see. You got the Tower card in the Reason position and the Devil in the Potential spot. You gotta get outta there, honey! For once in your life, listen to your mama!”

  I rolled my eyes and tried to control my feelings of annoyance. “Stop it. I know you’re punishing me for not calling you yesterday. I’m forty-five years old, Mama. I do not need to call you each and every day, and right now, I have to get to work.” My parting line was meant to make her feel guilty. “I wish you could have just been happy for me.”

  “Happy? HAPPY!” my mother shrieked. “I dealt the Death card in your Future position, Lila! How can I be happy?”

  Now she was stooping really low. “I don’t know much about those cards of yours, but you’ve told me time and time again that the Death card is not to be taken literally.”

  My mother sniffed again, and when she spoke next, I felt a tiny spark of trepidation, because her voice had gotten quiet and small, and she never spoke like that unless she was extremely distressed. “This time it’s the real deal. Death is comin’ to the place where you work and he’s comin’ soon. I’m not sayin’ he’s lookin’ for you, but he is gonna take somebody with him when he leaves that office. Baby, please. Just walk on outta there.”

  I stared at the query file and then at the books on the desktop, proudly showcasing the names of all the prestigious authors the Novel Idea Literary Agency represented. I thought of my mortgage and Trey’s college tuition payments. I thought of how much I wanted to become an agent with this firm.

  “Sorry, Mama. If Death shows up, he’s going to have get by me first.” I picked up a pen and gripped it in my hand. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

  Chapter 2

  AFTER MY MOTHER’S DISTURBING PHONE CALL, I WAS more determined than ever to shine as the Novel Idea Literary Agency’s newest intern. It was time to begin my quota of reading one hundred query letters, but I paused to savor the moment, touching the stuffed file on the coffee table and wondering whether the next Booker Prize winner might be waiting within. With a rush of anticipation, I grabbed the first letter and read:

  Dear Sir:

  I wanted to give you the privledge of hearing about my amazing book, Pitch Black. My book is a 55,000-word thriller that is a quick read and is written in the breakneck speed style of bestselling author Don Brawn. In Pitch Black, a coal miner goes crazy after a number of years worked in the dark and decides to murder first his family then anyone foolish enough to cross his path.

  Whoa. I didn’t need to consult the reference books Bentley had given me to know that this query contained several major errors. In my opinion, his title was cliché, his opening line rather pompous, and he’d called his work a thriller when it sounded like a horror novel. Definitely more Stephen King than Dan Brown. It also contained spelling and grammatical errors. I read through the rest of the letter, but nothing about his query hooked me as a reader.

  After digging out a pair of blank folders that I found beneath the query letter file, I labeled one tab with the word “possibilities” and the second with the word “rejections.” I hesitated for a moment before placing Pitch Black in the rejection folder.

  This query was to be my very first rejection. Within the space of two minutes, I would forever crush the writer’s dreams of getting a step closer to one of the agents working down the hall. It was momentarily paralyzing. What if the author was depending on this query letter to change his life? What if he slaved at some manual labor job during the day and then burned the midnight oil composing his novel all night? What if he had five children to feed or, heaven help him, to put through college?

  “I can’t think about those things,” I informed the letter resolutely, but with compassion. “My job is to look for an idea that readers would find compelling, something they’d rush out to the bookstore to buy, and that’s not what you’ve got. Sorry.” Into the rejection folder it went.

  The next query was utterly baffling. The name and address of the Novel Idea Literary Agency and a date from last week had been written at the top of the document in an angular scrawl. Beneath that, there were only four lines of text reading, “Return my story. I gave it life. It belongs to me. You will regret your actions.”

  Now here was a quandary. Did I put this in the rejection folder or create a new one termed “Nutcases,” “Crackpots,” or “Agents Beware”? I rubbed the sheet of paper between my fingers. It was not ordinary printer paper, but quality stationery, watermark and all. It also smelled faintly of the outdoors, but I couldn’t pinpoint the scent.

  As I raised the sheaf to my nose for a second whiff, a man in his midthirties with tight black curls and formfit-ting designer jeans jogged over to the table. He slapped a ten-dollar bill on the coffee table and shouted, “Zach Attack!”

  “Excuse me?”

  He thrust his hand right under my chin, and I instinctively jerked away, trying to protect my personal space. “Zach Cohen, aka Mr. Hollywood—the man who gets the screenplays onto the big screen.” He pumped my hand up and down and then let go. “I also represent sports writers. All the elite athletes who are able to string a sentence together come to me. Especially the B-ball guys. I just sent out a proposal for a tell-all by one our most famous Dunston players. Can’t name names, but I’m sure you know who I mean.” He stood back so that he could take note of how impressed I was by this declaration.

  I was not impressed, because I didn’t know a thing about basketball. This is a grave sin considering I live in central North Carolina, home to several elite basketball programs, but I didn’t care. “I’m Lila Wilkins,” I replied flatly, and then my Southern upbringing kicked in. “It’s very nice to meet you. Do you mind telling me why you’re offering me money?”

  “Caffeine run, baby. The Zach Attack has to have his double espresso every morning to work his magic.” He cracked his knuckles repeatedly as though already experiencing caffeine withdrawal. “I wanted to treat you to one, too, seeing as it’s your first day on the job. I was hoping you’d run downstairs and get them for us. I’m waiting on a call from New York, and your queries aren’t exactly going anywhere, so what do you say?”

  I swallowed a mouthful of ire and tried to address Zach as pleasantly as possible. “I’d be glad to go this one time, but I did not accept this position in order to fetch your espresso.”

  Zach smiled and dusted a fleck of lint from his formfitting black crewneck. “You’re a sassy one. That’s good! You actually stand a chance of surviving the summer. The last girl spent half her morning doing coffee runs and spilled at least one latte a day. I kept telling her she couldn’t handle the stairs and a tray of coffees wearing those wedge-heeled sandals she liked.” His mouth stretched into what I’m sure he thought was a charming smile.

  “I doubt ‘the last girl’ enjoyed playing waitress, and I’m a woman with twenty years of journalism under my belt. I’m here to become an agent, and that’s all.” I gave Zach a hostile glare and then realized I’d better start off on the right foot with the young man. After all, I wanted to be one of his equals in three months. “But it is very kind of you to buy me a coffee. I never say no to a free latte, but I’m not ready to take a break just yet.”

  He looked at me with new respect. “Twenty years, huh? I heard you worked for the Herald. You know, you’re totally overqualified to be an intern at this place, but the Zach Attack is glad we’ve got someone with an experienced eye to sift
through our queries.”

  Mr. Hollywood wasn’t so bad after all, though I prayed he wouldn’t continue to refer to himself in third person. I asked him if the other agents would come around to introduce themselves.

  “I’d just knock on their doors if I were you,” Zach suggested. “But don’t bother looking for Luella Ardor. She never gets in before ten. I think she stays up late reading those erotic romances she represents.”

  Slightly put off by the manner in which Zach licked his lips, I excused myself and marched back down the hall. I stopped at the first door on the right, which was marked as belonging to Franklin Stafford.

  A low and soothing voice responded to my knock. “Come in.”

  “Hello. I’m Lila Wilkins, the new intern.”

  Stafford was the image of a Norman Rockwell grand-father. A ring of fluffy gray hair surrounded the shiny dome of his head, and a mustache the same color hovered on his top lip. Twinkling blue eyes appraised me through silver-rimmed glasses. He wore a crisp white button-down shirt and brown slacks held up by a pair of striped suspenders. Behind his chair, a plaid suit jacket and an umbrella hung from a coat tree with shiny brass hooks. Franklin’s office was as subdued as Flora’s was colorful, and I began to picture the agency’s offices as little shops in a small town. Each one had a markedly different flavor based on the wares it sold. Flora’s room reflected her love of fantasy and adventure, while Franklin’s space spoke of refinement, tradition, and order.

  “Welcome to the Novel Idea Literary Agency. Pleased to meet you.” The older man stood up from behind his desk and approached me, offering his hand. “Franklin Stafford, the agent for most of the nonfiction work we represent.” He gestured to a wall covered with framed book covers. “It seems we have that in common. I understand you’ve worked for the Dunston Herald.”

  “That’s right.” I walked over to the frames and looked at the covers. An Idiot’s Guide to writing poetry. A how-to on feng shui. A book on fishing in the South. Another on planning for retirement. A golfer’s advice book. “Quite an eclectic selection,” I said, looking around the rest of the room. In addition to a pair of wing chairs upholstered in soft tweed, polished cherry bookcases and a large wooden file cabinet occupied the rest of the space. On the floor beside Franklin’s dark mahogany desk was a long green runner with a little metal putting hole at the end. A putter and yellow golf ball rested beside it.