Blind Submission Page 13

  “Well, it would be great to meet you,” I said at last. “When were you thinking of coming by?”

  “I’m coming from the city,” he said, “so it takes me a while to get to you. The traffic, the bridge, you never know. So I’ll be there sometime this afternoon.”

  “Okay, I’ll let Lucy know,” I said, although I had no intention of doing so. I didn’t want Anna to hear, either, and had lowered my voice to a near-whisper. “Do you need directions?”

  “Not to worry, Angel,” he said. “I know where you are. Ciao, bella.”

  “Who was that?” Anna asked as soon as I’d hung up, but I pretended not to hear her and picked up the phone again. My intercom line was flashing. Lucy had been silent long enough.

  “Hi, Lucy.”

  “Angel, have you spoken to Karanuk yet? I’d like a status report on that.”

  “Not yet, Lucy. The phones have been crazy today.”

  “Prioritize, Angel,” she barked, and hung up.

  I hated to admit it to myself, but I was scared to call Karanuk. Despite what Lucy had said about him being “only a writer,” I was intimidated by the very thought of him. What could I possibly say that would be helpful to someone of his literary stature? I had no idea what approach I was supposed to take with him. I could try fawning and cajoling, which would be preferable to a tongue-tied stammer, I supposed, but that didn’t seem to be what Lucy had in mind. At any other time, the opportunity to speak to Karanuk would have seemed to me like a great honor. At this point, however, it was another fumble in a dark room.

  As I dialed, I clung to the hope that I’d get voice mail or even an assistant, but no. Karanuk answered his own phone on the first ring with a simple but firm, “Karanuk.”

  “Hi, Karanuk?” (Mr. Karanuk? I had no idea.) “This is Angel Robinson? I’m Lucy Fiamma’s new assistant? Lucy asked me to call you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Yes…what? I thought, but forged ahead, anyway. “Lucy’s very excited about your new book and she wanted me to ask you how—I mean when—she’ll be able to take a look at the manuscript?”

  “I don’t have anything to show her,” he said abruptly. I was sure he was going to hang up on me.

  “Okay, do you know when you might have something? I think what she meant was just an outline or proposal, not the whole thing, of course.”

  Karanuk laughed, the first display of any kind of emotion since we’d begun talking. For a laugh, however, it didn’t have much mirth. Like his voice, it was deep and strong, but devoid of accent or inflection. For someone who wrote as eloquently as he did, that absence of feeling seemed very odd. Which reminded me that I’d said nothing to him about his work.

  “I’m a huge fan of Cold!, by the way,” I said hurriedly. “It’s one of the best books I’ve ever read.”

  There was a brief silence and then he said, “I live in Los Angeles. I’m not very cold anymore. Things are much warmer here and much different. My shape has shifted. I’m suffering the fate of a Klondike bar in the Sahara. There has been a melting process. Additives…plastic components…One does not know which way to proceed.”

  So he was off his head like almost every other author, I thought. But he’d given me an opening and I felt the jolt of an idea zip through my head.

  “Oh, is that the theme of the new book?” I asked. “It’s terrific. Displacement. Loss of self. Man out of his element. Disconnection from culture and reality under the hot sun of…of…”

  “Celebrity,” he said, and paused for a beat or two. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Angel.”

  “Angel,” he repeated. “You are her assistant? She has had many assistants. She needs much assistance.”

  “Yes, I’ve been here about…” I couldn’t remember how long I’d been working for Lucy. Five minutes? Forever? They were the same thing here. “I’ve been here awhile.”

  “And you are a writer yourself?” he asked.

  “Oh no, no. No. I don’t write at all.”

  “But you know how a writer thinks,” he said.

  “Well…”

  “I will send you pages. You can tell her that.”

  “That’s great! If I can be of any help at all, please let me know.”

  “You have been of help already. That’s why I am sending the pages to you.”

  “Great! And the working title is Warmer, is that right?”

  Karanuk let out another mirthless laugh. “No,” he said. “This book does not have a title. That’s her title. If I wanted, I could compile an entire book with her proposed titles.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, it sounds fantastic. We can’t wait to see it.” As I hung up, I realized that, like Gordon Hart, Karanuk had not once referred to Lucy by name. Their relationship was obviously a very complicated one, and I didn’t want to spend time trying to figure it out. Instead, I allowed myself a minute to revel in the pure excitement of the fact that I’d soon be reading a new work by Karanuk before anyone else. There was a new title forming in my mind already. Thaw. I hoped he’d like it.

  “Angel!” My intercom shrieked, punching a hole in the first moment of silence we’d had all day. “My office. Now.” I stood up too fast and knocked into my desk, bumping my forgotten cup of coffee and spilling it all over my pants.

  “Shit,” I hissed. Anna and Craig swiveled their heads simultaneously to look at me. I caught the shadow of a smile forming on Anna’s lips. Craig raised his eyebrows in surprise. As if cursing were a novelty around here, I thought.

  “Angel!” she shouted again, and I ran to her office, the scent of old cappuccino rising off me in waves.

  “I asked you about Karanuk,” she barked before I could get all the way through the door. “What is the status, Angel?”

  “I just spoke to him,” I said.

  “And?” She sat at her desk, imperiously straight, tapping her Waterman pen against a stack of notepads.

  “He’s sending pages.”

  “He’s what?” Lucy got up and walked around to where I was standing, not stopping until she came within inches of my face. Her closeness was unnerving. I felt cold and naked in her gaze of lusty anticipation.

  “He’s sending us pages for the new book. He didn’t say how much, but he asked me to tell you that he’s sending it in soon.”

  “Really, did he,” she said, but it was not a question. “And did he happen to tell you what his idea for this book is?”

  “Um, yes, he’s writing about his experiences since leaving Alaska and how that has changed his life.”

  “How did you manage that, Angel?” Lucy’s voice had dropped considerably and was softer than I’d ever heard it. I watched myriad expressions dance across her face like shifting clouds. In her eyes, which were boring into me with laserlike precision, there was surprise, something that looked like pleasure, a hint of annoyance, and self-satisfaction all at once. It was as if she couldn’t decide to be angry or pleased that I’d done exactly what she’d asked me to do. Before I could answer her, though, she seemed to catch herself and draw all the emotion out of her features. “Good,” she said. “I’ll expect it shortly, then.” She inhaled and wrinkled her nose. “What is that awful smell?”

  I looked down at my wet-stained pants. “I had an accident with my coffee,” I said, attempting a smile.

  “That’s disgusting,” she said, backing away from me and heading back to her desk. “Children have accidents, Angel. Have Nora get you some soda water or something when she goes out for the mail.”

  If only she hadn’t mentioned it. Now I was stuck having to be the messenger. “About Nora,” I said. “She’s gone.”

  “Well, send her out again when she gets back. What’s the problem?”

  “No, she’s gone for the day. I mean, she’s gone for good. I think she quit. She took all her things….” I was frozen in place by Lucy’s stare of unvarnished bitterness.

  “These girls,” she spat. “And after all I’ve done for her. You have no idea w
hat 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 an
d 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: ganovelist@heya.com

  From: angel.robinson@fiammalit.com

  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.