“I’m just so afraid she knows what I’m thinking. She always knows everything that’s going on.” They attributed magical powers to her, but this time Regina was wrong. It was only about her book.
Two days later, Mother MaryMeg came to see Alex in her room. “I’ve talked to everyone I know who might know an agent or a publisher, and this is the best I could do,” she said, handing a piece of paper to Alex, with her firm handwriting on it. It was a woman’s name, a phone number, and an address in New York. “One of the sisters had a brother-in-law in publishing. He’s retired, but he said he’d ask around about agents for you. He just called me back. He said he’s never met this woman, but she has a good reputation. She represents a number of successful authors, and she might not see you. But if not, she may recommend someone who would. Her name is Rose Porter. Why don’t you call and see if you can get an appointment with her?” Alex held on to the piece of paper like the Holy Grail, and thanked her, and Mother MaryMeg went back to her office. She was a miracle worker after all. Alex tried to compose herself, and called from the phone downstairs a few minutes later. Her hands were shaking when she did.
A young female voice answered crisply. “Porter, Stein, and Giannini,” she said, and Alex almost hung up she was so terrified. She asked to speak to Rose Porter, and they put her on hold for what seemed like forever, as she clung to the receiver with a damp hand. And then the voice came back and told her to hold again while they connected her. She had given her name as Alex Winslow, which would mean nothing to Rose Porter. And they hadn’t asked what the call was about, which seemed strange. Alex couldn’t know that the girl answering was a summer temp, and was putting calls through left and right, luckily for her. A moment later a female voice came on the line that sounded serious and impressive, and slightly impatient.
“What’s this about?” she asked in a clipped tone.
“I wrote a crime thriller, it’s four hundred and twelve pages long. I’ve sold stories to mystery magazines. This is my first book, and I need an agent.” The person at the other end laughed.
Rose Porter guessed easily that the caller was young and scared to death. Normally she would have her mail the book, and she’d have someone else read it. But there was something compelling about the voice, it was so intense. It had obviously taken every ounce of courage she had to make the call. Alex remembered then to say who had recommended her, although the agent probably didn’t know him.
“What makes you think you can write a crime thriller?” Rose Porter asked, curious about her.
“I’ve been reading them since I was ten years old. They’re my passion, and so is writing.”
“How did you get your hands on them at ten?”
“My father gave them to me. They were his passion too.”
“Young women don’t usually write crime thrillers,” she said bluntly.
“I know, my father told me that too. I publish my stories in magazines just using an initial and my last name. I could use a pseudonym for the book.” The woman at the other end laughed again. Alex had been thinking a lot about whether or not to use a man’s name, remembering her father’s advice.
“Maybe I should read it first, before we start worrying about pseudonyms.” She hesitated for what seemed like a long time, while she thought about it. “I’d like to meet you. Why don’t you bring it in?” Alex held her breath for a minute and thought she might faint.
“When?”
“Does tomorrow at three work for you?”
Alex couldn’t believe it. “Yes, of course, I’ll be there.” She would have walked to New York on bleeding feet if she had to.
“Tell me your name again,” the agent said, sounding distracted.
“Alexandra Winslow.”
“Right, Miss Alexandra Winslow. See you tomorrow at three.”
Alex thanked her profusely and hung up, and ran into Mother MaryMeg’s office to tell her. She was nearly hysterical. “I’m going to New York tomorrow…to see her…to meet her…and give her the book…Can I use the copy machine?” The mother superior said she could, and Alex spent the next hour copying the manuscript on their old machine, so she could keep a safety copy for herself.
She didn’t tell anyone else she was going, and the next morning she took the train to New York and arrived at Penn Station at two P.M. She was wearing a simple black dress and flat shoes and it was a blisteringly hot New York day. Alex took a cab to the agent’s office on Fifth Avenue, near Rockefeller Center, and arrived for the appointment ten minutes early, clutching her manuscript to her chest. She gave the receptionist her name. It was the same girl she’d spoken to the day before.
She had a fifteen-minute wait and then a small, impeccably dressed woman appeared, in a navy blue Chanel suit, with high heels, a short, stylish haircut, and large glasses. She looked Alex over intently, and guessed instantly who she was, and smiled.
“Why don’t you come to my office, Alexandra,” she said formally, and Alex followed her down a long carpeted hall with expensive art on the walls to a corner office with an impressive view and an enormous desk. Rose Porter looked tiny behind her desk, but she had a huge presence, and Alex was terrified.
“That’s the book?” She pointed to the manuscript pressed to her chest, as Alex nodded. Rose Porter held a hand out, and Alex passed it to her, feeling as though she were giving up her first child. The agent thumbed through it for a minute and then smiled at her again. “I can tell you worked hard on it,” she commented, noticing all the corrections and added pages.
“I did.” It had been a long time since Rose Porter had seen a manuscript as battered. You could tell it was Alex’s first book.
“I like the title.” She had called it Blue Steel. “How old are you, Alexandra?” There was something very touching about her as she sat there, scared stiff. Rose had been known to frighten people intentionally, but she felt sorry for this intense young woman who was so obviously desperate to publish her book.
“Nineteen,” she said, looking Rose in the eye, and the agent winced.
“I figured maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, although you look about fourteen.” She’d assumed she had to be considerably older than she appeared. “We won’t tell a publisher your age, if we get one.”
“Or my name,” Alex said firmly. “I want to publish under a male pseudonym.” Alex had made the decision. Rose looked surprised.
“That gets complicated, particularly if the book does well, or you write others after this. Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Yes. Readers won’t take me seriously if they think I’m a girl. My father told me that.”
“I don’t agree. But why don’t I read the book first, and then we’ll talk about it. You live in the city?”
Alex shook her head. “In Boston.”
“And you came down to meet me?” She was stunned at that.