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.”
I was touched by his generosity. “Thank you. Trey will love this.” That was partially true. Trey would love looking at the beautiful photographs at least.
Grinning, Franklin tucked his thumbs under his suspender straps. “Are you a nonfiction reader?”
“Not really. As a reporter, my whole life has revolved around facts, so when I want to relax I turn to fiction,” I answered. “However, I do buy biographies and memoirs on occasion. I read a wonderful biography last month. Mitch Albom’s Have a Little Faith.”