“How are you holding up?” I asked her.
Her mournful sigh answered my question. “I spent yesterday in bed but thought I’d come in today and lose myself in work. Nothing could hold my attention until I picked up Calliope’s manuscript. I’d started it before I heard about Melissa.” She paused, as if speaking her friend’s name had caused her physical pain and she needed a moment to recover. “I was in the office by seven this morning. Messed around with this and that until almost nine and then I picked up her book and, well, she made me forget about the real world for two hours.”
“Sometimes that’s the best thing a book can do for us,” I said.
“Absolutely. I want the whole series, Lila.” She continued by telling me what she was willing to offer for the first three books, and though it was an incredibly generous amount, I tried to negotiate even more. I wouldn’t be much of an agent if I didn’t push the envelope. Kate and I engaged in a good-natured bartering session until we were both satisfied, and then I told her I’d have to talk things over with Calliope and would call her back shortly.
Calliope typically spent the morning writing and always muted her phone when she worked, but by some miracle she answered my call. She shouted with unadulterated joy when I told her about Kate’s offer.
“I feel like it’s the first time!” she shrieked. “I remember when I got that call like it was yesterday. I thought I could just float away I was so happy. And now it’s happening again, because this is a whole new series and one that I wanted, that I needed, to write. Thank you, Lila! You’re a gem!”
Her pleasure was contagious, and part of me longed to jump up and down in excitement like a little kid on Christmas morning. This was my biggest deal yet—the kind of deal people in the industry dream about. I knew that I’d buy the issue of Publishers Weekly announcing the sale, take out the page listing the details, and have it framed.
“You deserve this, Calliope,” I told my client. “You’re an amazing writer, and your willingness to be flexible saved the series. Now go out and celebrate.”
“Not a chance,” she countered merrily. “I am on such a high right now that I could hammer out a thousand words before lunch. Tell Kate that I so look forward to working with her.” She hesitated. “And please send her my condolences as well. I heard about what happened to Melissa Plume. It’s absolutely terrible.”
I swallowed, feeling as though a shadow had just invaded my office. I assured Calliope that I would pass her messages on, called Kate back, and then sat quietly at my desk for a moment. My elation over the deal had been dampened, but not extinguished. What I needed was to share the news with someone, to spread my excitement around the office. Unfortunately, as I wandered down the hall in search of coworkers, I discovered everyone had already headed out to lunch, and the idea of eating a celebratory meal alone held no appeal.
“There you are, Lila! You’ve certainly been holed up today,” trilled Flora. She pulled the restroom door shut behind her and smiled at me. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”
“No,” I said, returning her smile. “And I’d love to take you to lunch if you’re free. I’ve made my first big deal and I want to eat a whopping cheeseburger followed by a massively decadent dessert.”
Flora nodded with gusto. “Say no more, my dear! You can tell me all about it on the way to the James Joyce Pub. They make the best burgers in town.”
THE JAMES JOYCE Pub was situated near the end of High Street and was connected indoors by a large archway to the Constant Reader, a new and used bookstore. One could browse for books with a beer in hand, or sit in the pub enjoying a steak-and-mushroom pie while engrossed in a newly purchased novel. Although very “unSouthern,” this little bit of Ireland in Inspiration Valley fit well into the community and was always busy.
Walking in the brisk November air, we had carried on an enthusiastic discussion about Calliope’s deal. We entered through the Constant Reader, eager to be immersed in its bookish ambience on our way to the restaurant. As soon as we set foot inside, that delicious musty scent of old books filled our nostrils, and we made our way to the pub through pathways flanked by shelves. In my buoyant frame of mind, I reveled at the sight of so many volumes cramming the shelves. Romance, adventure, mystery, fantasy; they seemed to be competing with one another for our attention, promising us hours of pleasure.