The Right Time

by Danielle Steel

  Two days later, Alex was talking to Regina quietly after breakfast when the superior walked by and asked Alex to come and see her in her office. Alex and Regina exchanged glances. Regina looked panicked, afraid that Mother MaryMeg had guessed that she was having doubts about her vows. The mother superior always knew everything as though she had a sixth sense. Alex was subdued when she walked into her office a few minutes later.

  “I should be angry at you,” Mother MaryMeg said seriously, as Alex sat down across from her. “I haven’t slept in three days, thanks to your book.” As she said it, Alex started to look relieved, but not entirely yet. She wanted to know what she’d thought of it. “It’s extraordinary, Alex. One of the best books I’ve ever read. It’s bound to get published, and will certainly get your career going as a writer. You have to get it to a publisher.” Alex looked stunned by what she was saying.

  “You liked it?” Her voice was an anxious whisper as the mother superior smiled broadly.

  “I loved it. Or I was mesmerized by it and totally in its grip. I’m not sure ‘love’ is the right word for a book with such heinous people in it, but your plot is brilliant, and the way you control it is masterful. I don’t know where you get the stories from, but it’s remarkable. You need to get it to a publisher. It’s a very, very powerful book.”

  “I can’t get it to a publisher without an agent,” she said miserably, “and I don’t know how to find one. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. A publisher won’t take it seriously unless it comes through an agent. They might not even read it without one.”

  That sounded harsh to Mother MaryMeg, but she took Alex at her word, and wondered how she could find one.

  “And an agent will know who would want to publish a book like mine.”

  “Let me think about it, and try to figure out who I know, or someone else does. Somebody must know a literary agent.” She handed the book back to Alex, congratulated her again, and told her she’d see what she could find out.

  Alex walked upstairs to her room, dazed by what Mother MaryMeg had said about the book. Regina stuck her head out as soon as Alex walked past her door. “Did she say anything about me? Was it that?” she whispered nervously.

  “No, she liked the book. She said I should get it to a publisher, but I don’t know how.” Sister Regina looked instantly relieved, and apologized for leaping at her.

  “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 co
uld 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.

  Alex nodded.

  “I’m very grateful that you agreed to see me,” she said in a rush, and Rose found it refreshing to talk to someone so grateful and undemanding. She had a roster full of difficult writers who thought the world of themselves and expected the moon of their publishers and agents. Alex was a breath of fresh air.

  “Where can I get in touch with you?”

  Alex wrote down her name, phone number, and address. “I go to Boston College.” But she had given her the convent number for messages.

  “You may not hear from me for a while. I have several trips planned, and I don’t usually read new authors, but I’ll try to read this one when I have time.” Something told her that Alex was special and different, and she didn’t want to rely on someone else’s judgment about her book. Once in a while someone like her came in off the street, out of nowhere, with a fantastic book. She wanted to be sure that she didn’t miss it. She had an odd, inexplicable feeling about Alex. Sometimes exceptional writers were compelled to write at her age. Maybe she was one of them, and the type of book she had chosen was definitely unusual for a woman.

  Rose Porter stood up then, with Alex’s book between them on her desk. She saw the way Alex looked at it, and she smiled at her. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise. I assume you made a copy.” She didn’t want the responsibility of keeping the only existing copy of the book.

  “Yes, I did.” Alex thanked Rose again for seeing her, and a moment later, she left the office, went down in the elevator, and wanted to scream when she reached the street, she was so excited. She walked back to Penn Station in the deadly heat and felt like she was walking on air. Whatever happened now, she knew she had done her best. She had written the book and gotten it in the hands of an agent. After this, as Mother MaryMeg would say, it was up to God.

  Chapter 8

  Alex started her sophomore year at Boston College the week after her trip to New York to see the agent. She hadn’t heard anything from her by then, and didn’t expect to. Rose Porter was an important, busy woman, and Alex knew it would take a while for her to read the book and get back to her. Halfway through September, she had an idea for another book, and started working on an outline one weekend when her roommate was away. She had homework to do, but couldn’t stop herself, and the words just rolled onto the page. She had figured out the plot by the end of the weekend, and was happy with it, and she’d written a few pages of the first chapter. She had the opening scene nailed and it was a knockout. The title of the book would be Darkness.

  She had finished four chapters of her book, according to her outline, when she heard from Rose Porter two weeks later in October. Mother MaryMeg called her at school to tell her that the agent had left a message for her. Alex didn’t know if that was good or bad news—maybe she called to deliver rejections too. She returned the call with trembling hands again from the phone in the dorm lobby, and got through to her very quickly.

  Rose cut to the chase, sounding busy. “I read Blue Steel.”

  “Thank you,” Alex said, holding her breath.

  “It’s terrific. I’d like to represent you. It needs some editing, we can talk about that later. I think I can sell your book. I’m going to have it retyped and send it out next week. I’ll mail you the agency agreement, and if it meets with your approval, sign it and send me back one copy, and keep the other for yourself. You can have an attorney look at it for you, if you have one.”

  “I do,” Alex said, stunned by everything she had just said.

  “And what name are you going to publish under, if we sell it? Are you still determined to publish under a male pseudonym?”

  “Yes. Alexander Green,” she said, off the top of her head.

  “Why ‘Green’?” Rose assumed it was her mother’s maiden name or something similar, which was usually the case with pseudonyms.

  “It’s my favorite color,” Alex said, smiling, and her new literary agent groaned.

  “Oh God, you are thirteen years old. You’d better like the name, because you could be stuck with it for a long time, and I hope you will be. It’s a very, very good book, and I’m happy to represent you,” Rose said kindly. She liked her, even though it was obvious that Alex had no idea what she was doing, or about the publishing business, but she was one hell of a great writer. One of the best Rose had read in a long time. She had been an extraordinarily lucky find. It was kismet for both of them.

  “Thank you,” Alex said politely. “I’m working on a new one. I’ve done four chapters so far.”

  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet, to help you with the editing,” Rose said, sounding businesslike again. “His name is Bert Kingsley, and he happens to be in Boston. He only works with writers he likes. I want you to call him, and work on Blue Steel with him. And he can advise you about the new one. He’s a brilliant editor. I’ll give him a call first. I’ll pay for it. You can pay me back when we sell the book. I think it’s important. He can help you tighten your writing even more than it already is. He’s a little gruff at first. Officially, he’s retired, but he takes on projects like this from time to time. If he likes what you write, he’ll be a wonderful ally for you. Learn as much as you can from him. There are almost no editors left like him.” She was very pleased to hear that Alex was working on another book. It was the sign of a true writer. She hadn’t waited to hear Rose’s reaction, or to see if it would sell. She had another book in her, and had to get it out. Those were the writers Rose looked for and wanted to represent. She had a true vocation, a powerful drive about her writing, and immeasurable talent.

  Alex jotted down Bert Kingsley’s number when Rose gave it to her, and Rose told her to keep trying until she reached him. He didn’t always answer his phone or return calls. She made him sound like a cantankerous old man, and Alex was a little nervous about working with him, but she could at least meet him once and see what she thought. She trusted Rose’s judgment.

  The contract arrived at the convent three days later, and Alex called Bill Buchanan to tell him, and sent it to him, and he called her the following week to say that it was fine and she could sign it.

  “You’ve written a book, Alex?” He sounded surprised and impressed. Despite all the changes she’d been through, she was still writing, a novel now, not just stories. He knew how pleased and proud her father would have been.

  “Yes, and I’m working on another one.”

  “That’s very exciting. Don’t forget to have some fun too. You should be having a good time in college.” She was, but mostly with her writing. She still hadn’t been on any dates, and didn’t really care. She had only one roommate this year, a girl from Mississippi who had just gotten engaged and was with her fiancé all the time, which gave Alex peace and quiet to write in h
er room. It worked well for her.

  She called Bert Kingsley the following week, to give Rose Porter plenty of time to get in touch with him and send him the manuscript so he could read it. And when he answered, he seemed as though she’d woken him out of a sound sleep. She apologized profusely, and he didn’t sound happy to hear from her.

  “Rose Porter called me. She sent me your book.” He didn’t say if he’d read it or not, and Alex was afraid to ask him.

  “I’m writing my second one now,” she volunteered. “Rose just signed me on as a client.”

  “So she said.” He seemed unimpressed and sounded like a cranky old man. Rose had called him a curmudgeon, which seemed about right.

  “Rose thought you could help me edit,” Alex said cautiously.

  “I’m retired,” he growled at her. “Editing young writers is a lot of work,” he complained. There was a long silence then while Alex didn’t know what to say to him. “Why don’t you come over on Saturday? I’ll have finished reading your manuscript by then,” he said grudgingly. He told her he lived in Cambridge, near the Harvard campus where he used to teach. She wasn’t looking forward to meeting him, he sounded disagreeable, but she didn’t want Rose to be angry at her either for not trying to meet him, so she bicycled over to his address on Saturday at the appointed time. He had told her to come at noon. And when she got there, he took forever to answer the bell. She was just about to leave when he opened the door. He was startled when he saw her, as though he’d forgotten she was coming, and then he nodded and stepped aside when she reminded him who she was. He didn’t say it, but he was stunned by how pretty she was and even younger than he’d expected.

  She followed him upstairs to a large living room that would have been lovely if he tidied it once in a while. There were stacks of books everywhere, a pile of newspapers, a mountain of manuscripts on the desk, half-eaten food from the night before, and an empty bottle of red wine on the coffee table. He obviously lived alone and needed a housekeeper desperately. He was as disheveled as his living room. He had a long, unkempt beard, a mane of wild white hair that made him look like Albert Einstein, and was wearing jeans, a sweater with holes in it, and tennis shoes. It was hard to figure out his age, but he seemed to be about seventy, although Rose told her later that he was only sixty. But to Alex, he looked ancient. And she had a feeling he was hungover from the empty wine bottle sitting on the coffee table.