Chapter 22

There is a proud undying thought in man,
that bids his soul still upward look
to fame’s proud cliff!
Sam Houston

Irving motions me toward another office where several people wait with bagels, cream cheese, and juices on a side board. Papers spread before them on the shiny conference table. I wish I’d brought Randolph along with his agent’s eye in case any of this discussion becomes contractual. They offer me sustenance but I’m too nervous to eat.

As people introduce themselves, I try to remember first names of people telling myself a little story to go with them, an idea suggested by a memory book I read (I can’t remember the author). The author said that sheep can recall the faces of fifty individual sheep for up to two years which explains why as a child I’d watch our neighbor’s sheep look longingly over the fence at each other. They acted as though they dreaded being apart.

As the memory book suggests, I concentrate on their first names giving them a visual story. Lively Louise, production. Sexy Suzanne, marketing. Big Bill, sales. Kind Ken, special markets. Gentle George, graphic arts. Chipper Chandra, copy editing. I once thought of Irving as Irksome as he made me transform all those Miranda scenes. But after witnessing his encouraging smiles he’d become Inspiring Irving.

And except for the absence of AP’s CEO, this is an A level meeting. Long-term decisions can be made here today. Things are looking up.

“We’re really looking forward to the publication of this book,” Lively Louise says. She’s angular, active, and twirling a pencil between her fingers, pencil over finger as she speaks, stopping suddenly to point it at someone or something she wants to particularly note. The movement and her positive introduction distracts so I almost miss the second half of what she’s saying. “… fall-winter cycle next year will be so much better. I’m sure you can understand the climate for light romances isn’t good right now. What do you call yours?”

“Miranda of—”

“Kindling, that’s what it was. Irving said that was a sort of brand you’d included with one of your revisions as part of your cover name: ‘Annie Shaw. Kindling stories to build a fire in your heart.’ A lovely image of a small, romantic fire. Quite clever.”

So she’s read some of the revisions, too. Each specialist then gives their take on the book, what will make it marketable. The cover, back cover copy, catalog copy, sales, publicity. They all know about Miranda and the details of the opening ceremonies, even the colorful cat given as a gift from Jaime to Miranda. Irving must have kept them posted. Yet all I’d been thinking, all I’d really sent Irving, were little crumbs that like Hansel and Gretel he had to notice and pick up to find his way to the end.

“Sales of The Long Bad Sentence have been inconclusive,” Big Bill of sales says. My ears perk up. “I think it’s the ending that really doesn’t tell us if the nurse and guard actually decide to get married. A good romance has to have at least an engagement at the end.”

“We may have failed you in editorial,” Irving says.

“Oh, no, editorial did everything it could,” I say. “It was me, I’m the problem.”

“I only bring it up,” Big Bill says, “Because we don’t want to repeat the same mistakes.”

Lively Louise says, “We have a new editor. Irving’s working well with Annie, aren’t you? I can call you Annie?”

“Yes, please. All of you,” I say. Familiarity breeds commitment I’m sure. “

Irving nods and so do I. I’ve never attended this sort of meeting with the other titles and I’m gazing at Irving’s encouraging smile when Lively Louise says “I think this Miranda book has the same pizzazz as Sweet Charity’s Rose.”

Sexy Suzanne says, “I loved that book. Oh, it could have had a little more, you know, steam, but it was such a happy book. Boy gets girl! And in this one, I really want Jaime to get the girl.”

I swallow. Girl gets boy, boy gets girl, that’s what a romance is. Maybe that’s why Don’t Kick Me and now The Long Bad Sentence aren’t selling. Reader letters express appreciation for the inspiration, for how relationships develop, but they never mention the romance part at all.

Maybe I’m writing the wrong kind of book. Maybe I have the wrong publisher! But I can’t change now. I have to get Miranda published or I’ll have to move back in with my parents. Discussion about the cover keeps me from hyperventilating at the thought of moving back home and hearing again my dad’s many old jokes.

“Let’s hear about the front cover, George,” Lively Louise says.

Gentle George sighs. He has caterpillar eyebrows and an Eyore, turned down mouth. “It can be changed,” he says of the artwork he passes out now. “This is just the concept. I have to find the right silk to photograph, to get that languid look I want and that the cover needs to give it texture. We’ve tried a number of designs but this is the best I think.” He wipes at his jaws. This was an artist’s agony, having to share his artistic creation for a committee. I can commiserate.

The colors are vibrant, reds and browns, earth tones that make me think of Spain. But the models dominate the cover. They include a winnowed damsel dressed in magenta diaphanous silk leaving little to the imagination regardless of the quality of silk he might find to photograph the model in. She lies arched over the arms of a Conquistador alpha male, a Spanish knight, with dark eyes and a beard that looks so rough it could file down the chain mail he wears if not the vehicle ID number of the chariot in the background. Chariot? Medieval? The ancient Cathedral of Barcelona, my Miranda’s city, looms out of a fog behind the models while dark and brooding faces of armed men glare over stone parapets in the distance.

It’s a shocking cover for its suggestions of both hot steaminess and historical context. I’d written neither into my text. Nothing about this cover says “light contemporary kindling novel” except the new title emblazoned across the cover. My hands shake as I hand Gentle George back his masterpiece for a book now titled Bilked in Barcelona.

“Indeed,” Irving says. “You’ve captured quite a lot here, George. But I think we still have a little work to do.” His eyes are sympathetic. Irving’s my lifeline here, the only one who really understands Miranda’s needs, or mine. It’s not their fault, I realize that now. I haven’t met my deadlines or kept them abreast. What else could they do but imagine?

“The cover’s never really finished until the print schedule is firmed,” Gentle George says. “We can lighten it more and make the sunset a little rosier so it doesn’t look quite so dark. The lighter silk should help with that too.”

I smile at him. He’s a professional, as are they all wanting to do their best. Could Gentle George see my upset stomach as though I’m stuck in a car surrounded with sweet raspberry scent?

“I wonder if we might emphasize contemporary Barcelona,” I say. “A girl traveler, a handsome policeman, in uniform? Aren’t uniforms happy attractions?” The team nods agreement. “And I thought of a new title. I haven’t told you yet, Mr. Stellar … Irving, but what about Spanish Knight?”

“Has possibilities,” Big Bill in sales says. Gentle George nods his head too.

“There’s still time,” Irving assures me. His eyes suggest we two are the only ones in the room and I wonder if this is how people taken hostage feel, clinging to one potential rescuer. “The story is a contemporary, though, George. I’m not sure you realized that.” To me he says, “The catalog frequently displays a title and a cover that change before final publication. I’m sure you’re aware of that, Miss Shaw. It’s the ISBN number that provides advance sale orders to choose the correct book for a book buyer. They rarely even look at the cover at that point knowing it will likely change. The cover copy is what matters.”

“Yes. No, I wasn’t. Though I’ve never had the … privilege of being at this stage of um … development before. It’s very kind of you to —”

“As soon as the manuscript is final, we can go ahead with final copy,” Chipper Chandra says folding her hands over the text. “And when might that be, Irving?”

Irving looks at me. “About that,” I say, “I wonder if —”

“Our plan is to try to get print media coverage several months before release, whenever that is,” Sexy Suzanne interjects. “We’re looking for a good marketing bang, something really big to bring us media attention.” She looks at her Black-Berry notes and scrolls to find what she’s looking for. “I was thinking a drop from a helicopter placing you into a signing at a mall, sort of like the rappelling policeman who lit the torch did?”

“It was a fireman, because that’s what firemen do,” I say.

“Well, what did Miranda’s policeman do then?”

“He competed. In golf,” I say.

“Oh. Well. Not too romantic, that.”

“And he rescued his damsel from a band of thieves,” Inspiring Irving says.

“So we could stage a mall robbery and have you rescued right in front of the cameras.”

“I love it,” Big Bill says. “With a stack of mock-up books and our would-be robbers knock them over. They run through the mall and we’d have an actor dressed as a Spanish policeman chase them and bring them to justice. The sound bite would be ‘A read, good enough to steal for.’ I like it.”

“I know we’re not supposed to discourage creative thinking,” Lively Louise says, “but faking a robbery with people nervous about safety and all? I wouldn’t want the book associated with crime.”

“That might work for The Long Bad Sentence,” says someone from marketing whose name I’ve totally lost.

“We don’t want to stage fake things without people knowing they’re fake,” says Lively Louise. I think about Randolph’s plan to bring a fake Jaime to Chicago for a fake marriage and I cringe.

The team nods, slightly sadder but they turn to me and ask if I’ve had any thoughts about marketing and publicity.

I clear my throat and open the folder I’ve kept with me. “I’m having these brochures made up. I thought I could —”

“We could have done that for you. Posters too, for signings,” helpful Suzanne says.

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“We appreciate cost cutting measures and authors who team with us,” Lively Louise says.

“We need something really punchy,” Suzanne says. “Something to make readers sit up and take notice.”

Do I dare tell them about Randolph’s plan?

“Well, my agent has this idea. Not to step on anyone’s toes or anything. It’s probably a long shot, but it involves the Oprah Winfrey show —”

“Your agent knows Oprah?” A universal gasp. Lively Louise turns her whole body toward me as I sit beside her. The rest of the tablemates perk up too as though choreographed by David Foster.

“Not … exactly,” I say.

“If you can get on Oprah’s show we’d be able to move this title back into the earlier release date,” Lively Louise says. “Is this for real now, or just fiction?”

“Oh, it’s real,” I say. “His plan is real. Whether he can pull it off or not, that’s the question. I’d hate to have you count —”

“We’ll be making final production decisions within the week. If your agent has a plan in place by then, we’ll put you back into the spring lineup. Otherwise, I don’t know …”

Irving starts to rise. He motions me to join him. “I think we’ve accomplished what we can here. We’ll have the manuscript completed by the end of the week. Won’t we Annie”

I nod, I’d agree to whatever Invigorating Irving might suggest.