Buried in a Book (2 page)

The last time I rode the Express was with ten-year-old Trey on a special birthday trip to visit my mother. The interior was the same as I remembered, with red plush seats, carved wooden armrests, and small crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. I was delighted to see that the train still maintained a white-gloved porter who pushed a pastry cart through the aisles, distributing chocolate croissants on china plates and pouring coffee from a silver carafe. It brought to mind the Orient Express, and for a moment, I imagined I was steaming toward Zurich or Istanbul as Hercule Poirot interviewed murder suspects over a cup of tea.

Smiling, I stared out the window and tried to absorb the fact that I would soon be a literary agent. Trees whipped past in blurs of green interspersed with splotches of bright
blooms, and I soaked in the kaleidoscope of colors. Hazy mountains ascended in the distance, and the gentle rocking of the train allowed my mind to wander. Finally, I pulled my attention away from the scenery, opened my folder containing information on Novel Idea, and began reading.

I discovered that my new boss, Bentley Burlington-Duke, was instrumental in revitalizing Inspiration Valley. Years ago, when my mother moved to the tiny hamlet, it was called Illumination Valley and was a tourist trap for New Agers. Althea, my mother, found it was the perfect place for a psychic to set up shop. But when both the Yoga and Meditation Center and the House of Holistic Healing went bankrupt during one of the country’s worst recessions, the rest of the town began to die.

Therefore, it was no surprise that when Bentley bought up a prime piece of property in the middle of town to establish her agency, the locals welcomed her with open arms. She motivated other business owners and friends to relocate, and soon the town was reenergized and renamed. Despite her success as a Manhattan-based agent, Bentley was determined to return to her country roots and establish the finest literary agency south of the Mason-Dixon Line. According to my online research, Novel Idea had quickly become one of the nation’s top agencies and Bentley had lured away several top-notch New York agents who now proudly called North Carolina home.

Before I had finished reading the agency’s dossier, the whistle blew and we pulled into Inspiration Valley Station. Stepping off the train, I inhaled deeply and looked around. I knew exactly where to go, having read that the Novel Idea Literary Agency took up the second floor of a prestigious office building on High Street.

I loved High Street. It was a narrow cobblestone road that only allowed pedestrian traffic. Lined by cherry trees and ceramic urns overflowing with vibrant annuals, it called to mind a picturesque village in the English countryside. I knew Inspiration Valley well, as my mother lived on the outskirts of the isolated hamlet, but I’d never imagined I might be one of its inhabitants. It seemed like an enchanted place, set aside for those blessed with high levels of creativity. Having written nonfiction my entire life, I felt a bit like an imposter in a town filled with artists, writers, bakers, gardeners, and the merchants who catered to them.

I deliberately headed for the middle of High Street where it intersected with Dogwood Lane, because I wanted to cut through the charming little park that stood in the heart of town. Well-tended garden beds surrounded a gurgling fountain rimmed with cobalt tiles. Sculptures of nine beautiful women in classical Greek dress stood inside the fountain, their lithe bodies frozen in graceful poses. Some of Inspiration Valley’s residents perched on the fountain’s edge with their coffees and newspapers, relishing the company of the famous muses who permanently bathed beneath arcs of soft rainbows and the water’s gentle spray.

I didn’t have time to toss a lucky penny in the fountain today. Hustling into the spacious lobby of the building where the Novel Idea Literary Agency was housed, I was greeted by the delightful smell of brewing coffee and chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. I realized that I’d discovered a side entrance to Espresso Yourself, Inspiration Valley’s sole coffee shop. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows in the lobby and I couldn’t help but smile.

Talk about a job perk. I pictured myself beginning each morning with a caramel latte and a croissant.

“Let’s actually make it through a day of work first,” I chided myself. Taking a deep breath, I smoothed my skirt and hurried up a set of wide, sweeping stairs that led to a well-lit reception area. A leather sofa, two plump club chairs, and a polished mahogany coffee table dominated the empty room.

On its slick surface, books had been arranged in a perfect circle around a slim vase of calla lilies. I took a moment to examine the titles. If the Novel Idea Literary Agency represented all the authors on that table, then I had stepped into a workplace representing a remarkably diverse group of writers. From Idiot’s Guides to erotic romance to graphic horror novels, no genre seemed to be off-limits. Excitement surged within me. I felt as though I already belonged.

There was no receptionist’s desk, only a small table stacked with manila folders, unsorted mail, and a telephone. A sign said, “Dial 1 to announce your presence.” Ignoring the instruction, because Ms. Burlington-Duke had told me to come straight to her office, I hesitantly made my way down the main corridor, noting the agent names on brass placards on every closed door. Suddenly, a door to my right opened and a very short, very round woman in a floral dress ran right into me. She bounced backward with a high giggle.

“Oops! Silly me!” Her round cheeks flushed pink. “Can I help you, dear?”

The woman reminded me of the librarian at Trey’s elementary school. With a big, soft body and a generous heart, she, too, had favored flowered dresses and orthopedic footwear. The entire student body adored her.

“I’m the new intern,” I answered and then added, doubtfully, “Are you Ms. Burlington-Duke?”

The woman guffawed, her bosom jiggling in mirth. “No,
dear. I’m Flora Meriweather. I handle the children’s and young adult acquisitions. See?” She gestured inside her office.

Leaning over the threshold, I took in a whitewashed wooden desk covered by disheveled stacks of paper, a Tiffany-style lamp, and a computer. There was a butter yellow file cabinet in the corner and a set of forest green bookshelves lining the longest wall. As for the walls themselves, they had been hand painted to resemble the art of a famous children’s book illustrator. I waited for the name to surface in my brain. “Tasha Tudor?”

Flora was delighted. “You’re the first intern to recognize her work!” She clapped her pudgy hands. “Oh, I think this means you’re meant to be here.”

I could have hugged her, but I restrained myself and settled for a grateful smile. “I hope so. My name’s Lila.”

“Oh, that sounds just like a storybook character! Maybe a fairy or a flower princess.” Her merry face dimpled with pleasure. “Do you read children’s books?”

I thought back to the days when I used to read aloud to Trey. “When my son was little, he was crazy about the Hardy Boys and anything by Roald Dahl, but the books we read over and over were Judy Blume’s
Superfudge
and Beverly Cleary’s
Ramona the Brave
.” I traveled down memory lane even further. “Personally, I loved the
Little House on the Prairie
books.”

Flora clapped her hands with glee. “I recently sold a series of chapter books called Laura Ingalls, Prairie Detective. Anyone who ever liked Laura Ingalls or Nancy Drew will just yum these books up!”

“They do sound wonderful,” I agreed.

“Come this way, my dear. Bentley’s in her office, neck-deep in contract negotiations.” She lowered her voice. “She’s working on a major deal for a thriller writer. The man’s desperately been trying to get published for years, and it seems he’s finally penned a winner! Bentley says he’ll be even bigger than Patterson. His name is Carson Knight. Wait until you meet him. He’s so charming he’d cause a catfight among the Disney Princesses.”

We stopped at the end of the hallway. Flora wished me luck and hastily retreated. With her last words hanging in the air, I couldn’t shake the image of Snow White pulling Sleeping Beauty’s hair or Belle biting Cinderella on the hand. Once composed, I knocked on the door.

“Enter!” an authoritative voice ordered.

I stepped into the president’s office.

It was all glass, chrome, and black. A large, black-framed, arched window covered most of the wall facing the door. In one corner, three black leather chairs surrounded a round glass table with chrome legs, upon which sat three tidy and very tall stacks of paper. The austere white wall was broken up with a series of black-and-white abstracts framed in chrome. Black bookshelves with glass doors lined the opposite wall.

This was definitely not meant to resemble the work of Tasha Tudor. More like Ansel Adams.

Dominating the room was a sleek glass desk with a chrome lamp in one corner, a black phone in the other, and a laptop computer in the center. Behind it sat a tall, thin woman wearing a tailored peach-colored suit—the only color in the room. Her dark hair, cut short with a line of razor-straight bangs, accentuated well-defined cheekbones.
Perched on the end of her nose was a pair of diamond-studded half-moon glasses connected to a gold jeweled chain.

Ms. Bentley Burlington-Duke.

She had a decade on me and sat in her chair with the regality of a queen. Attired in a suit that likely cost as much as one of my mortgage payments, she radiated refinement and wealth. I reminded myself that I was a seasoned reporter and this agency was lucky to have me.

“Hello, I’m Lila Wilkins.” To my relief, I sounded cool and collected. “We spoke on the phone. I’m the new intern.”

“Sit.” She waved her hand at the chrome and leather chair opposite the desk.

Perching myself on the edge of the seat, I smoothed my skirt over my knees and wondered what task I’d be given for my first assignment.

Bentley typed a few more words, then closed the laptop and took off her glasses. They hung around her neck like an art deco necklace. She folded her arms and studied me. “In order to become a literary agent, you need to be able to read a query letter and instantly determine three things. One, can the author actually write? Consider voice, diction, pacing, and the use of correct grammar. Two, is there a market for the author’s idea? Three, is the author sensible and professional or a narcissistic, daydreaming drip? Here.” She slid a piece of paper across the desk. “One of these paragraphs was written by a current client. The other is by an unpublished writer who, if I had my druthers, would remain unpublished until the end of time. You tell me which is which.”

I reached over and picked up the paper. Slightly
perplexed to be given an examination within minutes of my arrival, I started reading.

Was my new boss joking? The difference between the two paragraphs was so obvious I almost grinned. Looking up at her I said, “Query B was written by your client.”

“Well done,” Bentley said, though the agency head didn’t seem too dazzled by my powers of deduction. She pushed three fat tomes across the desk and stood. “These reference books will provide guidelines as to what makes a good query. Read them on your own time. Starting now, you will fulfill a quota of one hundred queries per day along with doing a critical read-through of two or three proposals as well as an assortment of other tasks. Because our last intern was rather inefficient, we have a shocking backlog of queries in our email inbox as well as in hardcopy form.”

She paused, using her slim hands to mime a mountainous stack of papers. “I am only interested in stellar queries,” she continued. “Once your laptop arrives, you can email those to me. As far as the rejections, you’re responsible for emailing out a form letter to each author. Be sure to keep electronic files for the rejects and the possibilities. For now, you’ll have to organize hard copies in folders and deliver the possibilities directly to the appropriate agent.” She walked around her desk and shook my hand. “Welcome to the Novel Idea Literary Agency, Lily.”

“It’s Lila,” I corrected, but my new boss appeared not to have heard. She breezed out of the office, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Befuddled, I retraced my steps to Flora’s office. “I’d like to ask you something. Do you happen to know the location of my desk?”

Flora giggled, her multiple chins wobbling in mirth. “The first one you lay eyes on when you come up the stairs to our reception area, sweetie. Bentley will give you a real desk
and a laptop on Monday. She wants to make sure you’re really coming back before she sets you up at your own station. For now, I’m afraid you only get a cup holder filled with pens and a few file folders.”

“Thank you,” I told her and headed back down the hall.