Now she was tired and frightened and a little
bit angry. More than a little. Fury simmered so close to the surface her skin
itched. Henrietta should
not
be ill. Some stranger should
not
be sitting at her desk. Her sister, the one she’d always looked up to, admired,
envied for her bravery and reckless joie de vivre, should
not
be locked inside
her own broken body, forever sentenced by a quirk of nature to silence. Emily’s
eyes stung.
For the first time in many years, her safe
haven no longer felt safe and she wanted—needed—someone to blame. Derian
Winfield’s rakish face flashed through her mind and her swirling anger pointed
at her. Derian was Henrietta’s niece, one of the Winfield heirs, and where was
she in all of this? Betting on cars and cards and, in all likelihood, women.
Why wasn’t she here to hold back the storm, to make everything solid and safe
again?
Emily drew up short.
Oh. My.
She was not thinking straight. Derian was no
more responsible for what happened here at the agency than a hot dog vendor on
the corner. She’d chosen not to be part of Henrietta’s world, Emily’s world,
and she had every right to do that. Derian and Henrietta obviously had an understanding,
and it was none of Emily’s concern. Expecting someone else, especially a woman
she didn’t even know, to solve her problems was not her way. She damn well
solved her own problems, and she would solve this one. Straightening her
shoulders, she reached for her tea, only to discover the cup was empty.
As she started to rise, Ron rushed in, his
normally perfectly coiffed brown hair windblown, his cheeks flushed, and his
eyes wide and unblinking.
“Who is that?” he stage-whispered, tilting
his head almost imperceptibly in the direction of Henrietta’s office two doors
down.
Emily motioned him in. “Shut the door.”
He pushed the door closed with one loafered
foot, shrugging off the quilted down parka he would wear until daytime
temperatures stayed above sixty. His Florida blood, according to him, was too
thin to accommodate the Arctic temperatures of New York City.
“She said her name is Donatella Agnelli. I
don’t know who she is.”
“Never heard of her, and I would have
remembered if I’d seen her.” He mock shivered. “She looks like Maleficent in
Versace. Why is she in Henrietta’s office, and she’s going through Henrietta’s
papers.”
“I don’t know that either, except she said
that she’s in charge now.”
He stopped midway across the room, his mouth
agape. “What? In charge as in…WTF?”
Emily shook her ahead, as frustrated as Ron
at being in the dark. “I don’t know what that means or what she intends to do,
but I suspect we’ll find out soon. Is Vonnie here yet?”
“I didn’t see her.” Ron dispiritedly dragged
his coat behind him and slumped into one of the leather-backed guest chairs
facing her desk. “How’s Henrietta, really?”
“I don’t know.” Emily closed her eyes and
sighed. “God, I don’t seem to know anything.”
When Emily opened them again, she read
anxiety and compassion in Ron’s gaze and regretted making him worry. Time to
leave the pity party behind. “All the tests weren’t in last night, but the ICU
doctors seemed to think her condition is very treatable. The last word I had,
she was doing well.” She looked at her watch, even though she knew what time it
was. Past time she should have been working. “That was last night about seven.
I’m sure if anything had happened since then, Derian—”
Ron pounced. “Derian? The Derian? Derian
Winfield?”
“Is there more than one?” Emily asked calmly.
He crossed one leg over his knee and rested
his elbow on his bent leg, eyeing her with speculative interest. “Derian. First
names already. How did that happen?”
“I met her at the hospital,” Emily said, not
at all sure why she felt like she needed to explain. “She and Henrietta are
obviously really close. She was very kind and I’m sure she would let me…us…know
if there were any worrisome changes.”
“What’s she really like?” Ron asked. “I’ve
only met her a couple of times, brief introductions, and she wasn’t exactly
friendly.”
“She’s very gracious and very…polite.”
“Polite? What does that mean, polite?”
Emily could feel her cheeks heating. That was
a stupid thing to say. Of course, what she’d wanted to say was chivalrous,
which would’ve sounded even more inane. “Never mind. I just meant that she was
very kind, and very helpful. She was clearly worried about Henrietta and nice
enough to recognize that I was too.”
“So you met her at the hospital.”
“I said that.”
“And talked with her.”
“Yes, Ron, I talked with her.”
“And…”
“And nothing.” Emily tried not to bristle.
“We were both there because of Henrietta. It was only natural that we talk, and
it was a long day and we were both hungry, so we had dinner.”
He straightened, his eyes narrowing. “Dinner.
And when were you going to tell me about that?”
Never, and as soon as she thought it, Emily
recognized how odd that was for her. She and Ron were good friends. Beyond just
their professional bond, they socialized as often as Ron could convince her to.
She’d even told him a little bit about Pam, and that was something she never
shared. But she hadn’t planned on telling him about Derian. What could she say?
Nothing she wanted to put into words, not only because words might not do
justice to exactly how unique the evening had been, but perhaps—like the fear
of reducing the brilliance of a sunrise to the ordinary in a photograph—she
didn’t want to put words to the experience lest she fail in her description and
tarnish the memory.
“It must’ve been a very interesting dinner,”
Ron said at length.
Emily blinked. “It was pleasant, and like I
said, she was very gracious.”
“If you say so. I just hope she’s not too
gracious when she comes in and boots Ms. Interloper Agnelli out from behind
Henrietta’s desk.”
Emily’s heart plummeted. “I don’t think
that’s anything we should wait for.”
*
At eight thirty a.m. Vonnie appeared in
Emily’s doorway, arms folded over her chest and thunder in her eyes. “Ms.
Agnelli wants all of the senior staff in the conference room now, please.”
She spoke so stiffly her face barely moved
with her words.
Emily recognized rage and hurried to her
side. Keeping her voice low, she said, “Don’t worry. Whatever’s going on, we’ll
handle it until Henrietta returns.”
“I’m not taking orders from her,” Vonnie said
through clenched teeth. “I swear, I’ll quit first.”
Emily grasped her arm. “You most certainly
will not. None of us can get along without you, and I need you to help me sit
on Henrietta when she comes back to work. It’s going to take both of us to get
her to slow down without realizing she is.”
Vonnie’s lips curved for an instant and she
let out a long breath. “If I didn’t love this place and most everybody in it, I
swear…”
“I know, I know. It’s horrible right now, but
we’ll get through it.”
“We sure don’t need any help from some
outsider to handle things.” Vonnie glanced over her shoulder and huffed. “She’s
asking for all sorts of confidential papers.”
“Do you know her?”
Vonnie shook her head. “No, but she got a
call from Mr. Winfield. I couldn’t hear what she was saying before she shut the
door, but they sounded chummy.”
Emily hadn’t expected Henrietta’s brother to
take an active role in the agency, certainly not so soon. She wasn’t at all
sure that was a good sign. “I’m sure someone will fill us in soon.”
“Well, you’d best be going. The way she
shoots out orders, if you’re late you might not get through the day.”
“As soon as this is done, I’m going over to
the hospital. No matter what she has to say.”
“Good enough. I was planning to go by on my
lunch hour.”
“We should probably take turns or something.”
“That will work,” Vonnie said. “In the
meantime, I’ll do a little more digging on our guest.”
“Don’t worry. Maybe this won’t be as bad as
we think.”
She heard Vonnie’s snort of disbelief as she
hurried down the hall to the meeting. Like the library, this room retained its
classic features, with tall, narrow windows framed with glossy dark woodwork,
ornate ceiling moldings and antique light fixtures, and a long narrow oak table
with a dozen chairs around it. Donatella Agnelli stood at one end, her back
straight, her dark eyes sliding from one individual to the next, assessing in
an unsmiling way. Ron and the other acquiring agents sat on one side, with a
seat for her open next to Donatella, while Mark Ramsey from business, Brian
Rood from marketing, and several interns occupied the other side of the table.
Donatella’s gaze landed on one of the
interns. “Who are you?”
The thin young man in the open-collared plaid
shirt and khaki Dockers jumped to attention in his seat. “Aloysius Benson. I’m
an intern in—”
“Out.” She pointed toward the door with one
long finger, the manicured nail sculpted in bloody red. “Is there anyone else
in here not of managerial level?”
The other intern shot up and hastened to
catch up to Aloysius.
Mark cleared his throat. “We like to have the
interns present for these discussions. It helps them learn the workings of—”
“You can save that for the ad in
PW
. Their role is to
get coffee, pull files, and pick up laundry if necessary. Let’s not pretend
otherwise.”
Mark’s neck turned purple, and Emily could
actually hear his teeth grinding.
“As of today,” Donatella said briskly, “I
will be assuming the duties of the CEO. Division heads will report directly to
me on all projects. I would like a summary of all ongoing by the end of the
day. Who handles contract negotiations?”
Emily glanced at the other agents. “Each
acquiring agent handles their own, after discussion with—”
“That accounts for the backlog.” Donatella’s
full, scarlet-hued lips thinned. “From this point forward, all contracts in
process will be referred to me for review. I will decide which ones are offered
and the terms.”
“I’m sorry,” Emily said calmly, “but do you
also intend to discuss terms with the authors? Or just—”
“If you have a manuscript you think might
have value, bring it to me. I’ll decide who we sign and take over from there.”
She waved a hand. “If you want to be the one making the happy phone call, be my
guest.”
“Excuse me,” Emily said, proud that her fury
didn’t result in a scream. “I’m afraid I don’t understand how you’re going to
determine terms when the agents are the ones making the recommendations based
on our knowledge of—”
“As we’re all getting to know each other,”
Donna said icily, her smile as sharp as a razor blade, “I’ll explain myself.
This time. Winfield’s bottom line is barely acceptable, and it’s not difficult
to discern why. My cursory review reveals an alarming percentage of titles with
slim to no profit margin. The only way to turn this poor performance record
around is to be more selective in the works that we take on. While I appreciate
that the acquiring agents may have a certain fondness for some works that
won’t, shall we say, pay for themselves, we are not a charitable organization.
We want books that are guaranteed to sell. I can assure you, I’m quite capable
of determining what those might be.”
Ron raised his hand.
Donatella eyed him with an arrowed brow.
“Yes, Mister—?”
“Elliott. Ron.” He gave her his best
guileless, I-never-make-trouble look. “So what I’m hearing is our expertise as
acquisition agents is not going to play a role in deciding which authors we
sign. What do you expect us to do, then?”
“I’m sure you’re quite adept at wallowing
through the slush pile. Get rid of the flotsam and jetsam. We only want the
pearls.” She lasered in on Mark. “I’d like to see the budget projections for
the rest of the year in my inbox by eight tomorrow morning. That will be all
for now.”
She swiveled on a needle-thin, six-inch heel
and shot out the door, sucking most of the air in the room out with her.
Finally Mark sputtered to life. “Who the
hell—can she do this?”
Every head swiveled in Emily’s direction,
some faces outraged, some shocked.
“I don’t know,” she said for at least the
hundredth time that morning, “but I’m going to find out.”
Derian’s phone rang as she was reaching for her
wallet to pay the Lindy’s bill. They’d managed to work their way through
multiple refills of coffee and a second round of toast while staying away from the
incendiary topics of Winfield Enterprises, Derian’s relationships or lack
thereof, and Aud’s career. Derian checked the readout and her breath caught.
“It’s the hospital.”
“I’ve got this,” Aud said, grabbing the bill
from Dere’s other hand. “Go ahead—get that.”
“Winfield,” Derian said.
“This is Dr. Carter Armstrong. I’m one of the
cardiothoracic surgeons consulting on Henrietta Winfield. I understand you’re
her medical surrogate.”
“That’s right. I’m her niece.” Derian tamped
down the suffocating swell of anxiety. “Is something wrong?”
“Your aunt’s coronary arteries are extremely
fragile, with substantial blockages in all three major tributaries.
Unfortunately, the obstructions occur at multiple levels, making stenting
impractical.”
“What does that mean in terms of treatment?”
Derian wondered why it took doctors and lawyers so many words to say the
simplest things. Did they want to make communications difficult or was it just
safer to be incomprehensible?
“She needs surgery, and my recommendation is
to proceed immediately.”
“Has something changed?”
“No, she’s medically stable, but another
insult could irrevocably damage substantial portions of the cardiac muscle,
endangering her long-term prognosis.”