“What? Both of my main characters have been young women.”
“Going third person. Your writing style in the other books gave it away. It was like the main character was a superhero struggling to get out of her ordinary clothes and express herself in a broader way. That usually happens best in third-person perspective. It will also allow you to develop the arcs of other characters who’ve been shuffled to the side.”
“I thought you liked my books.”
“Of course I do, but what kind of agent would I be if I didn’t want you to grow?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Amy, you’re not the kind of woman who likes tough love. I have to treat you with kid gloves, not boxing gloves.”
Amy wanted to disagree, but she knew he was right.
“Do you have a working title? I know that’s a big deal for you.”
“Yes,” Amy spoke slowly. “It’s going to be called Deeds of Darkness.”
“Whoa,” Bernie responded. “That’s bold, but I’m willing to track with you. Imagine you just entered an elevator on the ground floor of a building, and the publisher comes in behind you, presses ten, and says, ‘Hey, Amy, tell me what you’re working on.’”
Bernie had trained Amy enough that she’d already given this question some thought. She took a deep breath.
“A young mother with two small children is left alone after her husband is wrongly sent to prison. She moves to a small border town in southern Texas where no one knows her past. She gets a low-level clerical job working at the local sheriff’s department and learns about corruption in the town connected to illegal smuggling of drugs and people across the border. When she starts asking questions, the bad guys get nervous and file charges against her in family court alleging that she’s an unfit mother. She tries to flee the town but is caught and brought back. Her children are taken from her and placed in foster care at a secret location. She realizes the only way to reclaim her children is to bring down those behind the charges against her and the corruption in the town. In the final third of the book, her husband gets out of prison and comes to help. But he makes things worse.”
Amy stopped.
“Go ahead,” Bernie said. “How does the arrival of the husband on the scene make things worse?”
“I can’t tell you. The elevator reached the tenth floor.”
“You’ve got me hooked.” Bernie chuckled. “Do you know yourself what happens?”
“I was thinking the husband might go postal in his anger and resentment over all that’s been wrongly done to him and his family. I’m not sure he makes it to the end of the novel.”
“That’s understandable. What about the mother and the kids?”
Amy hesitated. “It may not turn out happy for anyone. I can’t decide if the mother dies trying to save her children or one of the children doesn’t make it.”
“That’s pretty harsh. If both the mother and father die, the children would end up in foster care anyway. And it’s always risky to kill a kid. Men readers don’t care so much, but women get attached to the little critters even when they’re not real.”
“I thought about that, but something inside tells me I have to consider all options.”
Bernie was silent.
“What are you thinking?” Amy asked after a few moments passed.
“I’m not sure this is a book that will fit in Dave Coley’s stable. He’s a traditional publisher who likes to play it safe. He’d rather hit a bloop single than swing for the fences. He’ll be expecting another inspirational romance piece.”
“There will be romance. The main character will visit her husband at the jail. I thought working through the challenges in their relationship with bars between them would be a powerful metaphor.”
“Careful, you’re going literary on me. What about the Christian stuff?”
Amy knew that Bernie Masters kept matters of faith in a dented file cabinet in one corner of his brain. He wasn’t antagonistic, just uninterested.
“I thought the main character could become a Christian in the midst of her struggles. Communicating that to her husband would be part of their personal challenge.”
“I get it. She tells him, ‘Your body and your soul are behind bars, and only Jesus can set you free.’ That could work nicely and avoid objections from general market readers. I mean, any guy who’s unjustly locked up has a built-in excuse to call out to a higher power. Then, if he kicks the bucket, the Christian reader will be okay with it because the guy will be sitting on a cloud in a white robe and playing a harp.”
“That’s not exactly the way I’d set it up, but it’s the general idea. The deeds of darkness would begin before the story opens with the imprisonment of the husband and continue to the very end of the novel. But bad things don’t stop happening in people’s lives just because I reach my maximum word count for the book. The denouement will have a degree of triumph but not be totally tidy.”
Bernie was silent again.
“Does that make sense?” Amy asked. “You know what I mean by denouement, don’t you?”
“It’s French for wrapping up the third act with a big boom so you can bring down the curtain. And you’d better be glad I’m thicker-skinned than you are. I didn’t say anything because I’m still trying to get my head around this new idea. Are you sure some bad guys in Texas haven’t kidnapped my sweet, innocent Amy Clarke and shipped her south of the border?”
“No, and I wasn’t trying to insult you.” Amy felt embarrassed. “I got carried away.”
“In more ways than one, but I have to admit this is an intriguing, original concept. I’m sure there’s something similar out there, but nothing comes to mind off the top of my head. Have you tried to see if there is another book whose author could accuse you of stealing?”
“No, but I’m sure there will be enough that’s unique about the story to make it my own.”
“I’ll do some checking. How soon can you put together a three-page synopsis?”
“For you to show Dave Coley?”
“Maybe, but there are a couple of people in New York who might consider a story like this.”
Amy sat up straighter on the seat of her car.
“Are you serious?”
“I joke with you about a lot, but not that. With the release of The Everlasting Arms, we’ll be able to establish your track record in the Christian market and have two published novels as writing samples for a big-time editor to review. Writers try to cross over all the time. When a book does cross over, the difference in advance money is significant. You could quit being a legal secretary once and for all.”
Amy’s head was spinning. “But I’m not going to include any profanity or write something that goes against my own morals.”
“We don’t have to tell them that going in. I wouldn’t pitch it as pulp fiction written according to a sleazy formula. I’d describe it as a sophisticated, insightful character piece in which the plot is strong enough to actually make the reader want to turn the page. This could be big.”
Amy knew Bernie’s job as an agent was to hype his clients to publishers, but she felt her own level of excitement rising.
“I’ll get to work on the synopsis,” she said. “Cecilia was okay if I didn’t stick strictly to it because the story will take new twists and turns as I get to know the characters. Will it be the same way with another company?”
“It varies, but most editors are so overworked and underpaid they don’t have time to micromanage. However, if you venture outside the Christian bubble, you’ll have to toughen up. Editorial feedback, when it comes, can be brutal.”
“I work in a law firm.”
“Lawyers are nice compared to some of these people.”
“But I’ll be able to write what I want?”
“So long as you can convince the decision makers it will drive sales. Remember, regardless of what they say about their love of books, publishers are driven by sales figures. Otherwise, they lose their jobs.
”
The call ended and Amy ate a few bites of salad. Her mind was racing so fast that her stomach didn’t mind being ignored.
Mr. Phillips was out of the office all afternoon. Amy was up-to-date in transcribing his dictation and decided to review the video of the Sanford Dominick will signing. She loaded the DVD into her computer. In the opening image she saw herself in the downstairs conference room. Her hair was shorter, and she was wearing a maroon outfit she later donated to the local clothes closet. She looked directly into the camera lens and spoke.
“This is a video of the signing of the last will and testament of Sanford B. Dominick, taking place at the law offices of Jones, Barrington, and Phillips in Cross Plains, North Carolina.”
She then walked out of the room, which remained empty for a couple of minutes until Mr. Phillips ushered in Mr. Dominick along with his wife, Natasha, and her son, a man whose name Amy couldn’t remember. Amy and two other women who worked at the firm brought up the rear. Mr. Phillips positioned everyone at the table so their faces were visible to the camera. He asked everyone in the room to introduce themselves and give their name, age, and address. The son’s name was Manfred, but everyone called him Freddie.
Tall and slender with a full head of white hair, Sanford Dominick looked the part of an aging World War II hero, but as the tape continued to roll, there was no question that his mental capabilities had started to fade. When asked to name his children, he missed one. Amy winced. She’d remembered the meeting was awkward but not the details. When Mr. Phillips corrected him, Mr. Dominick looked puzzled for a moment before nodding his head.
“Yes, and this is my wife, Natasha, and my newest grandson.” He pointed to Freddie, a muscular young man in his early twenties.
“Your stepson,” Mr. Phillips corrected him. “What is his name?”
“Frankie,” Mr. Dominick replied.
Mr. Phillips looked at the camera for a split second.
“Isn’t it Freddie?” he asked.
Dominick nodded.
“Please answer out loud,” Mr. Phillips said.
“Freddie, that’s right. And Michael Lancaster is one of my grandsons,” Mr. Dominick continued. “And he has two children, Emma and Jacob. Jacob is a baby.”
“That’s correct.” Mr. Phillips beamed as if congratulating an astute student. “And how many times have you been married?”
Mr. Dominick knit his eyebrows as if this were a very complex question.
“Uh, three, no four. That’s right, four.”
“And the names of your wives starting with the first one.”
“Lillian,” Dominick replied quickly, then paused and looked at Mr. Phillips. “What was the name of the one I only stayed married to for a year? You helped me get a divorce from her.”
Mr. Phillips waited until it became obvious Mr. Dominick could not recall the woman’s name.
“Kitty,” the lawyer replied.
“That’s it.” Mr. Dominick slapped his hands together with a smile on his face. “I was glad to get out of that one. She about drove me nuts with all her—”
“We don’t need to go into the reasons for the divorce,” Mr. Phillips replied. “Who did you marry after Kitty?”
“Selena,” Mr. Dominick replied with a faraway look in his eyes. “Sometimes I really miss her.”
“Sonny!” Natasha cried out. “How can you say something like that in front of me?”
Mr. Dominick turned and saw his wife beside him. A surprised look crossed his face, and Amy suspected the old man had forgotten for a moment where he was and who was in the room with him.
“And did you and Selena get a divorce?” Mr. Phillips asked.
“Yes. How much did that cost me?”
“I can tell you later, but it’s not important for this meeting.”
Mr. Phillips looked down at a legal pad, an indication that he was ready to move on. In his present state of mind, Sanford Dominick was the kind of witness a lawyer didn’t want to keep on the stand too long. Amy could see Mr. Phillips flipping pages as he abandoned questions. He slid a copy of the will across the table.
“Have you read your last will and testament?” Mr. Phillips asked.
“Yes. You gave it to me the other day, and I took it home.”
“Who will receive most of your estate under the terms of this will?”
Mr. Dominick frowned.
“You changed it after we talked to Natasha, didn’t you?” he asked. “It’s different from the other one. How many times have you changed my will?”
“A few, but only when you wanted me to. Mr. Dominick, I need you to tell me in your own words who you want to receive most of your estate.”
“My wife,” Mr. Dominick replied and motioned toward Natasha. “Her.”
“Do you mean Natasha?”
“Yes, yes.” The old man yawned and rubbed his nose.
“What about your children and grandchildren?” Mr. Phillips asked. “What do you want them to receive?”
“It’s all in there,” Mr. Dominick replied, touching the will. “They get some money, but I want my wife to have everything else.”
“Is anyone making you set up the will this way?”
Mr. Dominick looked puzzled again. “No.”
“Have you been subject to undue influence?”
“I’m not under the influence. I haven’t had anything to drink since a glass of wine last night with dinner.”
“Mr. Dominick, in your previous will, you left most of your estate to Selena. Now that you’re divorced from her, do you want to change that?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Phillips looked relieved that any remaining affection Mr. Dominick felt toward Selena wasn’t going to taint the current estate plan.
“And how do you want to change it?”
“So most everything goes to Natasha.”
“Did Natasha pressure you to do this?”
“She asked me about it quite a few times, but I haven’t been feeling too good and didn’t come down to see you until the other day. When was that?”
“Last Wednesday. What day is it today?”
Mr. Dominick shook his head. “You got me there.”
Mr. Phillips glanced toward the camera. “Mr. Dominick, are you signing this will because it’s what you want to do or what Natasha wants you to do?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Phillips waited, but Mr. Dominick seemed satisfied with his answer and showed no indication of explaining. Mr. Phillips cleared his throat and glanced at the camera before focusing on Mr. Dominick.
“Do you have any questions?” he asked the elderly gentleman.
“No.”
“Are you ready to sign this will in front of these witnesses and Mrs. Clarke, who is a notary public?”
“Yeah, let’s get this over with. I’m hungry. It’s time for lunch.”
Amy watched Dominick initial each page, then sign the last page of the will, which was then witnessed and notarized.
“Do you want me to keep the will for you in our office?” Mr. Phillips asked.
“No, I’ll take it with me.”
Amy knew this was not according to the script. Mr. Phillips liked to keep wills in the firm vault to ensure they weren’t lost, destroyed, or tampered with.
“Wouldn’t you like to keep it safe here at the law firm?” Mr. Phillips asked again.
“No.” Mr. Dominick took the will and handed it to Natasha. “Let’s go. I’m starving. And talking about wine has made me thirsty, too.”
Mr. Dominick got up and left the room. Natasha and Freddie trailed along behind him. Natasha was talking to Mr. Dominick as the door closed, but the microphone didn’t pick up the conversation. Mr. Phillips looked at the camera and motioned to Amy.
“Turn that thing off.”
Amy walked over to the camera, and the picture went blank.
fifteen
The CD of the conversation between Mr. Phillips, Mr. Dominick, and Natasha lay on the top of Amy’s d
esk. Chris wanted her to transcribe it, but she’d spent enough time with the Dominick family for one day. She slipped it into a drawer and opened a new item of dictation to transcribe.
Late in the afternoon her phone buzzed. It was Chris.
“Can you come to my office for a minute?” the young lawyer asked.
“As soon as I finish a letter that Mr. Phillips wants to send out in the afternoon mail.”
Amy printed the letter and took it into the senior partner’s office.
“Here is the settlement letter for the plaintiff’s lawyer in the Worthington case,” she said.
Mr. Phillips read it while she stood before him.
“It galls me to no end to offer money on this case,” he groused, “but the client doesn’t want to fight. Did you read the answers to our discovery requests?”
“Just enough to make sure I had the names right for the letter. It looks like a nuisance suit.”
“That’s exactly what it is, and I hate to reward a gold digger.”
Amy’s mind immediately went to Natasha Dominick, but she kept her mouth shut. Like many lawyers, Mr. Phillips had no qualms about applying a different standard of morality to his clients than he did to the people on the other side of a lawsuit. He scribbled his signature at the bottom of the letter and handed it to Amy.
“Maybe they’ll get greedy and reject the offer,” he said. “That will force Bob Worthington to spend the money to fight. It may cost him the same in the end, but at least a victory will protect his reputation. I don’t want word to get out that he’s an easy mark.”
Amy folded the letter on the corner of Mr. Phillips’s desk and slipped it into an envelope.
“I’m going upstairs,” she said. “Chris wants to see me in his office.”
“What do you think about our new associate?”
Amy knew this question would be coming, but she hadn’t expected it so soon. Mr. Phillips wouldn’t be satisfied with an evasive answer.
“He’s smart and not easily intimidated by a challenge. And I don’t think he’ll give you any pushback—”
“Not if he wants to work here.”
Amy stopped.
“Go ahead,” Mr. Phillips said.
“He’s an accurate typist. His notes of the meeting you went to last night at Plaxo Industries were detailed and clean.”
The Living Room Page 15