Every Trick in the Book (34 page)

“To me, springtime represents the celebration of fresh colors and flavors. After a
long winter, we finally get to crush some of the season’s first herbs—chives and oregano—between
our fingertips. How I used to love to pick these for my grandmother and then watch
her sprinkle them over a lamb roast.” Klara, a curvy, middle-aged brunette with sky
blue eyes, smiled at the camera. “Tonight, I’m going to walk you through one of my
family’s favorite dishes: grilled tuna and spring herb salad with marinated tomatoes.
And for dessert? Ripe, juicy apricots tossed with brown sugar and honey.” She grabbed
a pot holder, opened an oven, and
pulled out the middle rack, revealing a perfectly browned apricot tart. Klara described
the heavenly smell in her kitchen and then added a conspiratorial whisper. “You don’t
have to be Charlene Jacques to create wonderful pies and tarts. Let me show you some
of her secrets.”

“Who’s Charlene Jacques?” Sean asked.

“She’s a famous pastry chef. Her show comes on before Klara’s.” I took another sip
of the sweet dessert wine. “I can’t believe they’ll both be in Inspiration Valley
in a few days. Our Taste of the Town is going to be amazing!”

Setting his empty ice cream bowl aside, Sean began to stroke my hair, starting at
the crown of my head and pulling gently until he reached the ends. My entire body
relaxed against him and I sighed in contentment.

“And how is Novel Idea involved in this festival of gluttony?” he teased.

I couldn’t keep the excitement from my voice. “We’ve arranged for some of the country’s
top chefs to cook in Inspiration Valley restaurants, sign their cookbooks at the Constant
Reader, and conduct classes at the new Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts. You should
sign up for the ‘A Chef in Your Home’ class. It’s all about the fundamentals of shopping,
preparing, and plating simple but delicious dishes.”

“If someone could teach me to scramble an egg, that would be a start,” Sean said,
his hands traveling down my neck and across my shoulders, massaging out the kinks.
I felt like a pat of melting butter.

On television, Klara illustrated the art of rolling out a pine nut tart crust. I was
too focused on Sean’s touch to pay much attention, but I did hear her mention how
she had seen Leslie Sterling, another celebrity chef, scorch a cream of asparagus
soup once.

“This Klara woman must have a grocery list of enemies.” Sean stopped rubbing my shoulders
for a moment. “It’s very subtle, but she belittles her competition while boasting
about her own skills.”

I grabbed the remote control and turned the television off. Turning to face Sean,
I slipped my hands under his shirt and pressed my body against his. “I think I’d rather
focus on your skills, Officer Griffiths. After all, we’re supposed to be celebrating.”

Sean responded immediately by kissing me until I felt breathless. Then he stood up
and lifted me off the sofa in a swift, powerful movement. “Speaking of skill sets,”
he whispered, “I’m pretty good at starting fires.”

And with that, he pulled me toward the bedroom and shut the door.

THE NEXT MORNING
, my short ride to work was magical. A flurry of white petals from the pear trees
lining Walden Woods Circle had swirled around my yellow scooter and everywhere I looked,
daffodils and tulips were bursting through the soil of my neighbors’ tidy gardens.
Hyacinths and forsythia perfumed the air and the pink dogwoods at the entrance to
my development looked like tufts of cotton candy.

I was humming as I stepped into Espresso Yourself, my favorite coffee shop.

“Girl, I do believe you’re floating on a rainbow this morning!” Makayla, the coffee
shop’s gorgeous barista and my best friend, called out.

“I am, but I also need a serious jolt of caffeine. Sean and I celebrated our first
nine months together last night and I
stayed up way too late.” Hearing how silly this statement sounded, I rolled my eyes.
“Listen to me! I’m talking like I’m in junior high school. My son’s a freshman in
college and I’m going on about my nine-month anniversary.”

Makayla’s mouth curved into a wide smile. “I think it’s right sweet. Why shouldn’t
a woman in her mid forties have a boyfriend? Or two? Or three?” Her musical laughter
was drowned out by the gurgle of the espresso machine.

I studied my friend. Makayla, who was in her midtwenties and had the poise and self-assurance
of a much older woman. She was tall and thin with radiant skin the color of warm chocolate
and the most dazzling green eyes I’d ever seen. Makayla worked long hours to keep
her shop afloat and in her spare time devoured every novel she could get her hands
on. She was also tireless in her support of the local art scene. Every few weeks,
she hung up a new set of photographs, paintings, drawings, etchings, or textiles created
by an Inspiration Valley artist.

Now, as I took in a collection of black-and-white ink drawings of birds and butterflies,
I felt a pang of sadness that my beautiful, intelligent, and generous friend had yet
to find a man worthy enough of a second date.

“Hey, why’d you put on a long face?” Makayla asked, handing me a large caramel latte.

The bell above the door rang and an elderly man in a business suit walked into the
coffee shop. Lowering my voice, I said, “I was just thinking that you deserve to be
as happy as I am. I wish some dashing, bookish, coffee-drinking stranger would waltz
in here and capture your heart.”

Makayla grinned and gestured at the café table where I normally sat. “Let me get Mr.
Sheehan his cappuccino and
cinnamon scone and then I’ll tell you about my secret admirer.”

“What?” I glanced at the impatient Mr. Sheehan. “Okay, but hurry up.” I checked my
watch and decided that I could be a little late to work. After all, my office was
right upstairs. I sipped my latte and flipped through the pages of
Inspired
, Inspiration Valley’s free paper, and felt another thrill of excitement about all
the Taste of the Town events I’d be attending as a representative of the Novel Idea
Literary Agency.

“Read this.” Makayla perched on the edge of the table and handed me a scrap of paper.
“This one’s from yesterday. It was folded inside a two-dollar bill and stuffed into
my tip jar.”

I raised my brows. “You don’t see these in circulation anymore.”

“That’s how I know it’s the same guy. He always puts his notes inside a two-dollar
bill.” She nudged my elbow. “Go on, girlfriend, drink in the words.”

Complying, I read the following typewritten lines aloud: “‘I love you without knowing
how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or
pride; so I love you because I know no other way.’” Putting the paper on the table,
I looked at Makayla. “Wow. Who wrote this?”

“Pablo Neruda, the Chilean poet. Lord, I get weak in the knees reading his stuff.”
She touched my hand. “But, Lila, they’ve all been this beautiful. My secret admirer
has given me three bits of poetry so far. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure
it wasn’t a fluke, but this makes number four.”

I shook my head in wonder. “And you have no idea who this guy is?”

“None. And it’s driving me insane!” She gripped my hand. “I’m counting on your talent
as a seasoned investigator to help me discover his identity. I need to find out soon,
because I am not getting any sleep! I lie in bed and picture my customers’ faces one
by one until they’re spinning around in my head like a merry-go-round on speed.”

“Of course I’ll help.” I paused and then looked into my friend’s green eyes. “But
what if he’s not who you hoped he’d be? What happens then?”

Makayla sighed. “If he’s married, lives with his mama, or has been to jail, then I’m
not interested, but if he isn’t Prince Charming that’s fine by me, too. I’m no Cinderella.
I want a man who appreciates stories, is a good listener, and laughs easily. It doesn’t
matter to me if he’s black, white, bald, short, pudgy, or hairy.” She gave me a sly
smile. “But he’s got to love books, especially since I just finished writing one.”

I’d been on the verge of taking another sip of my latte when she uttered this declaration.
“What?” I asked through pursed lips. “I didn’t even know you were working on a book.”

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to read my work in progress,” she hurriedly assured
me. “Besides, I wasn’t sure if I’d finish it at all, but these little lines of love
in my tip jar really got me going and
The Barista Diaries
is done and ready to be submitted to an agent. Know any good ones?”

Delighted, I listened as Makayla described her collection of short stories and then
realized I was going to be noticeably tardy if I didn’t zip upstairs that second.
After making her promise to email me a copy of her manuscript, I scooped up my take-out
cup and headed for the lobby, hoping that Vicky Crump, our agency’s punctilious office
manager, wasn’t at her desk yet.

I SPENT ALL
morning working diligently as I wanted the tasks out of the way before Taste of the
Town began. I barely stopped for a coffee break and ate my lunch of leftovers from
the previous night’s Wild Ginger dinner in front of my computer. Chewing on the last
bite of cold broccoli beef, I placed the empty plastic containers in my tote and scooped
up a package of washable markers along with my Taste of the Town folder. Thus supplied,
I headed for the conference room.

As expected, no one was there and I began to prepare for my meeting. On the whiteboard,
I drew out a chart. Across the top row I wrote in the agents’ names and in the far
left column filled in an event for each subsequent row: Klara’s book release, Books
and Cooks Signings, Short Story Contest, Food in Children’s Lit, Literary Banquet,
TV Show. I was so intent on my task that I didn’t realize Jude had come into the room
until he spoke.

“You look very absorbed,” he said in a playful tone.

His voice startled me and my hand jerked, giving the “w” on the word “show” an upturned
tail. I spun around. As always, my pulse sped up at the sight of Jude. His chocolate
brown eyes held a glint of amusement beneath his long lashes. Smiling at me, he ran
his fingers through his dark wavy hair. “I’ve been watching you for five minutes and
you didn’t even notice,” he said. “Not that I didn’t enjoy the view.”

I refused to respond to his flattery. I was Sean’s girl, and my brief ill-advised
fancy of being with Jude had dissipated long ago. Glancing at the time on the wall
clock behind him, I said, “You’re early. The meeting doesn’t start until two.”

“I know. I just wanted to have a few minutes alone with you before everyone else comes
in.” He stepped closer to me.

“Jude,” I cautioned. “You know Sean and I—”

“Not like
that
. I know you and the policeman are tight. My loss,” he said, shaking his head. He
held out a stack of papers. “I actually came here early to discuss the latest submissions
for the
Alexandria Society
sequel. Not one of these has the same spellbinding, desperate voice that Marlette
had, and I’m inclined to turn them all down. How did you fare with yours?”

Marlette Robbins, one of the agency’s authors represented by Jude, had written an
intriguing suspense novel that became an immediate bestseller. Unfortunately, he didn’t
live to see his masterwork in print. Now, with the book’s success, his publishers
were eager to put out a sequel and Jude and I had been given the task of finding a
ghostwriter for the book. So far we hadn’t had any luck.

“Same here,” I answered. “I wasn’t impressed by any of the submissions I received.
And some of them were from big name authors.”

Jude sighed and plunked himself into a chair. “I thought this would be an easy project,
but Marlette’s unique voice is proving difficult to replicate. Any suggestions?”

“What if…” I tapped the end of a marker on my chin. “Instead of focusing on seasoned
authors, we expand the playing field. Go through our unsolicited queries, maybe put
the word out to writers who may not have published a bestseller yet. Or published
anything, for that matter. Look at Marlette. He was unknown and unpublished, and he
still penned a winner.”

Jude nodded. “But how do we advertise what we’re looking for without seeming overanxious?”

“The Taste of the Town will bring lots of people in—maybe we could have a contest
in conjunction with the first event held at the Marlette Robbins Center for the Arts.”

“I like that. A ghostwriting contest to honor Marlette.” Jude started writing on his
notepad. “However, since we already have the ‘Stories about Food’ writing contest
under way, it might not be such a good idea to have two contests going at once. Should
we run it by Bentley and see what she thinks?”

“Maybe we can talk to her after this meeting. Right now I have to finish this.” I
turned back to the whiteboard and completed the chart.

A few minutes later, the rest of the staff was seated around the conference table,
gazing expectantly at me. I felt a little self-conscious standing at the front, especially
with Bentley Burlington-Duke, the founder and president of Novel Idea Literary Agency,
sitting to my left. She peered at me over her diamond-studded reading glasses but
said nothing.