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CHAPTER ONE
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You could alwaystell it was Friday when the inter-office cat dancing videos started to circulate around the offices of Arch Limited. The little balls of fur were our ceremonial icons, marking the end of our work week. I used to delete them without a second glance, but somehow I came to count on them. So, between eating a forkful of lettuce and typing on my computer on this particular Friday, I perked my ears for the sound notifying me of those dancing cats in my inbox. Halfway through the turkey salad I had picked up from the Korean Deli on East 44th, they finally arrived, dancing and frolicking across my screen. Inside, I squealed with glee.Yes!
Yet, on the heels of that thought came,I cheer for cats. I need a life.
My lack of a life, or in truth, lack of social options to fill my life with, would have to wait. I didn’t have much time left before my weekly meeting with my boss, Chief Managing Editor, Gregor Worton. So I printed out the Request for Proposal (RFP) he had forwarded for today’s discussion on brainstorming new business. As a small press, we weren’t an automatic send for high-profile clients. Fortunately for us, Gregor was a gifted plotter and found creative ways to “slip in incentives to steal *cough* win clients.
The idea of our little publishing house pursuing these clients wasn’t as futile as contacting them had once been. Not since Gregor started finding the best needle manuscripts in the literary haystack submissions. He managed to catapult our writers to the lips of the New York Times and USA Today top sellers’ lists. In a way, Arch had become the phoenix of publishing houses, rising out of indie publishing mayhem. And for that reason, I understood why Gregor pushed for Arch to try for the “big fish.” Still, when my hand grasped the paper printout from my tray and caught sight of the “fish” Gregor wanted, I grabbed a napkin to cover my mouth to keep in what I hadn’t yet swallowed so I wouldn’t choke.
Jonas Crane?
I read the first line of the RFP:
Jonas Crane of Crane Holdings, former Venture Capitalist and one of Forbes Magazine’s ‘Top Fifty Next-Gen’ and ‘Successful Under Forty’ for the past six years, is seeking assistance in publishing his first book…
Jonas wasn’t just a big fish; he was a whale. And even with our recent success, we were a string and bent pin bidding to hook him. Still, Gregor was a dreamer, like my father used to be. I needed his dreams. They gave me hope in my otherwise muted existence.
I placed my doubts aside and quickly typed Jonas’s name on Google and jotted down a few key points on him to share in the meeting.
Once completed, I tried to stand up but fell back into my chair. I glanced down and frowned, my favorite gray wool skirt had caught in the wheel’s tread of my desk chair. Again.
I hoped I didn’t get chew marks on the fabric or I’d have no choice but to place the skirt along with the others in my graveyard of mangled office clothing. Crouching down, I pushed up the sleeves of my turtleneck and held the wheel in place. As I eased the cloth out of its jaws, I examined my skirt. A grease mark. My mind conjured a memory of my father scolding me, “Salomé’s strive for perfection by presenting the best they can be.”Ever the vagabond, Tiger Lily.
Covering my face, I took a deep breath and started to ease my sleeves down my arms, but stopped, I was too warm. Luckily, Gregor’s fan in his office was always on. He didn’t seem to mind when I angled the breeze my way during our meetings.
The heat inside the office gave a false sense of hot weather outside, though in actuality we were in the middle of January in New York City. The air outside was notably colder and we were in the midst of recovering from an unexpected snowstorm. But, as was customary for the city, all the streets were thoroughly salted and plowed. Nothing seemed to stop New York from moving, and that’s what I needed to do.Stop thinking and keep moving.
I stood, successfully this time, and walked the three feet to my boss’s office, careful not to knock over the “lucky” pile of books holding the door ajar. According to Gregor, everything was lucky and had to remain just as he placed them. Eyes down at the floor, I planned a path to the chair across from him, presently the only surface without books and papers. His desk had the most organized piles, though there were remnants of old coffee cups and take-out containers. I found it puzzling he never lost anything.
Gregor’s ready excuse these days was “that’s what divorce does to you.” Lately he expressed concern his divorce had interfered with his Midas touch and needed the clutter to help ward off the bad vibes. I bought his story a year ago, but truthfully, he should let me or the cleaners tidy his office. Of course, the moment I allowed that thought to set in, I would’ve sworn one of his “lucky” piles of papers walked away on its own.On second thought, I’ll leave the cleaning to the professionals.
“Come on in, Lily,” Gregor said, calling me back from my thoughts. He smiled brightly upon my approach and I sat down and stared across at him.
Gregor’s brown bobbed hair and tweed blazers had most believing he was a professor instead of head of the company, but he didn’t care. In fact, in some ways, I think he thought of himself as a professor as well. He was not traditionally handsome, plagued by sharp facial features and bug eyes, though his were a lovely shade of green. Nonetheless, the women around the office didn’t seem to notice his shortcomings. Instead, they often gossiped he had a “je ne sais quoi” they found sexually appealing. I didn’t think of him in that way though. Gregor was just, well… Gregor. “Sorry I missed your Alfred Hitchcock marathon Saturday night,” Gregor began. “I’m not sorry I missed out on the dissection you call discussion afterward.”
I grinned. “I thought you liked that part.”
“You having too much wine and getting loud and silly. That’s the part I like.” He chuckled.
I giggled. “You get just as silly and vocal as me.”
He stared at me in that deadpan way for a few moments before joining in and laughing. Gregor had been more than a boss from day one, when I stumbled into his office a couple of years ago. He ignored my anthropology degree and empty resume, and still let me pitch myself to him for twenty minutes before sending me off to buy a client a gift.
I reached out to hand him the papers. “Here are the printouts you wanted. So what’s on your to-do list today?” I poised with my pen.
His smile upgraded to a full toothy grin. “Jonas Crane. That’s all I want you to focus on.”
I tilted my head. “Don’t you think Jonas is too high up the ladder for us?”
“‘We are the music makers, we are the dreamers of dreams,’” he said.
I groaned. “Willy Wonka? Gregor.” I sucked in air. “Jonas hasn’t granted any interviews in at least two years. Not even to the top papers. We can’t reach him.”
“Poet O’Shaughnessy, Lily, not Willy Wonka,” Gregor said with a lift to his chin. “As for Jonas, tell me what ‘in’ you found.”
The “in” was Gregor’s buzzword for his method of finding a way to engage a potential client by accidentally on purpose bumping into them—a civilized form of stalking.
