by Wendy Wax
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said as she stood, the briefcase now clutched to her chest. “I really appreciate the drinks. And the, um, offer.”
He was watching her intently now, with an odd kind of smile on his lips, like a benevolent spider watching a fly that had somehow managed to wiggle free from its web.
“But I really have to get home and get this thing read.” She hefted the briefcase in front of her, exhibit A. And then she scampered out of the bar as gracefully as she could. Cash Simpson, and all the lovely women now getting ready to pounce on him, watched her go.
Lacy finished reading Sticks and Stones at 3:00 A.M. When she was done, she lay in bed staring up at the pockmarked ceiling of her bedroom, stunned by how the manuscript had made her feel. As she’d read, turning the pages faster and faster as the story progressed, she’d waited for it to fall off, for her interest in the characters to flag. But it never happened. Nor did she feel the urge to skim so much as a line of dialogue or a paragraph of description.
Sleep completely eluded her as she sought a solution to the problem she faced. The manuscript was simply too good to be left in her hands. It needed to be edited by someone who knew what they were doing and then nursed through the publishing process by someone who could make sure it got what it deserved: a standout cover, prime positioning in bookstores, and a serious publicity campaign. She didn’t have the experience or the clout to achieve any of these things.
Kendall Aims had been right when she’d had her character Kennedy Andrews call the assignment of a young assistant to her book an insult of the highest order.
But now, having read what Kendall was capable of, Lacy wanted to make it up to her. The only way she could do that was to get Sticks and Stones its due.
This, of course, would be much easier said than done.
30
When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand.
—RAYMOND CHANDLER
In the morning, Lacy took her time in the shower, trying to come up with some means of convincing Jane to do right by Sticks and Stones. As she dressed and tucked the manuscript back into her briefcase, she had to admit that if she’d ever had the slimmest hope of influencing her boss in any way—and this was a big question mark—she’d forfeited it when she started dating Cash Simpson. Her part in making Kendall’s already bad situation worse made Lacy all the more determined to get Kendall’s book its due.
She dragged her feet on the way to the office, debating how to best handle Jane. But as she rode the elevator up to the editorial floor, she realized that Jane Jensen was not now, and had probably never been, “handleable.” Even if her boss hadn’t already written off Kendall Aims, even if she hadn’t been completely pissed with Lacy, convincing the executive editor to do anything she didn’t want to belonged in the category of “not gonna happen.”
Could she convince Jane that she wanted to do something for Kendall Aims’s book? This, too, seemed highly unlikely and better suited to a plot in a television sitcom than the harsh reality of Scarsdale Publishing.
In her cubicle, Lacy pulled the manuscript out of her briefcase and set the big mound of paper, now slightly dog-eared, on her desk. It consisted of some hundred and something thousand words double-spaced across four hundred and something pages. It contained the journeys of four unforgettable female characters and it deserved to go out into the world under the best possible circumstances with all the resources that a big New York publisher like Scarsdale could put behind it.
She went and made coffee, using the time it took the hot liquid to pool in the carafe to sort though possible strategies. She came up with nothing. Not a single argument that might convince Jane Jensen that Kendall Aims and her book were worthy of attention.
Lacy knew in her heart that Jane, who was erratic and ruled by her emotions, which appeared constantly conflicted, was never going to accept Lacy’s analysis of the book. She would never act just because Lacy urged her to.
Lacy poured a cup of coffee for herself and one for Jane, which she lightened and sweetened the way her boss liked it. In her cubicle she set her cup down on the warmer and, once again, contemplated the manuscript. She could practically hear the book calling out to her, begging for her help. But how was she supposed to convince Jane to do anything for a book she hadn’t even read?
Lacy’s head jerked up as realization dawned.
The only thing she really had to do was get Jane to read Sticks and Stones. Because then, regardless of her personal feelings, Jane Jensen would have to recognize how commercially viable Sticks and Stones was. How much could be done with it.
Surely Jane Jensen, vindictive as she was, wouldn’t squelch a potential moneymaker; surely even Jane Jensen cared about doing her job and making money for her employer.
Surely.
Lacy left her coffee at her desk and scooped up the manuscript, hugging it to her chest as she carried Jane’s coffee to her office. At the open doorway, she waited for Jane to acknowledge her existence and wave her in. Lacy set the cup of coffee on her boss’s desk and waited to be invited to speak. Although she hadn’t yet figured out her pitch, she was determined not to leave this office with the manuscript. She was going to pass it on to Jane.
Finally Jane looked up. “What?” she demanded.
Lacy felt a stammer coming on. She banished it. This was not about her. It was about Sticks and Stones and getting it what it deserved.
“Kendall Aims’s manuscript came in.”
“So?”
“So. I read it and it’s . . .”
Jane’s gaze sharpened.
“It’s fabulous. More than fabulous really. It’s one of the best books I’ve read in ages.”
Jane shook her head. “Maybe in comparison to the slush pile. Perhaps you’ve read more of the slush than you should have.” She sniffed and turned away in dismissal. But Lacy didn’t move.
Jane turned back to her. “You’re still here,” she said, clearly unhappy about it.
Lacy drew a deep preparatory breath. She’d been taught to stand up for what she believed in; she couldn’t let a little derision from Jane Jensen stop her from trying to do what needed to be done. “You have to read it.”
Jane’s face registered her shock. “Are you trying to tell me what to do?” she asked, her tone incredulous.
“No. Of course not.”
“Good.” She turned her back on Lacy again. “You can go.”
Wanting more than anything to do as she’d been told, Lacy nonetheless stood her ground. “I can’t.” Once again she drew a breath and then plunged in where she knew she shouldn’t go. “I think if you just read the first few chapters you’ll be as excited about the manuscript as I am.”
She had Jane’s full attention now. And not in a good way. But she’d committed to a course of action and there was no going back. “It’s too good for me to handle. It deserves an experienced editor. You need to read it.” She swallowed. “And edit it. And put Scarsdale’s resources behind it.”
Jane’s face turned an ugly red. Lacy had a bad feeling that the part where her head did a 360 on her neck was going to come next. She prepared to duck before the green bile began to blow. But instead of shouting as she usually did, Jane’s voice turned icy. Which was even scarier. “So your vast experience with the submissions of convicts and mental patients qualifies you to recognize a great manuscript. And to somehow tell me what to do with it.”
“I’m just trying to make you see that this is a manuscript you need to read. I’m sure that once you do you’ll see—”
No longer trying to mask her anger, Jane sprang from her chair and moved toward Lacy. “What I see is an assistant who has stepped way over the line.” She came closer until they were virtually nose to nose, or given the disparity in their heights, nose to neck. “I have exactly no interest in anything that Kendall Aims has written. And the fact that a ‘fraternizing nobody’ with a thimbleful of experience is telling me I should be, makes me even le
ss interested. If that were possible.” Her eyes were flinty. Despite the icy delivery, her whole body quivered with rage.
Lacy felt like a lion tamer facing a wounded king of beasts without so much as a chair. She fell back a step, but knew that if she betrayed the extent of her fear, she’d be torn to bits. “If you could just let go of your anger and consider reading the first few—” she began.
“That’s enough!” Jane bit out. “If you want to keep your job or ever have another in this business, don’t say one more word.”
Closing her mouth as instructed, Lacy clasped the manuscript to her chest and watched her boss struggle for control. Jane drew a deep breath then exhaled and some of the tension seemed to seep out of her.
“Now you’re going to take that manuscript back to your desk and you’re going to do whatever you can for it editorially.” Jane’s tone grew more reasonable, but Lacy was afraid to trust it. “Then we’re going to put the cover we already have on it and it’s going to be released next December as scheduled. End of story.”
She gave Lacy a level look, as if they hadn’t just hurtled toward some emotional precipice and only pulled back at the last possible moment.
“Got it?” Jane asked.
Lacy nodded, but she was still afraid to speak. When it appeared that Jane wasn’t going to say anything else, Lacy backed out of her boss’s office and hightailed it to her cubicle.
Back at her desk, Lacy reached for the cup of coffee, but her hand shook so badly the milky brown liquid sloshed all over her desk. She put it down untasted and tried to calm herself.
Although she would have liked to deny it, the truth was she was afraid of Jane and her roller-coaster emotions. And of losing her job. But at the same time, she just couldn’t let the book die. Even though she had no idea how to save it.
Her brain raced down every path it could think of, but her experience and knowledge were so limited that the paths were few and led only to dead ends.
When she was certain that Jane had left for lunch, Lacy dialed the phone number Kendall Aims had included in her e-mail. She waited nervously for the author to answer the phone.
“Hello?”
Lacy heard what sounded like the whir of a power tool in the background. “Is this Kendall?” she asked, having only heard the author’s voice once before.
“Yes.” The whirring noise stopped.
“This is, um, Lacy Samuels.” She paused. “At Scarsdale. In New York.”
“Oh. Hi.” A pause. “Did you get the manuscript?”
“Yes, in fact that’s why I’m calling.”
There was another pause. She could actually feel the author’s wariness. “Oh.” Another long beat. “Is there a problem?”
She’d realized when she read Kendall Aims’s description of her that Kendall had automatically assumed the worst about the person assigned to edit her book.
“No!” Lacy said, consciously trying to lower and “de breathalize” her voice. “There’s no problem. I actually called to tell you how much I loved it.”
There was an even longer pause.
“You’ve already read it?” Kendall Aims’s tone conveyed her incredulity.
“I printed it out early the morning after it arrived. And once I started reading it, I couldn’t put it down. I finished reading it about three A.M.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. No joke. I just couldn’t get over how individually compelling the four main characters were. You have one of the most incredible commands of point of view I’ve ever read.”
There was another pause, longer this time.
“I’ve never had anyone read a manuscript this quickly,” Kendall said. “Even before Mia left to have her baby, she sometimes took as long as a month. I haven’t even heard back from my agent yet.”
“Well, I may be a little bit on the new side,” she said. “But you’re my only author. So I have a lot more time to focus on you than a more experienced editor might.” Except of course for the felonious slush pile.
“About the description of the editorial assistant . . .” Kendall began.
“No, it’s OK,” Lacy said. “Now that I understand more, I can see why Jane assigning me to you would feel like an insult.” She paused a moment, unsure how much she could safely reveal. But the truth was, at the moment Kendall had no more power than Lacy. Somehow it felt important to let her know that although it might not translate into action, she was at least on Kendall’s side. Or rather on the side of her book.
“It’s true that I don’t have much experience or clout. But I love Sticks and Stones and . . .” Should she say this when she was still waffling about how far she could stick her neck out? Yes, she thought. She had to do whatever she could for this book. Even if it meant losing her position. “And I’m going to do everything I possibly can for it.”
“Oh.” The one word carried a wealth of amazement.
“Of course, I don’t know how well I’ll succeed. Jane is, um, not inclined to rethink her plans for it at the moment.”
“No, I don’t suppose she would be.”
“But I’m not a quitter. I’ve just got to learn how to work within the system on your behalf.”
There was another weighty pause. And then. “Well if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know,” Kendall said.
“I will.”
And then as they said their good-byes, a last remark from Kendall: “Thanks, Lacy. For your interest, I mean. Sometimes when you have to eat an elephant, the biggest problem is finding someone to take that very first bite.” A smile took over her voice, the first Lacy had ever heard from her. “Bon appétit!”
Lacy left the building for her thirty-minute lunch break. She picked up a hot dog and Coke from a vendor then wandered up Fifth Avenue looking into shop windows, heading, as she so often did, toward the New York Public Library and Bry ant Park behind it.
The sun shone above the skyscrapers and filtered down through the concrete and glass, diminished, to the street. People streamed around her, all of them apparently in a hurry, their hands crammed in their pockets or clutched around their cell phones. Like her, they were warmly dressed but not yet bundled against the coming frigid temperatures.
As she walked and ate, the questions circled in Lacy’s mind. What could she do on Kendall’s behalf? Was there any way to get around Jane Jensen? And, if so, was there any way to salvage her job at the same time?
In front of the library, she paused to contemplate the Beaux Arts building’s grand Corinthian columns and its three immense archways. Two majestic marble lions served as bookends. Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia had named them Patience and Fortitude during the depths of the Great Depression in an effort to inspire his beleaguered New Yorkers, and Lacy had adopted them as her personal mascots. She looked to them now for the answers she sought, but Patience and Fortitude weren’t talking.
In the park she threw her crumpled wrapper and empty drink cup in a trash can and ambled along a walkway that took her past the French-styled carousel then headed toward The Pond to see who might be twirling across the ice.
Her cell phone rang and she saw Cash Simpson’s cell number appear on her caller ID. He was somewhere in the South-east on business and wouldn’t be back until the weekend. She answered, holding the phone to her ear as she approached the skating rink, entering easily into their normal opening banter, realizing as they spoke that Cash had much of the experience she lacked. He’d know how things worked and, unlike Jane Jensen, might be willing to explain them to her.
“Cash, I need to understand how to get a book noticed. You know, how to get it the right kind of cover and in-house backing.”
“Well, that would start with the editor who wanted to purchase it. You were at that editorial meeting when the books got pitched. The editor starts building excitement for the book then. By the time they get to the sales meeting, if they’ve done their job right, they can get the sales force pumped, too, along with the publisher.”
Lac
y stopped near a vacant table that overlooked the rink and plopped down onto its chair. “Well, what if the editor wasn’t at all excited about the book, maybe had passed it off to some underling who knows it’s fabulous but can’t even get the editor to read it. What if this editor is whacked out and erratic and has told the underling to drop the whole thing or she’ll make sure the underling never works in the business again?”
“Then the underling should listen,” Cash said.
“But what if the underling would like to listen, but her conscience won’t let her? What if she knows the book is incredible and that it’s a moneymaker. And she just can’t let it die. What then?”
“Lacy, you’re a very bright girl. And I think you need to use your very bright brain to do what your editor told you.”
“Well, I’d like to,” she admitted. “But I can’t. I owe this book—and its author—my best shot. I mean, that’s why we’re here isn’t it? To publish the best possible books?”
He groaned. “This is what happens when you hire children. They think they’re invincible and that they don’t have to follow the rules.”
“Just tell me how I can get around her,” Lacy said with a wheedling tone. “I won’t drag you into it if you don’t want to be involved.”
There was a silence in which she could feel his internal debate, could practically feel him weighing what his chances of sleeping with her might be if he turned her down. She should be heading back to the office, but she just sat and waited him out.
She was about to speak when he said, “You’d have to get other people within the publishing house to read it before the sales meeting that’s scheduled for two weeks from now. I’d find another editor—someone who’s not a fan of Jane would be best. Someone from PR, who could work up some ideas about its promotability, should read it. And maybe a marketing person. Then I’d see if I could get someone from the art department who could bring in some rough cover sketches.” He paused. “And of course you’d need somebody relatively high up in sales to speak for it.”