Her students were very busy cutting out construction-paper circles for their Kandinsky trees, so Brooke walked casually across the room—no sense even alerting them to the fact that she was going anywhere—and stepped right outside the door. She could still see each little head clearly through the door’s small window.
“Hello?” she croaked into the receiver.
“Jules Richardson, please,” the woman on the other end of the line said.
“I’m sorry . . . I . . . May I ask who’s calling?” Brooke stuttered.
“This is Allison Zachary with the Kaplan Literary Agency,” the woman replied. Brooke had mailed her queries to her A-list agents only last week; she hadn’t expected to hear from anyone this quickly. And truth be told, the name Allison Zachary wasn’t ringing a bell, but the Kaplan Literary Agency had definitely been on her list. Brooke’s heart began to throb in her chest and her hands felt suddenly clammy.
“Do I have the correct number?” the woman prodded.
“Oh, yes, sorry. Yes, this is Jules. How can I help you?” She hoped she wasn’t going to hell for this.
“Jules, hello! Nice to meet you. I received your query letter and I have to say, I’m intrigued. I’m calling to request the full manuscript.”
“Oh! That’s great! Really great! I could drop it by this afternoon? Wait, are you in Los Angeles?” She’d sent several queries to agents in New York and even one in Miami. She wondered if the question was a gaffe, but Allison laughed.
“Actually I am in L.A., but you can just email it to me. I presume you have my email address? It seemed as if you’d done your research.”
Of course she could email it. At least she’d done something right.
“Absolutely, then. I’ll shoot it over this evening,” she promised, hoping she could pull that off without Jules finding out, as she’d have to send it from Jules’s account. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, she thought.
“Terrific,” Allison said. Brooke could hear the smile in her voice. “I’ll be in touch within a week, if not sooner. I’m sure you’ll be getting other calls.” And then she was gone.
Brooke was trembling with nerves and excitement and the most overwhelming urge she had ever felt; unfortunately, it was the urge to call Jules, which she clearly couldn’t do. Ever since that writers’ conference, Jules’s confidence was more fragile than ever. Brooke needed to get this ball rolling on her own. That way, if this Allison Zachary rejected the manuscript after reading it, Jules would never have to know. Because if that was how this went down, Brooke knew it would be the beginning of the end. That’s not going to happen, she told herself now. She had a feeling about Allison Zachary and the Kaplan Literary Agency. A very good feeling.
The days seemed to crawl by. Five, six, seven, eight. On day nine, Brooke did what she’d been trying with all of her might not to do: She emailed Allison, again from Jules’s account. The email bounced back immediately. She deleted the bounce notification and tried again. Bounce. What on earth? She could call the agency, but what would she say? “Did you like it?” Maybe agents didn’t take things like “within a week” literally? She hadn’t heard from another single agent, and she didn’t have the luxury of time on her side. In a burst of inspiration, Brooke had an idea: A gift! She’d just swing by the agency after work—it was only a few miles away—and drop off a little thanks-for-your-time note and maybe a candle or a pretty little potted plant. She would insist she was just in the neighborhood, certainly not stalking, and wanted to pop by. It was a stretch for sure, but it was all she had.
The Kaplan Literary Agency was in an ugly strip mall in Van Nuys. Brooke pulled open the massive glass door with a trembling hand, clutching tight to her succulent. The door had a giant cowbell tied to the handle, and a clanking sound echoed through the cavernous space. Brooke saw a few heads peek up through nearby doorways as she made her way to the receptionist’s desk, where a frazzled-looking woman sat in front of a phone that was a sea of blinking lights. She held up one finger to Brooke.
“Kaplan Literary Agency, can you hold? Kaplan Literary Agency, please hold. Kaplan Literary Agency, may I help you?”
Brooke stood there, willing her body not to break out in a sweat. Each time the woman looked as if she might be able to help her, another line lit up. Minutes became days.
“Maybe I can help you?” said a deep, husky voice from behind her. She jumped, and the man laughed.
“Sorry to startle you, I just thought you might be standing here a long time. We’re a little shorthanded, as you can see. I’m George Kaplan. What can we do for you?” He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen and just the lightest smattering of gray at his temples. He looked more like a movie star than a literary agent, if you asked Brooke.
“Oh, I just wanted to drop this off for Allison Zachary,” Brooke said, trying to sound breezy and holding up her plant as if it were Exhibit A.
“That’s a lovely gesture, but unfortunately Miss Zachary is no longer with the agency,” George said. “Is there something I can help you with, Miss . . . ?” He trailed off here, and Brooke gulped.
“Richardson,” she croaked. “Jules Richardson. I sent a query to Allison and she requested the full manuscript. I just wanted to bring her a little token of my appreciation for her time and interest.” Brooke could barely hear her own words over the thrumming of her heart, but she had to admit she thought she was handling this rather nicely.
“I see,” George said, his blue eyes twinkling. “Well, today might just be your lucky day. I don’t normally answer cold calls or attend to walk-ins—it’s my agency, after all—but since Lucy here is all tied up”—he gestured to the receptionist, who grimaced and mouthed the words “thank you”—“why don’t you give me the elevator pitch?”
“The what?” Brooke asked, saucer eyed and feeling fifty shades of stupid. George just laughed.
“Pitch me,” he said. “Sell me on your book in thirty seconds or less, you know, like we’re in an elevator. If you can’t do that, you can’t sell me in an hour. And whatever you do”—he raised his eyebrows mischievously and lowered his voice to a near whisper—“don’t say ‘you have to read it.’”
To say that Brooke wasn’t prepared for this would be like saying the Titanic had sprung a little leak. Did this man really expect her to stand here in the lobby of his strip-mall office with a dozen pairs of eyes watching and sell him on the concept of a book she hadn’t even written? Be cool, she told herself. This is for Jules, and for all of you. You can do this. You have to do this.
Sensing her hesitation, he nodded. “Follow me.”
He led her to his office, where he motioned to one of the chairs across from his big desk. Instead of taking the giant, executive-looking chair across from her, he sat in the cushy club chair next to her and looked at her expectantly.
“Well, it’s a memoir,” she began, and she thought she saw George wince just a little bit. She tried to ignore the deafening sound of her heartbeat in her ears. “It’s the story of my two sisters and me, and how our dad died when we were little and our mom checked out when he did. Then she died and left us thirty-seven million dollars we didn’t even know she had, but we had to meet all of these crazy conditions and work together to get it, even though we weren’t even speaking when she died. It’s not just about the money, of course. It’s about us and our individual journeys. I’m much more articulate in print.” She managed a nervous laugh.
George’s ears had perked up at the mention of thirty-seven million dollars. Now he looked at her with his mouth agape. “This is a true story?” he asked.
Brooke nodded.
“It’s your story?” he demanded.
Brooke nodded again.
“I’d like to see the manuscript,” he said. Brooke fought the urge to throw her arms around him and kiss him passionately. Instead, she told him she’d email it to him that evening.
“I can’t wait to read it,” he said, rising from his chair and leading her back toward the front door.
“It’s short but it’s pretty clean, I think,” she said, thankful that she could say this because it wasn’t her own work.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” George replied. His words were ominous but his tone was light. She extended her hand and when he shook it, a tiny jolt of electricity shot up her arm.
“Thanks in advance, Mr. Kaplan,” she said, desperate to maintain her composure. “Truly.”
“Jules, please. Call me George.”
Jules.
“George.” She forced her lips into a trembling smile and then raced out the door to her Kia before she could do or say anything (else) she might regret.
Lexi
Benji had given Lexi two weeks off with full pay to recover from the vicious attack. She was a week into it and bored out of her mind. She’d found a dentist and gotten her tooth fixed temporarily; a permanent implant cost thousands of dollars, so that would have to wait until she’d gotten her inheritance. The temp fix had cost her most of her savings but at least they’d done a pretty good job; Rob swore he had to be three inches from it to even tell. And even though she’d refused to get stitches despite great protesting from her sisters and Rob, her eye seemed to be healing nicely. She was pretty sure that if she did have a scar, it wouldn’t be gruesome or anything. Besides, scars gave people character. Lexi didn’t think she’d mind hers at all.
She grabbed her backpack and poked her head into the office, where Jules was working. Well, she’d said she was in there working, but Lexi was almost positive she’d just busted her surfing Facebook. Oh well, everyone needed breaks once in a while.
“I’m going for a bike ride,” she told Jules.
“Now? Really? It’ll be dark in less than an hour,” Jules said. She quickly minimized the browser page and turned around to face Lexi. She looked awfully guilty; maybe she was watching porn and not surfing Facebook like she’d thought. It would probably do her some good, Lexi mused.
“Rob’s coming with me,” she lied.
“What time will you guys be back?” Jules asked, looking concerned.
“Couple hours,” she said. Lexi could see the little vein in her sister’s forehead pulsing, the one that liked to pop out when she was anxious. “I won’t be late,” she promised. “How about if I’m going to be any later than ten o’clock I’ll call you, okay?”
“Okay, yeah, great. Have fun and be careful.” She managed a smile, and Lexi could tell she was reluctant to end the conversation.
“I will,” Lexi said. “See you in a bit.”
She pedaled the familiar route to The Inside Scoop, grateful for the solitude. Jules had been fawning nervously over her day and night since the assault at the shop, and Lexi wasn’t really comfortable with that level of attention. Besides, the four of them living in that tiny, cramped house could get stifling. She just needed a little space.
Lexi cruised contentedly through the neighborhood and then tucked into the alley behind the strip mall that housed The Inside Scoop. Her shop key was on a chain around her neck, which she pulled out now to unlock the back door. She hadn’t been back since that awful night and a chill ran up her neck. He won’t come back, she told herself. He got what he wanted. Quietly she let herself in, then pulled her bike inside for safekeeping. The door slammed behind her, but she checked anyway to make sure it was locked.
Satisfied, she turned on the desk light and pulled her cell phone from her backpack. She took a picture of Benji’s desk so that she could re-create the order of things when she was finished, and then carefully stacked his papers and put them aside. Smiling, she spread out her things and went to work.
When the door burst open behind her, Lexi let out a yelp and her pencil went flying. She jumped up instinctively and spun around with her hands protecting her face; when she did, she sent pages scattering to the floor.
“Alexis, what the fuck are you doing?” Rob demanded. He was red faced and flustered and had his hand on his hip, on his gun.
“Rob . . . I . . . What are you doing here?” Lexi asked. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her face was a picture of guilt.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” Rob said. His hand didn’t move.
“But . . . how did you know I was here?” She wanted to know.
“Benji had security cameras installed after the attack. He was worried about you, Alexis. At least until he saw you letting yourself in tonight. He called me instead of calling 911, so you’d better have a good explanation. Are you robbing the place? Was that attack some sort of setup? What the fuck, Alexis?”
Lexi hung her head in shame. She really hadn’t thought she was doing anything all that bad.
She bent down now and scooped up a handful of the papers on the floor and handed them to Rob.
“What are these? I don’t understand.”
“I drew them,” Lexi said.
Rob raised his brows, skeptical. Lexi nodded.
“They’re fucking incredible,” he said, shuffling through the stack. He kneeled down and carefully picked up the rest of the pages; there were dozens of them. “I had no idea . . . But what do they have to do with anything? Why are you here?”
“I just wanted to be alone,” she said simply. “Jules and Brooke are hovering over me twenty-four-seven, and I can’t work in a coffee shop without creepers trying to talk to me or offering to buy me a fucking pastry. I wasn’t going to take anything or hurt anything, I swear. I guess I should have asked Benji, huh?”
“Um, yeah, you should have asked Benji. Otherwise it’s called trespassing, which is a misdemeanor. Unless you have a weapon; then it’s a felony.”
“No weapon,” Lexi said, holding up both hands and grinning. “Please don’t shoot.”
“Damn it, Alexis, I had no idea what I was going to find when I came down here. I certainly didn’t expect to find you quietly working on your latest art installment.” He shook his head and laughed, palpably relieved. Lexi saw the tension leave his shoulders as he held his arms out to her; when he did, she fell into them. Immediately she could feel Rob’s erection pressing into her, and she desperately wanted to rip both of their clothes off. She’d decided early on that she wanted things to be different with Rob, because they were. She hadn’t slept with him yet, and he’d told her that was just fine, that she could have as much time as she needed. Well, time wasn’t what she needed anymore. She pulled him even closer.
“I want you so badly,” she whispered.
“Security cameras,” he whispered back, his face buried in her neck.
“Then let’s get out of here.”
Rob pulled away from her. “I need to call Benji and let him know that everything is cool, and that it was just a little misunderstanding. And then I’d love nothing more than to have you elaborate on that thought.”
“Is he going to fire me?” Lexi asked, biting her lip, her passion waning just a tiny bit.
“I don’t know,” Rob admitted. “It might help if you called him yourself tomorrow and apologized and promised it would never happen again.”
“I can do that,” Lexi said. “And Rob?”
“Yeah?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I really am.” Lexi had never meant anything more in her life, except maybe the part about how badly she wanted him.
Jules
Jules was ecstatic for Lexi; she really was. Her dangerously deviant baby sister had made a serious one-eighty ever since she met Rob, and the transformation was astonishing. The other day, she’d complimented Jules on her hair, and last night she’d come home from work with a pint each of her and Shawn’s favorite ice cream flavors, as well as a low-fat frozen yogurt for Brooke. She was rarely surly or sulky; in fact, Jules had grown to genuinely enjoy her company. She wondered if Juliana would be proud, and she d
ecided that she would. She’d have to be.
Jules marveled at the fact that of the three sisters, Lexi was the only one who’d satisfied their mother’s demands. She’d been promoted to assistant manager at The Inside Scoop and Benji had even offered to split the cost of health care coverage with her. And she’d achieved all of this with time to spare, to boot. Who would have thought?
Still, Jules couldn’t help feeling that eventually her sister would get antsy in that environment, performing the same mindless tasks day in and day out. People like Lexi were different; anyone could see that. Jules might have inherited some of her father’s writing talent, but Lexi was a creative genius. Jules had to struggle to get words on paper; Lexi’s talent was effortless, as if it was always there, just below the surface of her skin, aching to be set free. Without excitement and stimulation and an outlet for self-expression, Jules feared those urges wouldn’t just bubble to the surface but explode. She was terrified of what the aftermath of that would look like.
She’d tried to broach the subject of Lexi’s artwork several times, but Lexi had brushed her off.
“You just think my crap’s good because you’re my sister,” Lexi had insisted. “It’s like how moms always think their ugly babies are beautiful because they can’t see what everyone else sees.”
“I’m not that nice,” Jules replied. “And until fairly recently, I wasn’t even sure if I liked you. So I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about my alleged familial bias.”
“Whatever,” Lexi said, brushing off the backhanded compliment. “Maybe with some lessons or something I could be halfway decent, but I’ve never even taken a single drawing class. I’m an amateur; I’d be mortified if a real artist ever saw my stuff. And besides, like I said, I just do it for fun.”
Everything's Relative Page 18