Page 27

“Savannah, wait just a moment.”

I pause.

Force myself to meet her eye. When I do, her gaze is steady, open.

“Your story does have promise,” she says slowly, as though hoping with each measured word I fully absorb and believe it. “It truly does. You just need to get that story, the one I heard last year, on paper. That’s all.”

For a long moment, I pause.

And there, looking into her warm eyes, all the while trying to absorb her words as she intended, I'm aware of a new thought forming. And for a moment, I push away the doubts flapping their large, thunderous wings.

This is not someone trying to butter me up when I’m feeling low. This is Claire Donovan.

The Claire Donovan.

And we may have had a jolly chat in line last year, yes, but the fact is this is her job. She gets hundreds of supremely vetted, hand-selected manuscripts to peruse each year from the hands of a few select literary agents. And while, yes, we did have one nice chat last year, the fact is she wouldn’t have sat here, wasting twenty minutes of her precious time, if she didn’t actually think my story had an inkling of potential. She wouldn’t have wasted the time opening that email if she didn’t really believe there was something there. She wouldn’t have read at least a few pages by computer light near midnight if the hook hadn’t grabbed her. And she certainly wouldn’t have taken the time to pull me aside and talk today instead of shooting off a sympathetic email.

Contrary to the chant pulsing in my ears, I am not doomed.

I might not have a good enough manuscript here to get a deal on the spot, but I have a start. A good start.

And I need to make a decision. Right now. Because it really might be now or never.

The smile I had plastered on before falls, my expression replaced with a serious brow.

“So, you said that if my manuscript was up to the quality you had hoped, you would be willing to push it through pub board before retiring at the end of March.”

She eyes me warily, clearly noticing the change in my own tone. “If. Yes. I would’ve. If.”

“So, if I can get this manuscript perfected by your next pub meeting, you’ll consider it.”

She hesitates. Takes a breath. “Well, Savannah, I—”

I raise my hands in the air. “I know you are talking about a major rewrite here. I am in no way misunderstanding the level of work you’re asking for.”

“It would take quite the upheaval,” she says. “More than, I fear, you may be able to do in such a short time. Our pub board meets the first Tuesday of the month.”

“The first Tuesday of the month. I can do that,” I say, nodding, more to myself than to her. “I will do it.”

She peers dubiously at me for so long, I scramble and then throw out the words. “I even have an editor working with me now. Someone who agrees with all the pointers you’ve just given.”

She pauses. “You have someone helping you?”

“Yes.” Help. Criticize. Same thing.

I can see her expression slowly turning, my own eager expression and confidence causing her to budge. “I can’t promise anything. You know that.”

I nod fervently. “I do.”

Several seconds of silence pass. The hubbub around us grows—classes out, halls filling up with people.

“Alright, Savannah. Get it to my in-box by March 1, in the best condition you possibly can, and I’ll give it another look.” And with those words our meeting is over. She’s rising to her feet.

I shower her with a dozen “Thank yous” and “I wills.” As we part, she doesn’t smile quite as confidently and carefreely about our interaction as I would have hoped, but it doesn’t matter. The point is I now have time to prove she’s made the right decision in giving me another chance. I have time.

As we separate in the sea of people and I follow the stream back toward the exhibit hall, my head races as I process what just happened.

My dreams were dashed. Momentarily.