Page 45

“—two rounds of edits with far too many unreasonable asks for changes—”

“The left,” I throw out, seeing that Lyla is on the brink of exploding.

“—cover design that was far below the quality we expected—”

Lyla, who was at maniac Energizer Bunny level two seconds prior, halts. Her eyes go from manic to scarily calm in the matter of a second. She holds out her hand for the phone.

Oh no.

I don’t dare not hand it over.

“Ms. Brightside, hi.” Lyla snatches the phone from me, jabs one fingernail on the key to turn off the speakerphone, and cradles it against her ear while swiveling in her own chair toward the wall. Her fingernails begin clapping furiously as she types on the keyboard about three hundred words per minute. “This is Lyla in Marketing and Design. Yes, I’m looking over the cover I created for Annabelle at this moment. If you’ll look at the cover-test results we gathered compared with Annabelle’s last cover with Sutnam—which was actually a stock photo also seen on amateur-level business cards and cosplay blogs with five visitors per month—you’ll see that . . .”

I leave Lyla to her scary rant and swivel back in my chair. I’ve finished most of my duties for the week, aside from the ever-present backlog of proposals and queries filling up my in-box. With one quick glance back to Lyla—who is clearly going to be occupied for a few minutes, and almost undoubtedly face some remedial meeting with the boss this afternoon—I rise.

Time for another visit to the ARC room.

I furtively pick up my purse, which is heavy, given it’s holding a fourteen-inch laptop these days, and pull the strap over my shoulder.

“No, no, I’m not implying you’re a sham of an agent exploiting the goodwill of your clients, Diann,” Lyla continues and I slide out into the hall. “What I’m saying is you’re a sham of an agent exploiting the goodwill . . .”

One minute and twenty-two seconds of short pleasantries and slinking through halls, and I push the door open to my little hideaway. My heart thuds a bit louder as I hear the old metal filing cabinet squeak and give way at my push. I only left here four hours ago, but my book is all I’ve been able to think about these days. A week solid of passing notes back and forth through the manuscript, sometimes two or three times a day. It’s fairly remarkable, too, that so far I haven’t raised any suspicions or spotted any clues that would raise suspicions of my own. But then, everyone does tend to hole up in their own offices during the day, slipping in and out for the occasional meeting and coffee break but otherwise left fairly to themselves. As far as I know, only Lyla has raised a brow at me, but that’s because she’s my officemate. And as far as she’s concerned, I’m on antibiotics for my “special problem.”

My eyes are already searching the Post-It on top for his writing. For the newest log. And sure enough, I spot it.

You’re up.

And exhale.

We have a system.

The ARC room is mine from eight to ten, noon to two, four to the end of the workday. He can take the rest, and neither of us can show up or leave within ten minutes of our designated times. It was about four days into this writing back and forth that the topic came up. It was lunchtime, and I had just run up to the room, a bowl of potato salad in one hand, nothing but wild hopes and dreams in the other, and was opening the door to the ARC room when I saw all the lights were on. Faintly I heard the squeal of the filing cabinet at the far end, and without waiting to see any figure pop out from the corner, I darted for the hall. Needless to say, my next note was on the topic, laying out a set of rules.

I don’t know why exactly he went along with it.

Maybe because he, too, wanted to remain anonymous in this little exchange of words, as I do, considering I’m writing, as Ms. Pennington likes to say, “material on par with stuffing cotton balls in one’s mouth” during work hours, at a publishing house that cares so much about serving upmarket fiction it actually has in its mission statement the goal to “overwhelm the population with quality stories, so as to delete from society that which is replete with twaddle.” There is an asterisk beside that sentence and a footnote at the bottom of last year’s yearly summit stating: “Specifically remarking upon thrillers, magical realism, mysteries, historical fiction, westerns, dramas and—above all—romance in all forms.”

Or maybe he didn’t want to reveal his identity in case I turn on him and get him in trouble, considering that while nothing is stated in any rulebook (obviously), every time I come here it feels a little like jumping over caution tape.

Or maybe because he wanted to set clear boundaries on when the room was his, because like me, he feels like it’s his own little oasis.

Or maybe, just maybe, he, too, found the whole thing to be a bit of extra fun—like the joy of slipping notes back and forth in middle school. It wasn’t about the words that were actually snuck back and forth back then that made passing notes special; nobody really cared to know “What did you eat for lunch?” and “I ate a turkey sandwich. U?” It was the method that was fun. The knowledge that you passed off a note, however trite it might be, and it was bound to be returned with an addition or two just for you in just a few minutes.

I don’t know if he feels that way about our notes.

But I sure do.

And the things we learn from each other in our correspondence aren’t really revolutionary either, although it certainly feels that way.

Things just come out as we jot our comments over a scene. Personal facts. Stories. He reads voraciously—far beyond the requirements of the job. Went on vacations as a kid to some old, beaten-down cottage off the coast of Rhode Island. Was bullied for a chunk of time in middle school before he hit a growth spurt.

And each little story, each little fact, feels like a zing. A little nugget. A gold star.

Already I’m flipping through the pages of the manuscript as I move to the beanbag. At a glance I can see he’s addressed a couple of notes on character development in chapter 7 (evidently pushing a puppy off the couch is a real red flag for character likability), which I’m looking forward to addressing later this evening. But today’s zing comes with the newest addition on page 65.

Yesterday he left the oh-so-gently stated comment about my character’s first date: The fact that your character calls this “the best night of her life” over stale rolls at a 2-star restaurant is more ironic than Ms. Pennington’s ever-present belief that “Medieval poetry is the way of the future.” I responded by asking him what his genius idea was for a first date, and while he overlooked any response on the topic this morning, he seems to have circled back to it. And for a first, the answer is so lengthy he’s added a Post-It note to the side to make room.

The perfect date depends on the people involved. If she enjoys fine food, then I’d take her to the Catbird Seat. If she enjoys music, then I’d take her to the Schermerhorn Symphony Center. The perfect date doesn’t have anything to do with me. It’s entirely about finding a setting that highlights who she is and seeking to learn about each other within that amenable atmosphere.