I didn’t. I was starting a new life tomorrow, and I needed my beauty sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING, I decided to take the train into Inspiration Valley. The Inspiration Express was more expensive than driving my car from Dunston, but it was faster, and I wanted to read through the information I had Googled about the Novel Idea Literary Agency during the commute. Not only that, but riding the railroad is far more poetic than fighting traffic, especially since the gleaming silver train was transporting me to my new life.
The last time I rode the Express was with ten-year-old Trey on a special birthday trip to visit my mother. The interior was the same as I remembered, with red plush seats, carved wooden armrests, and small crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. I was delighted to see that the train still maintained a white-gloved porter who pushed a pastry cart through the aisles, distributing chocolate croissants on china plates and pouring coffee from a silver carafe. It brought to mind the Orient Express, and for a moment, I imagined I was steaming toward Zurich or Istanbul as Hercule Poirot interviewed murder suspects over a cup of tea.
Smiling, I stared out the window and tried to absorb the fact that I would soon be a literary agent. Trees whipped past in blurs of green interspersed with splotches of bright blooms, and I soaked in the kaleidoscope of colors. Hazy mountains ascended in the distance, and the gentle rocking of the train allowed my mind to wander. Finally, I pulled my attention away from the scenery, opened my folder containing information on Novel Idea, and began reading.
I discovered that my new boss, Bentley Burlington-Duke, was instrumental in revitalizing Inspiration Valley. Years ago, when my mother moved to the tiny hamlet, it was called Illumination Valley and was a tourist trap for New Agers. Althea, my mother, found it was the perfect place for a psychic to set up shop. But when both the Yoga and Meditation Center and the House of Holistic Healing went bankrupt during one of the country’s worst recessions, the rest of the town began to die.
Therefore, it was no surprise that when Bentley bought up a prime piece of property in the middle of town to establish her agency, the locals welcomed her with open arms. She motivated other business owners and friends to relocate, and soon the town was reenergized and renamed. Despite her success as a Manhattan-based agent, Bentley was determined to return to her country roots and establish the finest literary agency south of the Mason-Dixon Line. According to my online research, Novel Idea had quickly become one of the nation’s top agencies and Bentley had lured away several top-notch New York agents who now proudly called North Carolina home.
Before I had finished reading the agency’s dossier, the whistle blew and we pulled into Inspiration Valley Station. Stepping off the train, I inhaled deeply and looked around. I knew exactly where to go, having read that the Novel Idea Literary Agency took up the second floor of a prestigious office building on High Street.
I loved High Street. It was a narrow cobblestone road that only allowed pedestrian traffic. Lined by cherry trees and ceramic urns overflowing with vibrant annuals, it called to mind a picturesque village in the English countryside. I knew Inspiration Valley well, as my mother lived on the outskirts of the isolated hamlet, but I’d never imagined I might be one of its inhabitants. It seemed like an enchanted place, set aside for those blessed with high levels of creativity. Having written nonfiction my entire life, I felt a bit like an imposter in a town filled with artists, writers, bakers, gardeners, and the merchants who catered to them.
I deliberately headed for the middle of High Street where it intersected with Dogwood Lane, because I wanted to cut through the charming little park that stood in the heart of town. Well-tended garden beds surrounded a gurgling fountain rimmed with cobalt tiles. Sculptures of nine beautiful women in classical Greek dress stood inside the fountain, their lithe bodies frozen in graceful poses. Some of Inspiration Valley’s residents perched on the fountain’s edge with their coffees and newspapers, relishing the company of the famous muses who permanently bathed beneath arcs of soft rainbows and the water’s gentle spray.
I didn’t have time to toss a lucky penny in the fountain today. Hustling into the spacious lobby of the building where the Novel Idea Literary Agency was housed, I was greeted by the delightful smell of brewing coffee and chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. I realized that I’d discovered a side entrance to Espresso Yourself, Inspiration Valley’s sole coffee shop. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows in the lobby and I couldn’t help but smile.