It was a good thing that I’d given this panel a ninety-minute allotment, because once Sean and the other men had conducted a variety of demonstrations and answered dozens of insightful questions, it was time to empty the room for the next panel. However, it was obvious that the writers were reluctant to leave. At least ten participants still had unanswered questions, so Sean and the rest of the guest speakers promised to continue their Q&A session at the tables near the Sixpence Bakery kiosk.
Swallowed by the tide of chattering writers, I drifted out to the food area and noticed Melissa Plume waiting in line at Nell’s kiosk. She looked up from the enticing array of pastries and our eyes met. With a little wave, she beckoned me over.
“We’re not matching today,” I said.
Glancing down at her black turtleneck dress, patent leather pumps, and leopard print scarf, she shook her head. “I should have called you to coordinate. I love your outfit. I bet I’d have a great time raiding your closet.” She excused herself while she paid Nell for an apple and raisin turnover and then asked if I’d like anything to eat.
“No, thanks. I’m posing as Helen of Troy this evening and I don’t think I can channel the world’s most beautiful woman after consuming both a vanilla cappuccino and a chocolate hazelnut croissant.”
Melissa immediately ordered the croissant and passed it to me. “Have you ever seen renderings of Helen on a Greek amphora? She’s as curvy as the road leading into this town. My kind of girl.”
We settled at a two-top table and discussed how the festival was going so far. Melissa loved the town’s B and B and assured me she’d return every year if given the chance. “This place is heavenly. I expected some one-horse town with a pancake house and a barbeque joint, but the food is sophisticated and delicious, the shops are filled with hip, artsy items, and the scenery is breathtaking. I haven’t seen this much color since the city’s Pride Parade.”
I laughed and tucked into my croissant. “I detect a hint of a Southern accent—are you from the South?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m from Dunston. I used to work there before I met my husband and moved to New York. I was trying to get my book published, actually, and that’s how we met.”
Impressed, I asked, “What was your book about?”
“Oh, it was an exposé sort of thing that never got published. It focused on my work with kids in the foster system. My husband was a lowly editor then, to whom I na?vely sent the manuscript. Something about my proposal got to him, and while he was in Raleigh on personal business, he took the time to swing over to Dunston to tell me his publishing house didn’t want the book. Over lunch, it became clear that he was mighty interested in me.” A dimple appeared in her left cheek as she smiled at the memory. “And the rest is history.” She sat back in her chair and glanced around. “I just can’t believe I spent so many years living within a train ride of this little paradise and never knew it. But back then, the only people who talked about this place were flaky, free-spirit types who were searching for their past-life identities or the secret voice of Mother Earth. Not exactly reliable spokespeople, if you know what I mean.”
As we enjoyed our treats, we watched the attendees milling about, their faces flushed with animation. A woman in a multihued poncho with fuchsia lipstick and a loud voice reminded me of Calliope. Wiping chocolate from my fingers with a paper napkin, I asked Melissa if she would mind my pitching Calliope’s new series in the middle of our coffee break.
“This is the first time I’ve relaxed in years,” my look-alike gushed in reply. “You could ask me to donate a kidney and I’d say yes, so pitch away!”
I was so familiar with Calliope’s work that the story line unfurled like a flower opening its petals to the sun. Melissa took bites of her turnover as I spoke and then held up a finger to stop me.
“I’m not the acquiring editor for historical suspense, but I am absolutely positive that my friend Kate would adore this series. Let me call her right now.”
It was hard to say no to such an opportunity, and I was certainly passionate about my client’s project, but it was a Saturday. Would Melissa’s fellow editor be annoyed to receive a work-related call over the weekend, and if so, would it hurt Calliope’s chances? I voiced my concern to Melissa even as she was dialing Kate’s number.
“Trust me. Our husbands are out playing golf together and she’s stuck at home with the twins. She’d love to talk shop.”
After a brief exchange with her coworker, Melissa passed the cell phone to me and gave me a thumbs-up sign. I introduced myself and repeated my pitch. Kate didn’t hesitate.
“I love Calliope’s books and I definitely like this idea,” she told me. “But why is she looking outside her own publishing house?”
“Her current editor wasn’t interested in historical suspense. She wanted Calliope to come up with a new contemporary romance series, but that’s not what my client wanted to write.”
Kate whistled. “Lucky for me, then. Can you email me the proposal?”
My pulse quickened and I tried not to shout into the phone. “Absolutely. I can get it to you today.”