The Accidental Bestseller (28 page)

Lacy was beginning to feel like a mailman. Despite the fact that Scarsdale had interoffice mail and many other mechanisms for communicating with and sending things to others in the building, Jane Jensen, who would probably be using the Pony Express if it still existed, appeared to believe that everything, really, every little thing, would be better delivered and/or communicated by her lowly assistant.

Actually, compared to the mindless errands that took her out of the building—to Jane’s dry cleaner, the corner news-stand, the nearest Starbucks, the not-so-nearby theater box office to pick up Jane’s tickets—the time she spent going floor to floor and department to department on Jane’s behalf had become the best parts of Lacy’s day.

She took her time as she made her deliveries and pickups and as a result got to know people throughout the publishing house that she might not have otherwise met. Happily, almost all of them were more pleasant and accommodating than Lacy’s own whacked-out boss.

Lacy especially liked editor Hannah Sutcliff, whose office was located as far as one could get from Jane Jensen’s office, without leaving the editorial floor. Although it was about half the size of Jane’s, it had a small reading nook anchored by a brightly patterned wool rug and a chenille-covered love seat. Framed posters for several of Hannah’s authors’ works filled one wall. Family photos dotted her desktop. A vase of fresh-cut flowers sat on a small end table next to the love seat.

“Hi, Lacy.” Despite her seniority, Hannah always made a point of being friendly and seemed to consider their punishment at Jane Jensen’s hands as a common bond. “You ready for more reading material?”

Unlike Jane, Hannah encouraged Lacy’s interest in the editorial process and had allowed Lacy to read several recently purchased manuscripts and then taken the time to explain her acquisition criteria. Today she handed Lacy a sealed packet for Jane and a copy of a partial she’d received. “I thought you might like to read this and tell me why I won’t be requesting the full manuscript. Sometimes knowing why someone doesn’t buy is more important than knowing why they do.”

“Thanks.” Wishing for about the thousandth time that she’d been assigned to Hannah rather than Jane, Lacy moved on, taking the elevator up to the art department where she found the art director, Simon Rothwell, dealing, rather badly, with his recent nicotine withdrawal.

“Hi, love,” he said, in his lilting British accent. “You don’t happen to have a smoke with you, do you? Not that I’d smoke it, of course. I’d just like to smell it. Or maybe I could hold it between my fingers and caress it for a while?”

Lacy took the manila envelope he handed her with a slightly shaky hand. She eyed him fondly, glad she’d come prepared. “There will be no caressing of cigarettes, Simon; it’s way too dangerous. But I did bring you something that might help.”

From her jacket pockets Lacy pulled out the miniature candy bars she’d stashed there. With a flourish, she piled them on his drafting table in an impressive mound.

Simon’s face lit up. “Bless you, love. Those should see me through the afternoon.” He unwrapped the first candy and popped it in his mouth, then smiled in mock ecstasy. “I’m going to weigh ninety kilos before this is done and my dentist will probably kill me. But you, my girl, are a wonderful human being.”

His grandiose expressions of gratitude followed her down the hall. In the publicity department she stopped to pick up a copy of an interview that had run in
Library Journal
and an itinerary for an upcoming book tour from Cindy Miller, who’d just been named an assistant to publicity head Naomi Fondren.

“Hi, Cindy, how’s it going?” Lacy and Cindy lunched together on occasion and shared in-house gossip whenever the opportunity arose. They chatted while Cindy got the things together for Jane.

“I’m good, just busy,” Cindy said. “Lots to do before the sales meeting.”

“Any news?” Lacy asked.

“I heard Carol Lloyd in marketing is hot for Cash Simpson.”

This was not exactly a news flash. Much time was frittered in the halls of Scarsdale discussing Cash, who was not only the head of the sales department, but the best-looking heterosexual male at Scarsdale, not to mention a former winner of the Gawker’s “Hottest Straight Guy of Book Publishing” title.

“I’m headed up to the sales floor next,” Lacy said. “I plan to keep a sharp eye out.”

“Good luck with that.” Cindy giggled. “And if you get anywhere near him, be sure you have a big stick with you so you can fight off all the other women.”

As she traversed the sales floor Lacy did in fact keep an eye out for Cash Simpson. Despite the company policy forbidding cross dating and/or mating there were lots of in-house romances currently under way.

Beginning to realize just how long she’d been away from her desk, Lacy headed for the elevator and pushed the down arrow, slightly disappointed that she hadn’t had a single Cash sighting. She’d stepped on and was already reaching for the floor button when a male voice called out, “Hold that elevator.”

Lacy looked up to see none other than the hunky Cash Simpson covering the carpeted floor in long unhurried strides. His layered blond hair moved with him and he had a stylish-looking five o’clock shadow, even though it was barely 11:00 A.M.

“Thanks.” His voice was a baritone saved from complete cockiness by a note of warmth.

“No problem.” Lacy held the Door Open button as he stepped onto the elevator and promptly filled it up. Having been compared unfavorably to a string bean, Lacy’s height had always been an embarrassment, but next to the NFL-sized Cash, she felt practically petite.

“What floor?” Her voice came out in an embarrassing squeak of longing and attraction.

He gave her a closer look and she thanked God for making her wash and blow-dry her hair that morning. “Ground please.”

She pressed the appropriate button then turned her gaze on the numbers, waiting for what felt like an eternity for the doors to close. His cologne was masculine and compelling; his shoulders were as wide as a doorway and triangled down to a trim waist. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if washboard abs lay hidden beneath the cotton oxford shirt. For the first time since beginning at Scarsdale, she was in complete agreement with her boss: Cash Simpson was a great-looking guy with charisma oozing from every pore.

When nervous, Lacy felt a compulsion to babble. She fought this off valiantly for several floors, but didn’t hold out great hope for making it much longer without humiliating herself.

“Aren’t you going to a floor?” His question, with its underlying hint of amusement, got her attention.

“What?”

“I think you need to choose a floor or you’re going to end up on the ground floor with me.”

As if this would be a bad thing.

“Oh!” Lacy exclaimed in embarrassment. “Right!” She reached forward and pressed the four for editorial, only realizing after she’d done so that they’d already passed the fourth floor.

He was studying her openly now and with a surprising level of interest. Despite her height, Lacy tended to think of herself as easily overlooked. (Who really looked at a string bean?) But his appreciative gaze made her feel giddily attractive.

“You look familiar, but I don’t think we’ve met,” he said as another floor sped by. “I’m Cash Simpson. What department are you in?”

“Editorial.” She shoved her hand out toward him like some overly zealous business type. “I’m Lacy Samuels. I’m Jane Jensen’s assistant,” she said, wishing she had a title that would make her sound more experienced or important. Her hand in his conducted way more electricity than she was used to, and she hurriedly removed it.

“So you’re Jane’s new slave.” He smiled and there was a teasing note of sympathy in his voice.

“That’s me.” She looked into his eyes, trying to assess his allegiance to her boss. “I’ve learned a lot from her already,” she said carefully.
How to gauge her mood . . . how to duck . . . how to . . .

“Well, you’re still standing,” he said. “So I’ll take that to mean you come from sturdy stock.” The eyes were glittering now and she wondered if he knew Jane had a crush on him.

The elevator’s free fall slowed as the numeral two for the second floor lit briefly then went out. Soon he’d be walking off the elevator and she’d barely done more than stammer out her name. Say something, you dolt, she commanded herself; something that will set you apart and make him remember you.

“I
am
from sturdy stock,” she said, as the elevator yanked to a halt on the ground floor. “Good old Russian peasant stock. Why, we’d work the fields until it was time to drop our babies right there, and then get right back to tilling the soil without missing a beat.”

His look of surprise was close to comical and inspired her to blunder on. “Of course, we don’t do that nearly as often as we used to.” She swallowed, suddenly aware of exactly what she’d just said. “Give birth in the fields, I mean.”

She barely bit back her groan of embarrassment as the elevator doors slid open, but unexpectedly, miraculously, he threw back his head and laughed, a great unselfconscious guffaw that somehow made him even more attractive.

“I’ll remember that, Lacy Samuels,” he said as he prepared to step off the elevator. “And I’ll tread very carefully the next time we’re in a field together.”

He was still chuckling when he exited the elevator and strode out into the marbled lobby. Lacy rode the elevator in humiliated silence. All the way back up to the floor from which she’d begun.

23

—F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

 

 

 

For Kendall the remainder of the week both flew and dragged. She’d completed the first chapter of
Sticks and Stones
and e-mailed it to the others for their critique and to help set them up for the scenes they would write. Tonight they’d have a conference call to discuss the book in more detail now that everyone’s character sketches and backstories were complete—all of them much more intriguing than Kendall had expected.

Chapter two, like chapter one, would be written from her character, Kennedy’s, point of view, and would cover the day of the awards ceremony. All Kendall had to do was close her eyes to remember the dread and panic coupled with that tiny ray of hope that had lain like a dead weight in her stomach.

What she needed to do was mine the pain, but it wasn’t easy to find the strength required to relive such unpleasantness. The more she thought about it, pictured it, tried to frame the best words to describe it, the more she longed for the feel of a hammer in her hand and the distraction of directions to follow.

Mallory sat outside on the deck checking e-mail and preparing for tonight’s conference call, though Kendall couldn’t help noticing that this was interspersed with long sessions spent staring out over the valley.

Kendall sat at the kitchen table dreading what she had to write. Normally the personal things that found their way into her work had been processed over time; the pain already deadened to a manageable level. But Kendall was still living this story and she had no distance or perspective to cushion or protect her.

And what would happen when Mallory left tomorrow? Who would make her sit down and work? Who would withhold her tool belt until her page quota had been met? Who would commiserate with her? Who would sit next to her patting her hand ineffectually while she cried?

She calmed herself with a replay of her recent conversation with Calvin, once again taking great pleasure in his bellows of outrage over Anne Justiss’s opening salvos.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he’d shrieked when she answered the phone. “That woman is a total ball buster!”

“That’s ball squeezer,” she’d wanted to retort, but she’d kept quiet, enjoying his discomfiture too much to interrupt it. “You told me to hire an attorney, Calvin,” she said reasonably, knowing this would irk him even more. “You didn’t really expect me to hire someone your attorney could walk all over, did you?”

He’d sputtered and raved for a while afterward, but Kendall knew that was exactly what he’d expected. He’d believed she’d simply step back and expedite what he wanted, like she’d always done, but as he ranted incoherently Kendall had vowed that her doormat days were over.

“I’ve invited the kids up here for the weekend,” she said, once he’d sputtered to a halt. “And I’m not planning to say anything about . . . us . . . until more of the details are worked out. I don’t see any reason to jeopardize their finals or ruin the holidays for them.”

There was more cursing, but she realized that while she still disliked the language, it no longer had the power to move her. And neither did Calvin.

“If you want to tell them you can go ahead,” she said. “And while you’re at it, maybe you should explain Laura and her plans for the only home they’ve ever known.”

This suggestion was greeted with a stony silence, as she’d known it would be. Calvin would expend considerable energy trying to push her to do the dirty work, but he didn’t have the courage to do it himself. Especially if it would make him look bad.

“You might want to get the house picked up in case either of them wants to come home. Or maybe you can talk Laura into doing it.” She realized with some surprise that she was beginning to enjoy herself. Not caring what Calvin thought was wonderfully freeing. “If they come home and see that mess, they’ll know something’s wrong.”

“And you don’t think the fact that we’re living in two different places might clue them in to that?” he’d sneered.

“Suspecting and knowing are two different things,” she said, with a certainty born of experience. “I mean, look what it took for me to accept the truth about you.”