Blind Submission (31 page)

“You mean Natalie Weinstein?” I was baffled. I'd spoken to Natalie several times from the office, and unless she was in a state of high dudgeon over something Lucy had done or not done, she was extremely personable and always polite.

“Well, who the hell else would I be talking about? Honestly, Angel, sometimes I worry about the speed of your thought processes.”

There wasn't really a need to respond to that statement, so I just followed Lucy out of the elevator. We stepped through glass doors etched with the Gabriel Press colophon (a trumpet) into a waiting area that was as lush and literary as the lobby had been sterile.

There is something about the aroma of fresh books that is totally intoxicating. When I'd worked at Blue Moon, I loved to unpack the cartons when they came in. A new book has a certain clean, crisp smell full of promise that is difficult to define. Sort of like the scent and feeling of just-washed bed linens at the moment you slide your legs between them. The air in Gabriel Press was full of this fragrance—the halls were lined with books, paper, and bound galleys. There were blown-up book jackets on the walls and thick cream-colored carpeting on the floor. And it was quiet—peaceful—the sounds of computer keyboards, phones, and voices all muted in some kind of literary hush. It was, I thought, very much like my idea of a personal heaven.

As we marched through the corridors, Lucy tossed greetings through every open door and cubicle, sending ripples of sound through the calm. It was still early, so the offices were only half-full from what I could see, but Lucy managed to announce her presence to everyone who was there:

“Daniel, I can't wait to show you this scrumptious novel,” was followed by, “Susan, I have one that practically came in with your name on it,” and then, “Jason, be sure to tell your boss that I am simply dying to see her as soon as she gets in,” winding up with, “You're going to love it…. You'll love it…. You will fall in love….”

Natalie Weinstein was at the far end of the floor, occupying a large corner space. Several semienclosed cubicles, the largest of which belonged to her assistant, encircled her office. The assistant was not at her desk when we arrived and Lucy made
tsk-tsk
noises. “She's had a lot of trouble with assistants,” Lucy said. “Personally, I can understand why. She can't be an easy boss, if you know what I mean.”

I shrugged so as to give her some kind of response, but again, I was perplexed. Natalie's assistant, Wendy, and I had also spoken on the phone several times, and she'd always seemed not only efficient, but pleasant. She had none of the strain in her voice that I knew
we
all had at the agency.

“Naaaatalieeee,” Lucy called. “Helloooo?”

“Come on in, Lucy,” came the voice from behind the door, but Lucy was already halfway in and I came trailing behind her.

I assumed that Natalie Weinstein was sitting behind her large lacquered desk, so when she moved away from it to greet us, I was stunned to find she'd been standing. She was minute. Not just short or small-boned, but tiny in every way. I watched as Lucy leaned over and swallowed her in an embrace. She had to be under five feet, I guessed, and her body looked like an assembly of twigs covered with skin. Her hair was platinum blond and cut so short it had a military look to it. She had huge light-blue eyes and her skin was extremely tan. She looked, I thought ungenerously, like an alien.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Lucy,” Natalie said. “You look well.”

“As do you, my dear,” Lucy responded. Lucy continued on with pleasantries for a few moments and I hung back behind her, directing my gaze out Natalie's large corner windows, which offered a spectacular view of the city.

“And you must be the famous Angel,” Natalie said, moving away from Lucy and fixing me with her extraterrestrial eyes.

“Famous!” Lucy snorted.

“It's a pleasure to meet you in person,” I said, shaking Natalie's small bony hand.

“Likewise,” Natalie said, and tipped her head to one side, assessing me in some way I couldn't figure out. Behind her, Lucy was looking at me and shaking her head as if to tell me not to speak.

“Shall we get down to business, my dear?” Lucy said sharply. “I know how valuable your time is.”

“And yours, of course,” Natalie said. “But wouldn't you like a cup of coffee or something?”

“I think my assistant can handle that,” Lucy said, waving her hand in my direction. “Also, if you don't mind, Natalie, I have a manuscript here…. I was planning to go out with this in the next couple of weeks, but I know you're going to fall in love with this one. It's the perfect cross between literary and commercial, and I know you've been looking for something Las Vegas–oriented, yes? Anyway, I've just decided now that you must have it. My assistant can make a quick copy for you if you'll direct her to the copy machine?”

“Sounds intriguing,” Natalie said, and looked up at me. “Wendy can help you find everything, Angel. Thank you.”

“Do you…” I started. I could feel that my face was flushed and my ears were burning with the mortification of being reduced to coffee/copy girl by Lucy. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks,” Natalie said. “I'm on a green tea diet at the moment. No coffee allowed.”

“Well, then, I'd be happy to get you a green tea,” I said, and left her office before Lucy could speak to, at, or about me again.

MY CELL PHONE RANG
as I was negotiating how to get back into the building while balancing the coffee, the green tea, the
Elvis
manuscript, and the muffin I'd bought for myself. I was forced to put everything on the ground to dig into my purse and pull the phone out. The caller ID listed a 212 area code.

“This is Angel.”

“We're growing old here, Angel. What could be taking you so long?”

She was calling me from Natalie's office phone. The memory of that old horror flick—
the calls are coming from inside the house!
—flitted through my head and I had to stifle a wild giggle. Kill the babysitter. Kill the assistant.

“On my way now,” I said, and snapped the phone shut. It rang again before I could put it back in my purse.

“This is Angel.”

“It's Craig. I got your message.”

I looked at my watch. It wasn't even seven o'clock in California. “Are you in the office?” I asked him.

“Of course I'm in the office,” he said. “How else would I—Can you put Lucy on the phone?”

“I'm downstairs. I mean, she's upstairs…. I'll have to have her call you back, Craig. She's in a meeting with Natalie Weinstein.”

“Take down these numbers,” he said. “Then you can give them to her and she can call me back.”

“I can't do that right now, Craig. I'm kind of standing on the street.”

“Just tell her ‘seventeen without,' then. But she needs to call me back.”

“Okay, thanks. Listen, Craig, I need to speak to Jackson when—”

“WHY WOULD JACKSON BE HERE,” he screamed into the phone, “AT THIS HOUR OF THE DAY?!” and hung up.

Craig was obviously losing it. Could it be that he was suffering from Lucy-withdrawal and didn't know what to do with his slavish self without her? I mean, really,
seventeen without.
It was like something from
The Rule of Four.
The world was going mad. My corner of it at least.

NATALIE WAS ALONE
in her office when I finally made it back upstairs, and she beckoned me to come in and sit down. I looked around for Lucy and I wondered if she'd left me behind to go on to her next appointment.

“Your boss is using the restroom,” Natalie said in the same tone that someone would tell a lost child,
Don't worry, your mother will be right back.
“Thank you so much for the tea.”

“It's a pleasure,” I said. “You have a beautiful office.” She smiled at me. “And I just want to say I think that your books are fantastic.” I pointed to her bookshelf, which was stacked with Weinstein Books titles. Her books
were
exceptional; they won a disproportionate number of literary awards, but they rarely made it onto bestseller lists.
Parco Lambro
would have been perfect for her. She was exactly the kind of editor Damiano needed, but she hadn't been able to come up with enough money to satisfy Lucy.

“I've known Lucy Fiamma for a long time,” Natalie said.

“So she's said.” Lucy had also told me, “I knew Natalie Weinstein before she was
Natalie Weinstein
—when she was still taking messages for Gordon Hart.”

“She's never brought anyone to New York with her before,” Natalie went on. She paused a moment to let this sink in. “You must be something very special,” she said, and let out a mirthless laugh. “Either that or you've got something on her.”

I laughed politely.

“I'm betting on the former,” Natalie said. “That Italian book…Lucy hasn't come through with anything like that for a long time. I think you had something to do with that one, didn't you?”

I laughed again. It seemed like the thing to do.

“And I think you have a hand in whatever it is she's got today.”

I shrugged.

“Ever thought about moving to New York, Angel?”

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

“Maybe you should. Think about it, that is. So tell me, should I get excited about that manuscript you're holding?”

I looked down at
Elvis,
which was getting damp and curled from the sweat of my palms. I knew I should tell her that she'd
fall in love
with it, but I was thinking about Sunny Martin and her memoir,
Balsamic Moon.
I'd read part of it the night before when I was too wired to sleep and I really liked it. I knew that it was exactly the kind of book that Natalie Weinstein wanted. “Well, it's…” I hesitated, my mouth still open around the words.

“Come on, Angel,” she said. “Let's see what you've got. Pitch it to me.”

I looked into Natalie Weinstein's freaky eyes and made a decision. I hoped I wouldn't live to regret it, because once the next words were out of my mouth, I'd never be able to take them back. I was taking a big chance. Lucy could walk in on us at any moment and I'd be caught in literary flagrante delicto.

“This is a terrific book,” I said, holding up
Elvis,
“but I think I should let Lucy tell you about it. She's so excited about it and I'd hate to ruin it for her. But I have something else. It just came in and Lucy's not—I mean, I'm sort of handling it right now and…” My nerve was fading and I looked at Natalie for a sign that I should proceed.

“I get it,” she said, giving me one. “Go on.”

“The title is
Balsamic Moon,
” I said in a quick rush, frantic to get it all out before Lucy came back. “It's a memoir by an astrologer, but with a great twist. It's a real-life
Da Vinci Code,
which is perfect since everyone wants a new
Da Vinci Code,
but nobody wants another imitator. I think we all know
that
ship has sailed. The subject matter is fascinating—hasn't been done before that I can tell—and the writing is excellent. She's a natural. I know the kind of books you publish and I know you'll love this one.”

“Indeed,” she said. “And what is the author's name?”

“That's the best part,” I said, going in for the close. “She already has great media visibility. Her name is Sunny—Solange—Martin. I'm sure you're familiar with her.”

“In fact, I am,” Natalie said. “Is there a finished manuscript?”

I was about to answer her when Lucy glided back into Natalie's office on a wave of freshly applied Chanel N
^o
5. The three of us froze in a weird little tableau for a moment, Natalie looking like the cat that ate the canary, Lucy glowering when she saw me seated in front of Natalie's desk, and me, slack-jawed and speechless. It was Natalie who spoke first.