Blind Submission (16 page)

“These
girls,
” she spat. “And after all I've done for her. You have no idea what I go through here. I need some
men.
Get me Craig. And bring Anna in here, too. What are you waiting for, Angel? Go!”

BY THE TIME
he showed up at close to five, I'd completely forgotten that Damiano had said he was coming to the office. I was as surprised as Anna and Craig when a knock came on the door, which rarely opened during the course of the day. It was Anna who finally registered the sound and sauntered over to let him in. Damiano stood at the door, his face obscured by a giant basket filled with pastries and cakes and elaborately tied with gold and silver ribbon.

“Are you FedEx?” Anna asked, puzzled.

He lowered the basket and gave Anna an equally perplexed stare. “Angel?” he asked, disbelief in his voice. It was only then that I realized who he was.

“I'm Anna,” she said, making no move to let him in.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, grinning broadly. “Good to meet you. I'm Damiano.”

“Ohhh,” Anna crowed after one beat too long. “The Italian book. Well, come in.” She turned around to me and waved her hand in my direction.

“That's Angel,” she said. “We didn't know you were coming. Lucy didn't say—”

“I'm sorry,” he repeated. “This is a surprise visit. I wanted to come to thank you all in person for my great good fortune.” He held the basket out to her. “These are for you all,” he said. “I make them all myself. Something for everyone.”

“Wow,” Anna said, wrapping her arms around the basket and giving the pastries a look that could only be described as loving. Craig got up from his desk and came around to shake hands with Damiano.

“Very nice to meet you,” he said. “I'm Craig. We've talked on the phone.”

“Yes, yes. Luciana calls you ‘the man with the money.' It's nice to meet you.” He turned to me then and walked the short distance to my desk, where I sat, paralyzed, trying to figure out if I could smooth my hair without being noticed and wishing desperately that I didn't reek of spilled coffee. At least my finger had stopped bleeding.

“Angel,” he said.
“Finalmente.”
He leaned toward me but didn't extend his hand for shaking. I stood, awkwardly, unsure whether to offer my own hand. Somehow that gesture seemed too formal. He was shorter than I'd imagined—we stood almost eye to eye—but he held himself in a way that made him appear taller. He was olive-skinned and slender and his eyes were the color of dark red wine. His hair, thick and black with strokes of gray at the temples, was cut short but not buzzed. He had a decent five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw and it suited him well. He was a good-looking man, no question, but in a way that was not at all obvious.

“You have red hair,” he said to me. “I'm surprised!”

“Well, I don't really sound like a redhead on the phone,” I said idiotically, and made a move to shake his hand. He grabbed it instead and kissed me on both cheeks. He smelled delicious, like marzipan, chocolate, and citrus.

“È vero,”
he said. “I saw a blond angel when I talked to you.” I could feel the prickly heat of a blush spreading across my cheeks and could do nothing to stop it. A sidelong glance at Anna showed me that her color had risen, too, and that she looked extremely put out. Damiano's visit was already feeling like a runaway train and I had to do something to redirect its course.

“You know, we should probably tell Lucy that you're here,” Anna said in a very loud voice. “Don't you think,
Angel
?”

“Of course,” I said, and turned away from Damiano's amused gaze. “Lucy?” I said into my intercom. “Damiano Vero's here to see you.” There was a second or two delay before my intercom flashed back. She wanted me to pick up the phone and I realized I would have to listen to a tirade with Damiano standing right in front of me, no doubt hearing every word of it.

“Lucy?”

“He is
here
? In the
office
?”

“Yes, Lucy.”

“
Why?
And why was I not informed?”

“Nobody knew he—” I looked up at Damiano. One corner of his mouth was turned up in an ironic smile.

“DAMN IT!” she screamed.

“Should I tell him—” There was a loud click in my ear and she slammed her receiver down. Anna was smirking. Damiano looked bemused. I had no idea what to tell him.

“Any trouble finding us?” I asked him, stalling.

“No, not at all,” he said.

“How…how did you know where we were?” I was seized with a sudden fear that I'd inadvertently given him our physical address during one of our conversations.

“Luciana told me where you are when I spoke to her. Is it okay?”

At that moment, Lucy sailed out of her office and with a toothy grin presented her hand to Damiano as if she were accepting a dance in a Victorian ballroom.

“
Buon giorno,
Damiano Vero!” she said. Her voice was high and fluty, a tone I'd never heard from her before. “In the flesh,” she added.

“Luciana,
piacere,
” he said, and moved to kiss her cheeks. There was an awkward moment when it became apparent that he wouldn't be able to reach her face gracefully, but he made a quick recovery by taking her hand and kissing that instead.

“Well!” she exclaimed. Her flustered schoolgirl tone was becoming a little grotesque. “You
are
a handsome man, after all. You should have sent a photo, Damiano, I could have gotten you even more money! Yes, indeed.” She raked him with her eyes. “You're the best-looking heroin addict I've ever seen!”

To his credit, Damiano didn't flinch, nor did his expression change. I, on the other hand, was in a sweat of reddened embarrassment for him.

“I assume you've met my staff,” Lucy continued, waving her hand in our direction. “And to what do we owe the honor of your presence today?”

“I bring a gift.” He gestured to the basket that Anna was still holding. “I made some sweets.”

“Charming,” Lucy said, and took the basket from Anna. “Very sweet of you.”

“I am so grateful to you all,” he said, but looked directly at me. Lucy, missing nothing, followed his gaze and raised her eyebrows.

“Delicious, isn't he, Angel? Pity you're already spoken for.” I felt my stomach clench and had to lower my eyes. The heat on my face had reached fever temperature. “I'll put this lovely basket in my office,” Lucy was saying. “Why don't you come with me, Damiano? Since you're here, there are a few things we should discuss.”

“Bene,”
Damiano said, and started to follow her. “I almost forgot,” he said, and walked back to my desk. “I have this for you,” he said quietly, and pulled a CD jewel case out of his jacket pocket. He laid it on my desk and turned quickly to go after Lucy. I looked up, sure I would find a disapproving scowl from Anna, but she'd missed the whole interchange and was staring, bereft, as Damiano's basket disappeared into Lucy's office. I grabbed the CD before she could see it and tossed it into my purse. For all I knew, it was merely a copy of his manuscript on disk, but something told me that it wasn't for public consumption. My computer chirped with the sound of an instant message. Anna.

Well, I guess that's the last we'll see of those cakes.

I'm sure she'll share,
I wrote back.

She won't. Nothing ever comes out of there once it goes in.

Just as well, they don't look too slimming,
I wrote, and immediately regretted it. Now she'd think I was implying she was fat. I looked at the clock. It was just past eight in New York. It was to be a day without end, as the persistent twitter of Anna's instant messages reminded me.

Guess I'm reading your boyfriend's ms tonight,
she wrote.
I'll try to be gentle.

Just be honest,
I typed, striking my keyboard with more force than was necessary. And skip the lame attempts at humor, I thought to myself.

Will do,
she sent back.
Anything special I should know before I start reading?
She wasn't letting it go. I looked at the clock again and over at Lucy's closed door. Through it, I could hear the rise and dip of her voice mingling with Damiano's. I was suddenly and unbearably tired.

Yes,
I replied to Anna,
I'm exhausted. I have one more thing to do and then I'm heading home.

Before she had a chance to respond, I covered my last base of the day and sent an e-mail to the anonymous author of
Blind Submission.
I wasn't about to risk letting that one get away from me like I had with Shelly Franklin.

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: BLIND SUBMISSION

Dear “g,”

Thank you very much for sending the opening pages of BLIND SUBMISSION to us. We have now had a chance to review your work and, on behalf of Lucy Fiamma, I'm happy to say that we are sufficiently intrigued by your pages and we would love to see more! In fact, if the entire manuscript is finished, please send it along as soon as possible. If you could let us know whether or not this novel has been submitted to other agents, that would be great. Could you please give us a call at 510-555-7666? We'll look forward to reading!

Many thanks,

Angel Robinson

Lucy Fiamma Literary Agency

 

I hit the
SEND
button on my computer, turned it off, and started gathering my substantial pile of take-home reading. But before I could get out the door, the phone started ringing in one final cruel burst of sound. Anna, head bent over some imaginary work at her desk, pointedly refused to answer it and so, with a loud sigh, I lifted the receiver.

“Good
evening,
Lucy Fiamma Agency.”

There was laughing on the other end. “Still there, are you?” Ah, Gordon Hart.

“Hello, Mr. Hart.” I looked at the clock. It was closing in on nine in New York. “We could say the same for you! It's very late there, isn't it?”

“No rest for the
wicked,
” he offered. “I'm sure you're familiar. I'll assume she's still there as well, then?”

“Well, actually, she's…” I looked over at Lucy's closed door. Once again, I was faced with what I'd secretly dubbed the Lucy Challenge. Did I put the very important (and consistently elusive) Gordon Hart through to Lucy and, in the process, interrupt her conversation with her newest, brightest author, or did I take a message and risk her possible fire-breathing wrath? And then I realized that Lucy would like nothing better than to look as important and powerful as possible in front of Damiano by cutting him off to take a call from one of “the country's most important publishers.” As soon as this thought occurred to me, I decided that I simply didn't want to give her the pleasure. It was a small thing, possibly even petty, but it gave me a substantial feeling of satisfaction.

“She's actually not here at the moment,” I said. “But I can—”

“Really?” he said, and laughed again. “How
unusual.
But not to worry, I don't really need to
speak
to her. I was calling to leave a message. I'll be out of town next week and I wanted to make sure she knew that. I will call her back when I return. Let her know, will you, Ms. Robinson?”

“I will,” I said.

“Good,” he answered, and hung up.

Gordon Hart wasn't the only one who didn't want to talk to Lucy. Before she could emerge again with enough new work to keep me at my desk indefinitely, I grabbed my things and hightailed it out the door.

I LAY IN MY BED,
awake and unmoving, Malcolm's warm body wrapped around me in the wordless intimacy of flesh against flesh. I could feel his slow, even breaths in my ear and his lips against my cheek. I reached my hand out in the dark to stroke his arm, my fingers tracing the swell of his shoulder, and he stirred, pulling me closer to him.