Chapter 12

What is fame?
The advantage of being known by people
of whom you yourself know nothing,
and for whom you care as little.
Lord Byron

I’ve set the alarm early, washed my hair and straightened the frizz, then put soft folds back in with the wide curling iron. I dress. I don Donald J. Pliner – designed sandals, purchased in Spain, to make my feet look elegant. It feels good to be taking the next step.

Spiky heels, straight legged jeans that could be designer but aren’t, a grey silk top with a swoopy collar, and a Spanish shawl in purple and peach finish off my ensemble. I look pretty classy for Chicago on an October morning. But will Oprah’s chef want “classy,” or will he want “sizzling, evocative, distinctive,” words that could describe qualities of character as well as food? Maybe he looks for “studious and intense.”

I decide to stay with classy chic so he’ll know I’m a professional, truly serious about cuisine but also appearing well-heeled enough in my Pliners that I might be worthy of remembering and maybe, just maybe, I’ll catch a glance of Oprah in the studio next door. Ho-Bee’s in his kennel for the day. I hate to leave him, but I head down the elevator. Wind whips my shawl as I hail a cab; the driver zips through morning rush hour to the front door of the tapas bar where the event is to be held. Chef Smith must own it.

It’s locked and appears deserted, but it would be at this early hour. Restaurants in the morning always look sad to me. Things are all happy, happy holding at night, but daylight reveals a restaurant’s true neediness. They’re nothing without people to receive the culinary artistry the chef and waiters deliver.

I wait in the shade of the old brick building offering a chill dancing with the wind off the lake as it does. I check, then recheck the time I’ve written down. It seems like others should be showing up for a 9:00 a.m. class, yet I appear to be the only one present. I finally walk around to the back. Surely the day choppers and a supervising sous chef are already at work.

I knock on the door. A small Asian man looks out at me and points. I think he might not speak English. I show him the flyer.

“The class is not here,” he says in the King’s English, as British as he can be. “You must travel a distance to Harpo Studios. I advise a GPS system if one is available to you.” He writes down the address in perfect calligraphy.

The show will be taped two days from now, in the studio next to where Oprah shoots her show. I’ve written the time down wrong and mixed it in with the chef’s restaurant. Tickets are free, and those standing in line will form a pool to fill any empty spaces in the audience. My luck has returned! I vow to go home, get a good night’s rest, and show up well before the show, lawn chair and Ho-Bee in hand. That little dog is such a charmer, no one can resist him. I’ve already taught him how to sit, jump up, and turn off the light with his nose, and when I ask him if he’d “rather be dead than be a Viking fan” — a question every Packer fan will answer without hesitating — he rolls over and plays dead. Surely, I’ll be noticed with Ho-Bee in hand, and all I have to do then is convince them that one of those empty seats belongs to me. Maybe I can get my friends to come early and join me. Bette could get a few new recipes in the process.

Kari’s left me a message saying I’ve had a call on her machine so I punch play to hear it. The male voice clears his throat and my heart skips a beat. Then he begins to speak. Whew. No Spanish accent. I’ve never heard this voice before.

“It troubles me that I have failed to properly introduce myself prior to our having to negotiate some difficulties in your manuscript and for this I apologize, profusely.” He’s from Texas, maybe. Or Mississippi. “Perhaps not profusely enough, as I left several messages on your home phone before reaching your friend, Miss Bette Farmington, I believe she said her name was who gave me this number. So please, if you would, Miss Shaw, return my call. I have a few of your revisions, and in addition to the scene issues, marketing has made suggestions related to the title. It will be so much easier to confer about this over the phone than through the concise emails we’ve exchanged. This is Irving Stellar.” He leaves his number, then ends with “Good day now.”

So he isn’t British, only formal. Except for that little ‘signing off’ thing at the end that’s rather endearing in its way. Perhaps I’ll mention something about the Oprah plan to him so he’ll know how hard I’m working on making my books successful.

I take Ho-Bee for a walk before calling Irving back. He’s on Mountain Time, in Denver, an hour earlier than central, where I am. I call at six p.m. my time, making it five p.m. there. He’ll be wanting to head home to his family, so we won’t have time to talk long.

I’ve gotten his voicemail. “Um, this is Annie Shaw. You left me a message and asked that I call. Um, it looks like I’ve called too late and you’ve already left. I do want to talk with you about the manuscript and things. My cell phone doesn’t always work, so for a while this is the best number to reach me. I’ll be here, um, a few more weeks. Doing some research and promoting. I appreciate your taking the time to call me, and I hope what you recommend won’t require me to lose sleep. I get pretty cranky without my sleep.” I laugh. “Well, I guess that’s all. Thanks again for calling.”

I hang up, surprised that I wished he’d actually been there.

“Where have you been, girl? You’ve got to approve these brochures you ordered so we can get them to printing or you won’t have any for the book fair next month.”

“Oh, Mavis, I completely forgot!” Mavis is a graphic arts designer turned independent publicist I’ve hired to help promote my books. Mostly we trade time and talent in addition to a little money. My books provide her with Christmas gifts for her family and friends. I usually have to pay her more than the books are worth, but at least it’s a deductible expense from my taxes, assuming I have income to deduct expenses from. I’m one of her first clients as she broadens her business by handling publicity. I hope she won’t think that by involving my friends so much I’m showing a lack of confidence in her ability to help promote me.

A-list authors get top billing from their publisher’s publicity department, with someone dedicated year-round to booking them for tours and events. I figure I’m mid- to low-list, based on the quality of restaurant I got taken to by my publisher when I was in Denver the last time. Starbucks is not a good sign.

Low-list authors gratefully receive what time is allotted us from publisher publicity —a relationship that like a passionate romance, is intense the first three months after publication. Books that don’t sell after a time end up “remaindered” and are sold really cheaply, in bulk, to bookstores. In the ultimate solution to unwanted publications, they are recycled into … paper. All kinds of paper.

Unless, of course, one blows across the kindling with a remarkable publicity idea that fires book sales and takes the publishing world by storm. Like getting Oprah to mention your title.

I’d decided to print up materials to leave at bookstores or for mailing out to book groups and Mavis helped me prepare a flashy brochure for all my titles. We plan to mail them out just before the release of Miranda as a reminder to fans to please call their bookstores and order my latest.

“While you’re in Chicago, why don’t you go over to an independent bookstore and see if you can do a reading,” Mavis suggests. “I’d be happy to try to set one up for you.”

“I think it’s a little late for scheduling. I should have done that as soon as I knew I’d be coming to Chicago. I’m not so well-known that I can walk in and they’ll work me in.”

“Yeah, they have to have time to advertise. I don’t want you sitting at a bookstore with no one coming in,” she says.

“I give good directions to restrooms, though,” I say. Mavis laughs. I realize it’s not the best use of my funds to hire Mavis and then not give her enough lead time so she can promote my books. I used to be much better about planning, but Stuart’s sniping has rubbed away my confidence like water dripping on a sugar cube. I have to get my Sweet Charity thinking back.

“We might get you into a mall store for the walk-in traffic.”

“At least in the malls the kids come by after school and they talk about what’s going on in their lives and sometimes even share the stuff they’ve written with me. Kind of sad they’d share those things with a total stranger. Or that they have nothing better to do than talk with me.”

“Are there opportunities you’d like me to try and book?”

“Well, there’s a correctional facilities conference in Minneapolis next spring. Maybe I could speak there, with my book set in a prison. They might like the change of pace from workshops about food safety and cell-block management.”

“I’ll see what I can do. What are you doing in Chicago anyway? And how long will you be there?”

“I’m trying to get my book into Oprah’s hands so it’ll be a bestseller.”

“Wow. If you make that happen, you should be a publicist instead of me.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t included you. Maybe I’m protecting you from disaster,” I joke.

“What about buying a trailer?”

“What would I use a trailer for? I don’t even own a car.”

She pauses. “A book trailer, Annie. A DVD or YouTube submission promoting your book. Maybe you can get footage from your Oprah excursion. Meanwhile, let me know as soon as the title for the next book is firm so I can have the brochures made up. I think you’ll like them. They look sort of Gaudi-like, with sharp squares and angles all done in blue and green tiles, like that little mascot Drac you brought back from Barcelona. I even put him in the corner on the inside.”

“I don’t think you can do that. Drac’s copyrighted or trade-marked or something.”

“Oh. Well maybe you could get permission to use it. Sure wouldn’t want the International Police and Firemen to sue you, although I’ve heard that there really is no bad publicity.”

I think of Élan-Canine Salon and wonder if that’s true.

“Just fax me the proof as it is so I can look at the brochure as you have it now.”

“It’s going to run around nine hundred dollars for printing and design. We’ll need the money up front. Oh, you know, we should wait to final this, so we can use the cover of your latest. When will they decide that?”

“Any day now,” I say. “But I think we should go ahead. I need to promote The Long Bad Sentence if it’s going to be a bestseller.”

“All right. You know, Annie, I’ve been thinking about that mall thing with the kids you mentioned; that’s really touching. You should get Oprah to know about that. You could tell her about those kids and how they share what they write with you. I bet that happens in malls everywhere. Those kids don’t have jobs, and lots of them can’t afford the after-school sports or clubs and may not have the latest X-Box to spend their time on. Writing is relatively inexpensive, so they do that. Oprah needs to know about these kids that hang out and talk to authors. It’s sweet and sad at the same time. They all want to be noticed. There might be real talent hidden there and a way for your stories to reach out to those kids.”

“I don’t write children’s books,” I remind her.

“No, but Oprah’s Angel Foundation might fund drop-in centers at the malls. Oprah uses her fame for really worthy things. Authors could come in and teach classes to them and it could be a creative arts after-school program. Would you like me to talk to a producer? I’d sure be willing to try to get Oprah to consider a show about that. I mean, how hard can it be?”

An orchestra warmed up. Then strings swelled with what the announcer said in both English and Spanish was the official hymn for the games. The day faded, with the sun setting over the city, a city with spires and castles and a sunset worthy of Picasso.

They’d arrived at 6:30 p.m., and yet the grand entry wouldn’t begin until 8:30. Jaime might have waited instead of skipping off, Miranda thought.

Miranda watched the children with their parents in the stands as she listened to the languages she couldn’t understand. Birds dipped above them so close she could hear their wings whisper in the wind.

The grand entry began. One competitor from each country carried a flag, followed by streams of their fellow athletes waving up to the crowd in the bleachers. They looked like little pieces of colored paper, they were so far below her. “Albania,” boomed the announcer, repeating it in Spanish. Hundreds of people in different sections of the stands stood up to applaud as the Albanians walked by, followed by the Australians. It happened with every country. It would be a long wait before “The United States of America” was called.

Two huge screens on either side of the stage where the orchestra played let the audience see close-ups of athletes. But it was watching the real thing that entertained Miranda for the next three hours, the flesh-and-blood men and women who’d been chosen to compete, to leave their cities where they put their lives on the line for others. This week they’d come together to compete, not against the fire or crime, but against each other. As a preschool teacher, she knew how important play was even if she didn’t allow it very often for herself. Every day every child needs to feel safe, to feel respected, and to play. Those are basics of the learning environment.

She thought her heart would burst when the Americans came in and then the Spanish contingent, the host country, always coming in last, following so close behind. Was that Jaime she saw there? Was he a flag bearer? In front of her, a group of children, an elderly man, and an attractive woman stood to wave and shout the name: “Jaime! Jaime! Jaime!”

With a small set of binoculars she’d purchased for the trip, Miranda spied Belle and then Jaime. Miranda waved vigorously, her whole body swaying that he might see her. The family in front of her waved too, and Jaime waved up to their section of the grandstand. It might be they were his family, Miranda thought. She looked more closely at the woman and children.

She really knew nothing about him. He could be married or engaged. He could be just an ambassador of Spanish hospitality, helping out a naïve American in distress. Nothing more. These people in front of her, had they come after he’d left? Could this woman be his wife? She’d better find that out before she let her imagination take her to places that resulted in pain.

Miranda couldn’t find Jaime any longer in the crowd below. He’d be sitting with the other athletes somewhere near where her sister was. Soon the entire center of the stadium was filled with firework pops like gunfire, followed by swirls of light and smoke so dense one could hardly see the performers that had entered from the four corners of the field.

A helicopter circled overhead and quickly, so no one would think fear or terror, a fireman rappelled down into a cherry picker, the extended box used to rescue people from high buildings during a fire. This time he held a torch carried all the way from Greece. As he lit the flame a cheer rose up, and then in the darkness, new fireworks with displays to dazzle Disney took over the sky, spraying them all with huge blasts that had Miranda’s ears ringing while pieces of paper the size of fists drifted over the crowd.

Miranda couldn’t stop crying. She would never have a night like this again. She was a part of this world, this place, these Germans and Americans, Australians and Spaniards and Africans. She might never see Jaime again and there was nothing she could do about it, nothing at all, but this night of being a part of something grand would be enough. She’d let this gift in and cherish it forever.

It was nearly midnight when the events finished and people began moving out of the stadium, orderly, as though policemen directed them, though no one told them what to do. Miranda made her way to the arch near the entrance where Belle told her to meet her. She hoped it was below the right sortida, exit, sign. She looked for the water-bottle police but they’d long since packed up their stations.

She watched, waited for her sister, but tried to remember what Jaime had last said to her. “Watch for me.” She’d done that and he’d waved back but then she’d lost him in the athletic crowd, watched his eyes move toward that family below her.

“I’m here kiddo,” Belle shouted in her big, Wisconsin voice. She had a pack of men with her and she made quick introductions with little one-liners like, “This is Bud. Golfer. Airline lost his clubs. This is Maurice. Swimmer. Competes first thing tomorrow.” She gave no nationalities, expecting Miranda would discover that from their badges. “Want to walk back? At least to the metro? It’s right through the park. All downhill, Sis.”

“I guess,” Miranda said. She looked back. No Jaime. She wondered if she should wait. No. They started down the hill.

“Hola,” a man’s voice said, breathless, coming up behind her. “Ah … surprise you?” Jaime said. His smile was an hors d’oeuvre promising a delectable meal.

“Yes, you did surprise me,” Miranda told him. Her heart pounded and she felt perspiration bead on her forehead.

“But I tell you to watch. To wait. I climb up top to find you.”

“Did you? I missed the waiting part,” she says. He’d climbed all the way back to the top of the stadium, just to be with her! Or with his family.

“Did you find your … family?” she asked.

He furrowed his brows.

Here it came. She was right. He needed to know that she knew.

“Ah … my sister and her children. Si.”

“Your sister? That was your sister and her children?”

Jaime nodded. “You see them?”

“Only from a distance,” Miranda said. She was laughing.

Jaime took her hand and put his arm lightly around her shoulder. “We walk through the park and see the colon change the waters,” he told her. “Colors,” he corrected and flashed her that smile that gave her sweet shocks, starting at her lips and trembling to her toes. “Is a beginning night, yes?”

“Yes,” Miranda says. “Oh, yes.”

He might have meant “beautiful night” but for her it was the beginning of a night that would change her life.

I reread what I’d written. Does this scene have enough conflict? Is the conversation realistic? Is the character being developed by the obstacles she has to overcome? Will Irving be happy?

Why hadn’t I let this romance last?