Buried in a Book (3 page)

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.

“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.”

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:

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.

“Heh, heh. That’s my stress reliever,” he said, picking up the putter. “Do you golf?”

“I’m afraid I was never athletic and don’t follow a particular sport,” I admitted. “But my son has tried them all. Surfing is his latest love.”

“I have a splendid reference book on surfing.” He removed a hardcover from the nearest bookshelf. “It’s signed by my client, and I have several copies, so please give this to your son. Consider it a welcome gift.”