Every Trick in the Book Page 4

  The woman had transformed our office within hours of her arrival yesterday. She’d appeared at the top of the stairs at two minutes to nine, thanked Jude for the flowers on her desk, thanked me for welcoming her into the fold with an offering of Danishes and coffee, placed her purse under her desk, and then tapped on a little gold watch. “It’s nine o’clock. Time for work. There’s much to be done.”

  Whenever I passed by her desk, I found her seated with perfect posture. And while she rarely moved her body, her hands were like whirling dervishes over the keyboard. Vicky could certainly multitask. I’d never seen an office manager who could calmly answer the phone with one hand, type with another, and not lose focus on either job. It was as if she had two minds.

  By the end of Vicky’s first day on the job, the agents’ inboxes had been graced by a fresh pile of well-written query letters, dozens of minute details relating to the festival had been addressed, and our break room had been cleaned and sterilized until it resembled a hospital ward.

  Now, sitting here in the lobby of town hall, I would have loved to be able to emulate Vicky’s self-confidence. The reputation of our agency would be affected by the success of this festival. Novel Idea would either gain more clients and esteem from this weekend, or people would question whether a premier literary agency could really flourish this far from New York City, the heart of the publishing world.

  My boss, Bentley Burlington-Duke, tobacco heiress and philanthropist, had left the bustle of Manhattan and returned to her home state to open the foremost agency in the South. So far, she’d made good on that goal, and we all hoped this festival would finally prove to our doubters that we could operate from Tahiti and still be successful. As long as we had the Internet and a group of ambitious agents, we’d continue to rival any of the agencies from the Big Apple.

  Just as this thought was passing through my mind, one of the guest speakers arrived at my table and stared at me in awe. I returned the slack-jawed stare, for this woman could have been my twin. Like me, she appeared to be in her midforties. Tall with feminine curves, coffee brown eyes, and hair the color of roasted hazelnuts, the only noticeable difference was that her skin was more peach-toned than mine. Remarkably, we’d both paired a paprika-colored blouse with slacks. Mine were black and hers were tan, and I’d chosen flats while she’d opted for heeled boots in highly polished leather, but still, the overall resemblance was extraordinary.

  “They say everyone has a double,” I said and held out my hand to her. She clasped mine and shook her head in wonder.

  “I’m Melissa Plume.” Her voice was lower in timbre than mine. “Senior editor for Doubleday Books.” She handed me a business card, which I slipped in my purse without looking at it.

  Handing her a packet, I smiled and told her my name. “And we have books in common, too. I don’t suppose pepperoni is your favorite pizza topping.”

  Returning my smile, she said, “Anchovies. Still, we could fool my husband, if not my mother. How’d you like to fly up to New York and pretend to be me whenever I need to tell an author that their series has been canceled?”

  I waved away the offer. “No, thank you. I have to deliver plenty of rejections as it is. That’s why this festival is going to be so much fun for me. At this stage, the place is teeming with possibility. The writers are determined, eager, hopeful. They’re like marathon runners poised at the starting line, their adrenaline pumping, their hearts filled with expectation.” I stopped, knowing that I was getting carried away. “I wish it could always feel like this.”

  “The serious writers won’t give up, no matter how many rejections they get,” Melissa said, gazing at the crowd. “They take classes, join critique groups, and edit their books again and again until someone like you believes they are ready. It might take them ten years to get published, and their first book might tank. But the real writers, the ones whose veins run with ink, who talk to characters in the shower, who’d make the perfect material witness because of their powers of observation, those people never give up. They can’t. Writing is an addiction. If they stop, they dry up and wither away.”

  “I hope that speech is part of your lecture.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I’ve got a whole notebook of such inspirational gems. See you in there.”

  Once all of the morning’s panelists and guest speakers had checked in, I waded through the clusters of aspiring writers milling around the Espresso Yourself and Sixpence Bakery kiosks. Makayla, who was steaming milk in a stainless steel pitcher, called me over and handed me a caramel latte without skipping a beat. I told her we’d catch up later and forced myself not to be tempted by the sight and smell of chocolate croissants, pecan twists, cinnamon buns, triple berry muffins, and apple strudel that Nell was selling with the alacrity of a newspaper boy with a dramatic headline.

  Walking around the room with my latte, I double-checked the signage and was reassured that the rooms designated for the panels were easy to find. Vicky had me pose with a few of the attendees as she snapped some photos.

  “I want to post a bunch on the agency’s website,” she explained. “Good PR.”

  I decided to sit in on “Crafting Your Nonfiction Proposal,” which was being mediated by my coworker Franklin Stafford.

  The room was packed. I had to settle for a seat in the last row, and my heart swelled with pride when Franklin switched his microphone on and introduced five of his clients. Under his guidance, the published authors shared stories of how they’d become published. Their narratives were heartfelt and humorous, and it was clear that all of the writers had faced challenges on the road to publication. The allotted hour elapsed before anyone was prepared to leave.

  After attending Melissa Plume’s insightful lecture on the future of the publishing industry, I rounded out my morning by serving as a mediator on my own panel: “Cozy, Soft-Boiled, or Romantic Suspense: Identify Your Mystery Genre.”

  I’d invited four authors to sit at the table in front of the room and discuss which elements helped classify their novels as a particular genre. The most engaging speaker turned out to be Calliope Sinclair. Flamboyant as ever, the author of dozens of bestselling romance novels was a local hero. She was the small-town North Carolina girl who’d made it big, and her love of the craft shone through every piece of advice and anecdote. Dressed in a voluminous royal purple muumuu, turquoise leggings, and an emerald green scarf, Calliope was as showy as a peacock, but she responded to questions from the audience with a passionate sincerity that stole the show. The other authors didn’t seem to mind. Being far more reserved than Calliope, they were certainly happy to let her represent them all.

  At the end of the panel, I sidled up to Calliope and asked if I could treat her to lunch.

  “We really need to talk about your current project.” I was determined to convince her that she’d have to revamp the final chapter of her book if I stood any chance of selling it.

  Calliope consulted a diamond-encrusted watch. “All right, but I’d rather not wait in line for one of Big Ed’s sandwiches. I have a facial this afternoon and don’t want to be late.” She put her hands to her cheeks. “My skin always gets so dry in the fall.”

  Knowing I would likely regret asking, since Calliope had expensive taste and I tried to keep my business expenses within budget, I said, “Where would you like to go?”

  “Let’s walk over to How Green Was My Valley. They’re featuring Indian dishes on their hot food bar and I simply adore lamb rogan josh over a mound of basmati rice.”

  It was a relief to leave the din inside town hall and step out into the brisk air. We made our way to the organic grocery store, passing storefronts decorated with fluttering ghosts, black cats with electric yellow eyes, jack-o’-lanterns of all shapes and sizes, and glow-in-the-dark skeletons. Usually, Calliope didn’t like to walk anywhere, especially under the threat of rain, but she was in an especially good mood. She pointed at an Elvira costume displayed in the window of a trendy boutique with delight.

 
“I haven’t bought an outfit for tomorrow night’s Halloween dinner dance. What do you think? Should I try it on?”

  I struggled for the right reply. Calliope couldn’t fit one leg in the black latex dress, let alone two. “Why don’t we eat first? I don’t want you to miss your facial.”

  Diverted, Calliope increased her pace. In the grocery store we were welcomed by the scent of warm apple cider. A clerk handed us samples and we sipped the cinnamon-spiced brew as we perused the hot food bar. Later, after we’d both made a dent in our lunches, I swallowed a mouthful of fiery chicken curry and put down my fork.

  “You were amazing during the panel.” I’d learned to begin conversations with Calliope with a compliment. “You kindled the writers’ dreams, yet tempered them just enough with a dose of reality.”

  Calliope’s eyes glimmered. “It was such fun! I remember exactly what it felt like to be one of them.” She put a hand over her heart, her jeweled rings twinkling. “I remember that burning sensation in here. Night and day. I knew that I’d either publish…or perish!”

  We laughed over her theatricality. “And do you still think you have room to grow? To learn new things, even though you’re already an international bestselling author?”

  She smiled. “I never get tired of hearing people say that. But the answer to your question is yes, I am absolutely open to stepping out on a limb. That’s why I dearly want you to sell my latest project. And that’s why you’re helping me find a new publisher who will allow me to break out of my genre. History, romance, intrigue! It’s a winner.” When I failed to agree, Calliope eyed me warily. “Don’t you think so?”

  Summoning my courage, I said, “Right up until the last chapter. It’s a gem, Calliope, and you know that’s not just lip service. I’m a true fan. And have been since long before I was lucky enough to become your agent.” I paused. My next statement required delicacy. “You mentioned some of this project’s best qualities. The lovers from different social classes, the historic London setting, and the murder of a chambermaid blend beautifully. But the out-of-body experience in the final chapter doesn’t. It appears out of left field. It would be like Santa Claus delivering the State of the Union address.”

  Calliope shuffled a forkful of rice around on her plate, her mouth stretched into a deep frown.

  “We’ve discussed this before and I’m aware of your feelings on the subject,” I pushed on. “I believe that last chapter will prevent this book from selling, and I know how much you want this series to be a success. Calliope, if I didn’t truly care about your work, I wouldn’t be saying any of this.” I reached across the table and touched her hand. “Will you rewrite the ending?”

  After a long moment of silence, Calliope squeezed my hand. “I trust you, Lila. I don’t know why, since you’re a relatively green agent, but I do. I’ll revisit the finale.”

  I could have hugged her, but instead I applauded her flexibility and told her I’d be anxiously awaiting the revised version.

  Calliope wanted to mull over her project on the way back to her car, so we parted inside the grocery store.

  Heading back to the festival, I was so buoyed by self-satisfaction that I barely noticed the rain. By the time I showed up for my first pitch appointment, however, my suit jacket was peppered with wet drops.

  Just outside the former courtroom where Jude and I planned to host our pitch sessions, I bumped into Vicky. She looked me up and down, made a noise that clearly expressed she found me wanting, and then rummaged in her handbag for tissues and a compact. I hastily wiped away the raccoon eyes created by my running mascara and applied some fresh lipstick from my own purse.

  The buzz from within the room tied my stomach into knots. “I’m nervous,” I confessed to Vicky.

  “Follow your instincts. You have good judgment. After all, you hired me, didn’t you?”

  I could have sworn I saw her lips twitch with amusement, but there was no time for further study. I took my place at one of two small tables set up at the front of the room.

  Jude caught my eye and winked. Standing, he cleared his throat. “Welcome, writers.” His words silenced the chatter in the room. “I’m Jude Hudson, agent for thrillers and suspense novels, and this is Lila Wilkins. She represents romantic and traditional mysteries. We know you are all energized and maybe even a teeny bit anxious, but try to stay calm and present us with your best pitch. I promise we’ll be kind.” Judging by the worshipful stares he was receiving from the majority of the women in the audience, he could have been talking about the nuances of tax law and they would have listened attentively.

  After Jude relayed instructions on how we would proceed, each of us called the first name on our appointment schedules, and the pitch sessions were under way.

  A slim woman in her midtwenties approached my table, papers vibrating in her hands as rapidly as hummingbird wings.

  “It’s okay. I know exactly how you feel,” I said gently. “Just breathe.”

  The young woman gave me a grateful smile, took a seat, and told me her name. She then took my advice, inhaled deeply, and presented her pitch.

  “I’ve written a young adult trilogy similar to The Hunger Games. You’ve heard of the books by Suzanne Collins?”

  I nodded, disappointed that she’d begun her pitch by concentrating on another author’s work instead of pointing out the merits of her own.

  “In my series, starting with The Ring, gladiator matches are fought between supernatural creatures. For example, goblins fight dwarves, fairies battle trolls, et cetera. The winner of the games gets extra magic for their race. It’s really fast-paced and I’ve done a ton of research on mythical creatures. Anybody who likes J. R. R. Tolkien will love The Ring.”

  The young woman’s idea wasn’t half bad. In fact, it was quite creative, but her pitch was overly brief and too focused on name-dropping. Hers might have been the first pitch I’d ever heard, but I didn’t need to be a veteran agent to recognize that I’d been given no sense of voice from this writer. She hadn’t even mentioned the existence of a main character. Tactfully, I thanked the woman, gave her advice on the information she needed to include during future pitch appointments and queries, and wished her the best of luck.

  With the first pitch session out of the way, my initial anxiety abated. I leaned back and took a deep breath. This was certainly more direct than dealing with written queries, and it was important for me to be sensitive to the person sitting across the table, but I felt a certain satisfaction in giving an immediate verbal response. I could only hope that all the writers I’d meet today would be as receptive to my advice as the first.

  I looked around the room at the tense and nervous aspiring authors. Along the wall, people were sitting and standing. Most were clutching papers, and although a few were chatting to one another, the majority waited in silence. Jude was listening intently to a woman wearing a maroon cape.

  I caught the eye of a man who made me suck in a quick breath. His appearance reminded me of my imagined Kirk Mason. Tall and thin, the man wore jet-black pants and a blazer over a black turtleneck. His beard had been trimmed into a pencil-thin goatee, and his raven hair was short and spiky. A silver ring pierced both of his thick, dark eyebrows. It was eerie how closely he matched the image my mind had created for him. It was entirely possible that he was Mason. After all, the aspiring author had registered for the festival.

  The man in black stood with one shoulder leaning against the wall near Jude’s table. His cold ebony eyes bored into mine. I quickly glanced away and called the next name on my list.

  Ten pitches later, I felt as if I’d been participating in a bizarre form of speed dating. The stories presented to me had all jumbled together in my mind, and the writers’ faces had become a blur. I’d been regaled with clichéd tales of romance and murder and had yet to hear a pitch worthy of consideration. Heaving a big sigh, I scanned the remaining hopefuls in the room while calling my next person, one Ashley Buckland.

  The sinister man in b
lack narrowed his eyes, causing his eyebrow rings to glitter, and pushed away from the wall. Good Lord, he was coming to pitch his novel to me. I struggled to compose myself and straightened my papers. But then he veered away from me at the last moment, leaving a cloying, musky scent in his wake, and sat down in a vacant chair not far from Jude’s table. Jude, having just had a rotund, bald man push himself out of the seat across from him, turned and winked at me.

  “Hello, I’m Ashley Buckland.”

  A pleasant voice drew my attention back to my own table, and I looked up to see a gentleman of average height with short brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses standing by me. “Please, sit,” I said, gesturing to the seat at the other side of the table.

  He cleared his throat and chuckled. “I guess you don’t usually get a man pitching a cozy, do you?”

  I didn’t feel inclined to tell him that today was the first time I’d had anyone pitch anything to me, so I said, “I think a man can have a unique voice and perspective in a genre primarily written by females. Please, tell me your story.”

  He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hands and placed it on the table. “I’ve written a humorous cozy about a group of househusbands who call themselves Men at Home. My main character, Will, is a relatively new stay-at-home dad, so he is invited to join these guys who, like him, have left the nine-to-five world to raise their kids while their wives are in the corporate rat race. They get together once a week at a playgroup for their kids to swap recipes and advice. When Will’s former boss gets murdered, Will becomes the chief suspect. The Men at Home band together to try and discover the real murderer, in between loading up the Crock-Pot, carting babies around in strollers, and folding laundry.”

  “That’s definitely a unique approach,” I said. “And I could see it having a certain appeal to both the typical cozy reader and to men who don’t normally pick up the genre. Do you envision yourself writing more than one title?”