I handed over the packet from Kirk Mason. “I wanted you to look at this. It’s definitely not for me and is more your kind of thing. It was unsolicited, but it might be marketable.”
As he scanned the first page his eyes darkened. “This is a bit twisted, but you’re right. It is up my alley. I might be able to sell it. What do you know about this Kirk Mason?” He flipped through the pages in befuddlement, clearly searching for an actual synopsis.
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t locate a proposal or a query about this novel, or any emails or correspondence of any kind from a Kirk Mason.”
“That’s strange.”
“I know. If you wanted to consider the manuscript, how are we supposed to contact the author if we don’t know how?”
Jude shrugged and placed the proposal in his in-tray. “Well, Kirk Mason says he’ll be at the festival.”
I sat back and tried to imagine what a writer of such dark material would look like. I envisioned a tall, slim man with a hooked nose, dark, deep-set eyes, and pencil-thin lips. He’d be dressed all in black and have a dagger tattooed on his neck. At the pitch session, I’d have to sit across from him, listening to his scabrous voice as he described his novel in chilling, graphic detail, his cold, piercing stare making me want to look anywhere but at him. Involuntarily, I shuddered. “Then I hope this author is scheduled for one of your pitch sessions and not mine!”
Chapter 3
THE INSPIRATION VALLEY BOOK AND AUTHOR FESTIVAL got under way Friday morning beneath a bank of low clouds, dark and heavy with rain. The attendees didn’t seem to notice, and the buzz of excitement that traveled among them reverberated through the lobby of the old town hall. In fact, the organized bustling of the crowd combined with the hum of many voices reminded me of an energetic beehive.
I was stationed at one of the check-in tables, issuing badges and schedules to panel speakers and other special guests. Vicky was seated at another table with Flora Meriweather, the agent representing children’s and young adult books at Novel Idea, and I couldn’t help but grin over their contrary appearance.
Flora, a plump, jovial middle-aged woman who favored bright colors and cheerful patterns, was wearing a floral blouse and a mango-colored skirt. Her lipstick was the same tropical hue, and she’d secured her hair beneath a lime green headband. Her Peter Pan charm bracelet jingled merrily each time she handed one of the writers a welcome packet. It took Flora twice as long as Vicky to complete the check-in task, as she engaged each of the attendees in conversation, making fast friends with every person in her line.
Vicky, on the other hand, kept her face as blank as a world-class poker player. She ticked off names on a spreadsheet she’d created during her first hour of work at the agency, answered questions in a clear-cut monotone that could have rivaled the loudspeaker announcements heard at an airport, and sent people on their way. And even though her attire resembled that of a Catholic school nun, from her shapeless black sweater down to her square-toed orthopedic footwear, I was delighted to have her onboard.
The woman had transformed our office within hours of her arrival yesterday. She’d appeared at the top of the stairs at two minutes to nine, thanked Jude for the flowers on her desk, thanked me for welcoming her into the fold with an offering of Danishes and coffee, placed her purse under her desk, and then tapped on a little gold watch. “It’s nine o’clock. Time for work. There’s much to be done.”
Whenever I passed by her desk, I found her seated with perfect posture. And while she rarely moved her body, her hands were like whirling dervishes over the keyboard. Vicky could certainly multitask. I’d never seen an office manager who could calmly answer the phone with one hand, type with another, and not lose focus on either job. It was as if she had two minds.
By the end of Vicky’s first day on the job, the agents’ inboxes had been graced by a fresh pile of well-written query letters, dozens of minute details relating to the festival had been addressed, and our break room had been cleaned and sterilized until it resembled a hospital ward.
Now, sitting here in the lobby of town hall, I would have loved to be able to emulate Vicky’s self-confidence. The reputation of our agency would be affected by the success of this festival. Novel Idea would either gain more clients and esteem from this weekend, or people would question whether a premier literary agency could really flourish this far from New York City, the heart of the publishing world.