Blind Submission Page 6

  I paused at the door for only a millisecond. That was how long it took me to decide not to tell Lucy that the two books were figments of her imagination and not the author’s. What did it matter? If she wanted two more books, he’d have to write them.

  Damiano Vero had listed three phone numbers on his cover letter. The first gave me a busy signal and the second rang with no answer. I finally tracked him down on the third.

  “Ècco, sì!” he exclaimed when I announced myself. “But I just sent it. So fast you are.”

  I smiled into the phone, thinking that this was the first happy phone conversation I’d had all day. “Lucy would like to talk to you,” I said. “Can you hold a moment while I put you through?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Lucy, I’ve got Damiano Vero on Line 1 for you.”

  “Who?”

  “Damiano Ve—The Italian book?”

  “Oh, him. Well, put him through, Angel. You’re wasting time.”

  I sighed to myself as I punched the necessary buttons. At least, I thought, she didn’t seem to have very good short-term memory when it came to my first-day screwups. My stomach growled and twisted, having had nothing to digest since the banana I put in it six hours before. After she’d polished off her entire box of protein powder, Nora left the office briefly to go collect the mail. Nobody else had made any kind of movement to take lunch outside the office, although Anna had pulled out a messy, smelly meat-laden sandwich and was eating it noisily at her desk. She felt my eyes on her and looked up at me.

  “We don’t take a lunch break here,” she said. “I hope you brought something with you.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “So, no, I didn’t.”

  Anna shrugged and took a large bite out of her sandwich. Something that looked like mayonnaise oozed from the bread. She was still chewing when her intercom buzzed.

  “Yeth, Luthy?”

  “Anna, is your mouth full or do you have a cold? If you are ill, make sure you wipe down the phone after you use it. I shouldn’t have to tell you. I need an agency contract for Damiano Vero now, please. And tell Angel to pick up Line 1 and talk to him.”

  “Angel,” Anna said, nearly choking as she swallowed, “you need to—”

  “Thanks, I’ve got it.” I picked up my phone. “Hi, Mr. Vero. This is Angel.”

  “Please call me Dami,” he said. “It’s more easy.”

  “Okay. It’s great to meet you. I really like Parco Lambro. I don’t know if Lucy told you. It’s very exciting.”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Very exciting. I had a good feeling about Luciana. I knew she would be the best person for this book. And she tells me that we will be working together, you and I. You are going to make some changes for me?”

  “Yes, we talked about that. Of course, I’ll just make suggestions and then whatever seems right to you…”

  “Bène. Luciana gave me your phone number at home, but I think maybe we could meet at some point?”

  Luciana? My home phone number? “Sure, that would be great. I can call you….”

  “Bène. I look forward to it. Mille grazie, Angel. Good-bye for now.”

  Before I could replace the phone in its cradle, my computer chirped with the sound of an instant message. I looked over at the rectangle of blue text and saw that the initials of the sender were AA. Anna.

  Did she tell you about St. Lucy? the message read.

  Did who tell me? I wrote back. I looked over at Anna. She was bent over her desk, looking very busy, clacking away at her keyboard. My computer sounded off again with another message:

  LF. She likes to tell the new staff how St. Lucy is one of the patron saints of writers. They tried to burn St. Lucy but she was flame-proof. They had to stab her in the throat to kill her. She was Italian.

  No, she didn’t tell me, I wrote back.

  I just thought it might help you with that Italian author, Anna responded.

  I briefly entertained the notion that Anna might be insane and was debating a possible response to her last message (“thank you” just didn’t seem appropriate) when Nora approached me with a large plastic tub full to the top with manuscripts and query letters.

  “Lucy wants you to sort this,” she said. “It’s usually my job, but she wants you to get familiar with the submissions.”

  “These are just today’s submissions?”

  “It’s not bad, really,” Nora sniffed. “There are only about fifty today. Sometimes we get close to a hundred.” She smiled. It was an expression that looked both awkward and foreign on her face. “Have fun,” she said.

  ANNA DROPPED A MANUSCRIPT on my desk, where it landed with a plop and a rush of air. “This is my reading for last night. It’s a reject, but you should look it over. Lucy likes to get second opinions. I’m outta here, so I guess your training’s done for the day. You can probably go now, too.” I looked down at the manuscript and then up at the clock, subtracting three hours. It was six o’clock and my eyes were stinging. A hunger headache throbbed at the back of my head. Nora was gone. I could hear Craig’s voice sounding from behind Lucy’s door.

  “Yes,” I said, and gathered my purse, Parco Lambro notes, and several manuscripts to review, including the one that Anna had just dropped on me. “I have to eat something. I think I’m going to pass out.” But I was talking to an empty room. Anna was out the door before I could finish my sentence. She had also left me without explaining what, if anything, I was supposed to do to close up or finish out the day. With a sudden rush of resentment, I realized that everything I had learned over the course of my extraordinarily long first day, I’d figured out for myself—in spite of, not because of, Anna’s so-called “training.” I tried to formulate a plan for how I would approach Anna, Nora, and even Craig in the coming days to elicit a little more help, but my brain was too hungry and tired to give shape to a single thought.

  I stood up to leave, but a low-blood-sugar head rush kept me from moving until I could steady myself. The phone rang, loud in the now-silent office, cutting through my dizziness. Answer it. Don’t answer it. If only I’d left a half minute earlier.

  “Hello, Lucy Fiamma Agency.”

  There was static coming through the receiver and then a small voice speaking, it sounded like, from far away. “Ah, ook.”

  “Hello? Can I help you? Hello?”

  “Ka.” Crackle, hiss. “Oo.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. Hello?” There was more crackling and an extended hiss on the line. I was about to hang up when I heard it, faint but clear.

  “Karanuk.”

  “Karanuk? Yes, please, yes, one moment please, just one moment.”

  I didn’t bother trying to buzz Lucy with the intercom, opting, instead, to run to her office, knock rapidly on the closed door, and open it without waiting for a response. Lucy was seated at her desk, looking as fresh as if she’d just started her day. Craig was kneeling next to her (yes, kneeling), holding out papers for her to look at.

  “Angel?”

  “Karanuk,” I blurted. “Karanuk’s on Line 1 for you.” Lucy lifted one of her boomerang-shaped eyebrows and stared at me, puzzled. “It’s not a very good connection,” I ran on. “He must be calling from Alaska. He’s holding.”

  “Angel,” Lucy said, “Karanuk lives in Los Angeles.”

  “Oh, okay. Um, he’s on Line 1. And I’m going to go home now. Thank you.”

  Lucy shook her head, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing, and picked up the phone.

  “Thank you, Angel,” Craig boomed, rising from his position on the floor. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  I backed out the door, gathered my manuscripts, and ran from the office as if my hair were on fire. Stupid, I cursed myself as I got into my car and drove home. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I thought as I unlocked my door and sat down on my bed. Idiot, I added, as I spread the manuscripts out in front of me and prepared to go through them. Although I’d relived the last five minutes of
my day at least twenty times on my way home, I still couldn’t believe that I’d been stupid enough to barge into Lucy’s office, stammering like a fool. There was a dull but insistent ringing in my head. On balance, I thought, I hadn’t given a particularly stellar performance for my first day. I wondered, not for the first time, if I would even last the week. The ringing in my head persisted. I looked up. It was my phone.

  “Hello, Lu—Um, hello?”

  “Angel!” Lucy’s voice slammed through the phone, hitting my brain like a mallet.

  “Lucy?”

  “Listen, dear, we hardly had a chance to chat and get acquainted today. You ran out of here so quickly.” She gave a short, coughlike laugh.

  “I know, I’m—”

  “Anyway, dear, I wanted to welcome you and tell you that I think you have tremendous potential as a team player in our agency. Really, tremendous. I’m very pleased with your work on the Italian book and I think this is only the beginning. You’ve got a good eye and this is something we’ve been sorely lacking.”

  “Thank you,” I said, exhaling the breath I’d been holding.

  “And because there’s been a lack in that area,” she went on, “I want you to review all the submissions very carefully. You know, Anna’s very sweet and she means well, but she clearly doesn’t have your eye. I worry about what we’re missing with her. Do you understand?”

  “Um…” I glanced down at the rejected manuscript Anna had given me. Her reader’s report was clipped to the top and started with, This is a stupid idea. And boring.

  “So just entre nous, Angel, keep a close watch on what she’s doing, all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Perhaps you can come in a little earlier tomorrow morning and we can have a quick meeting before the rest of the staff arrives. Because, frankly, Angel, I really can’t spend this much time on the phone with you. I have dinner reservations.”

  “Sure, Lucy. No problem.”

  “You’ve brought the Italian book home with you?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve got it—”

  “Fabulous. I’m so excited about this book, Angel. See if you can make some inroads on it tonight. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

  “Okay.”

  “Again, I’m so pleased that you’re joining us, Angel. I knew you were sharp the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “Thank—”

  “Just one more thing, Angel, and then I really must go. I realize that today was your first day and all, but I must insist that you dress a little more professionally. There’s no need for a business suit or anything that formal, but I believe that jeans are too casual and send the wrong message. So no more jeans, all right, Angel?”

  “No more jeans,” I repeated thickly.

  “Fabulous. I’ll see you in the morning. Early. Good-bye, dear.”

  I replaced my phone in its cradle, tenderly, as if it were a newborn. The last thing I wanted was for it to wake up and start ringing again. I picked up the manuscript that Anna had so summarily rejected and stared at it, the words blurring in front of my tired eyes. For the first time that I could remember, I had a fully formed desire for an alcoholic beverage. But I had no time to think about when or where I might get one because, to my horror, the handle to my front door was turning, opening, and someone was walking in.

  A handsome blond man stood in front of me, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and what looked like a very large manuscript in the other.

  “Baby!” he said. “How was your first day?”

  Malcolm. For a second, I hadn’t even recognized him.

  THREE

  Lucy Fiamma

  Lucy Fiamma Literary Agency

  Dear Ms. Fiamma,

  I am a writer seeking representation for my first novel, titled ELVIS WILL DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING. As per your recommendation in the guide to literary agents, I am enclosing the first fifty pages of the novel, a synopsis, and a self-addressed stamped envelope for your response. The entire novel is available if you’d like me to send it.

  Although this is my first novel, I have published several short stories in literary journals over the last few years. Most recently, my stories have appeared in Elephant Cage Quarterly and Flabbergasted. I would be happy to furnish you with copies at your request. I am a graduate of the MFA writing program at California University. ELVIS WILL DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING was originally written as my master’s thesis, but I have since revised it substantially.

  The novel is about a road trip that takes place over a twenty-four-hour period of time. The two main characters, Michael and Jennifer, drive from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, get married, and drive home again. They are a young couple and know very little about each other as they begin their journey into matrimony. Over the course of the novel, several secrets are revealed and they learn a great deal about themselves and about each other.

  I understand that your time is valuable, so I’ll keep my letter brief and hope that the writing will speak for itself. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely,

  Shelly Franklin

  ELVIS WILL DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING

  By Shelly Franklin

  Chapter 1

  Michael’s eyes are the color of phosphorescent algae. They are so bright and so green that as Jennifer opens the back door and walks in, she speculates for a moment that the color is chemically induced. But love, Jennifer thinks, can do this too. Her thought is a bright spark in the darkened room. So, this glow is from love. This is what Jennifer chooses to believe as she approaches the man who will soon be her husband.

  He is sitting in near dark and the TV is on without sound. He’s left the windows open and the September air is warm and moist coming through the screen. Jennifer doesn’t wonder why he has turned out all the lights. She knows he uses the TV like some people use food. For him, it’s a nurturing lifeline. She glances quickly at the TV and recognizes a home shopping channel. An under-fed woman in red is selling golden angels on a chain for under twenty dollars.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Jennifer says, kissing Michael on the cheek.

  “It’s all right, Jen,” Michael says, his voice a pan of melted butter. “We’ve got plenty of time. Las Vegas never sleeps.”

  Jennifer puts her arms around Michael’s neck. His ocean eyes shine up at her and his mouth curves up into a smile. “Nervous?” she asks. She keeps her tone light because she can smell the fear on him, subtle but biting.

  “Yeah,” he says. His hands find a place in the small of her back and press in. “Aren’t you?”

  No, Jennifer thinks. She’s not nervous. She’s never been more sure of anything in her life. She says, “Do you have the rings?”

  “I’ve got the rings, Jennifer. And, more importantly, I’ve got the car. Did you see the car?” He presses his lips on the side of her neck. He smells of the cigarettes he supposedly quit smoking three weeks ago and the mints he’s chewed to disguise them. She can also detect the faint but unmistakable odor of alcohol.

  “The car?” she asks.

  “Go look outside,” he says.

  Jennifer breaks his grip, walks slowly over to the window. There is a candy-apple red Corvette sitting in the driveway. Even in the dark, it glows like a Pacific sunset.

  “What’s all this, Michael?”

  “You like it?” He is smiling wide enough to swallow a small lake. “I rented it. For tonight.”

  “Why?” Jennifer asks him.

  “Isn’t it beautiful? I figure if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. A classic car for a classic American experience. A wedding in Las Vegas. What do you say?”

  Jennifer wants to be as enthusiastic as he is over this car, but she can’t quite catch the same thrill.

  Still she says, “It’s great, Michael. When does it have to be back?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Jennifer raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Well then, cowboy,” she says. “We’d better get going.”

  Title: ELVIS WILL
DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING

  Author: Shelly Franklin

  Genre: Fiction

  Reader: Anna

  This is a stupid idea. And boring. The title is awful. The author has an MFA and she has had some things published in literary magazines, but otherwise no credits. This is a first novel. It’s about a couple who drive to Las Vegas to get married. I don’t think anything else happens. It’s very slow and it’s a dumb premise. The writing is dry and not evocative. I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know why Elvis is in the title. She doesn’t say if she’s sent it to any other agents, but I don’t think it matters. This isn’t our kind of thing. My recommendation is to reject.

  Title: ELVIS WILL DANCE AT YOUR WEDDING

  Author: Shelly Franklin

  Genre: Fiction

  Reader: Angel

  Author is a graduate of the California University writing program, which has been producing many bestselling writers over the last few years, so I gave this (originally her thesis) a close read. I actually like the title. I know it’s a bit wacky, but the novel is about getting married in Las Vegas. Who better than Elvis in the title? I also like the writing here. The author sets up a certain tension right away so we know, as readers, that there are already problems between these two people and that getting married might be a mistake. I didn’t find the writing dry—quite the opposite. I read the synopsis and it’s clear that the author knows where she’s going with this material. She has a definite plot and structure, both of which will work, in my opinion. The only possible problem I see is that the novel is written largely in the present tense. Although this works in terms of keeping us in the moment (and the novel does take place over the course of one day), it’s also a bit confining and could become a little claustrophobic. However, I think this is easy enough to remedy if the author is willing to rewrite. I think there is potential here for a good book about contemporary relationships—always a topic of interest. I’d recommend contacting her right away to make sure she hasn’t gone anywhere else with this and asking to see the complete manuscript.