Page 37

But as the questions and answers fire around the table, while I keep my eyes glued to Ms. Pennington, my mind wanders off to other matters.

Why does Will look so tired? There’s a red rim around his eyes, looking like mine do after too many hours staring at a computer with not enough sleep. He’s wearing glasses today, subtle copper-colored rectangular frames that make him look even more intimidating in his white button-up and navy-blue tie. Intimidating . . . and . . . well, sleek. Let’s just call him sleek.

Does he always wear glasses? Or are those the blue-light glasses Lyla has been badgering me about buying? Honestly, I do not care.

“Savannah, did you finish that manuscript by Smith? What were your thoughts?”

I blink to attention.

“Yes. Smith.” I shift in my chair, looking for my notes. “Smith’s manuscript was . . . impressive,” I say, pushing my stacks of papers aside in the hunt for Smith’s proposal. “His perspective on the way George Bird Grinnell, America’s environmental pioneer, led the way with such . . . such . . .” I hesitate, scouring my mind for the word. Ah. This is what I get for being so behind I didn’t get a chance to prepare my statement back at my desk. “Well, it was definitely his bailiwick,” I say at last. “It’s insightful. Smith really is”—I think quickly, trying to recall the words—“a leading authority in his field. I’d like to pursue taking his project to acquisitions.”

“Fine,” Ms. Pennington says, clearly not impressed by my word choices this week as she has been in previous ones, but not unimpressed either—and in our world, that’s pretty good. She looks down at her paper to move on, but then, as though remembering something, suddenly lifts her head. “Oh, and Savannah.”

“Yes?” I say quickly, only halfway through an exhale of relief.

“Giselle tells me you were spotted drinking coffee with Claire Donovan from Baird Books on Saturday. Please explain.”

The room stops. Every muscle in my being pauses.

“Oh,” I say in surprise, feeling a surge of both shock and revulsion toward Giselle. “Yes, that. Well . . .” Quick, Savannah. Think. What were you doing sitting with an editor at LOA? During work hours? With an editor of romance? Why . . .

I feel the panic within me rising as any plausible response falls short. All eyes are on me, including those of Giselle, who’s sitting coolly in her chair, a simpering smile thinly veiled as she holds her silver tumbler to her lips.

“I asked her to.”

Everyone at the table turns to Will in surprise, including me.

Ms. Pennington raises a brow. “You did, William? Why?”

Yes, William. What on earth can you possibly say now?

Will’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker, and his words don’t miss a beat. “Claire Donovan is one of the most respected editors in the industry, one with whom I’ve had the pleasure of acquaintance for several years. She is nearing the end of her tenure, and I wanted to get her thoughts on a potential project before the opportunity slipped by. But as I ended up occupied at our appointed meeting time, I sent Savannah in my stead with my apologies.”

Ms. Pennington’s eyes narrow.

Will looks coolly back.

“A meeting with Claire,” she says.

“Yes.”

Somewhere in the distance, I hear a pencil snap.

“As you are well aware, Will, Pennington thrives on being a stable foundation in the nonfiction and literary fiction sector—”

“Given the financial reports of the past twelve months, one might disagree on both the terms stable and foundation here—”

Everyone’s eyes bounce back to Ms. Pennington. “We have a loyal following—”

“Who are leaving in flocks for competitive publishers—”

“And decades of accomplishments lining our walls—”

“The dusty clippings from the eighties. Yes. I’ve seen them.”

“And most important, we have no intention of prostituting ourselves out with flighty paperbacks one drops into one’s shopping cart while perusing the aisle for Cheetos—”

All heads snap to Will. “Which is well and good, just so long as you inform everyone here to start looking for employment elsewhere as soon as possible.”