Chapter 23

“It really would be best if you rescheduled your flight,” Irving says back in his office. “While I’m confident we can complete the revision discussion before midnight, I would like us to have some wiggle time. That meeting took a little more time than I intended.”

Irving says wiggle like waggle and I’m not sure at first what he means. I’d do anything for him for giving me this last chance. Kari says her clients often ascribe qualities to her she really doesn’t have just because they’re grateful for the therapeutic insights they acquire in her presence. “It rubs off,” she tells me, “but I never take it personal. I’m not the wise woman they think I am. They are. They’ve done all the work.” Maybe Irving understands author adoration too.

I hadn’t found a way to get us from that room with ease while Irving not only slipped me out without more details about Oprah but he did it with the promise of the issuance of the advance check when the book was accepted — if it was — within the week.

“Wiggle time is good,” I say.

“I’ll ask Ursula to see if she can rearrange your flight and get you accommodations for the night. We might even be able to squeeze in a photo shoot with marketing and publicity, to update your headshot. Will that be agreeable?”

“Indeed,” I say. Keep your editor happy, rule one.

Irving punches the intercom and Miss Sweetheart sashays in. Irving gives her the particulars while he points me to a chair. “So advise me about your agent’s plan,” Irving says after Miss Sweetheart’s left to rearrange my life.

“Can you tell me about Bilked in Barcelona first? It’s not really going to have that title, is it?” I sit down on a chair across from his desk.

“That title didn’t make it on your list, then.” He smiles. Warmth oozes.

“It sounds like some police novel with con artists roaming around taking advantage,” I say. I remove my red hat, set it on the edge of Irving’s desk and fluff my hair with my fingers.

“It’s very misleading.”

“Especially in a title,” I say. “I’ve bought lots of books for their title and I’d be really irritated if the book wasn’t about what the title suggested. And the cover …”

“One doesn’t want to annoy one’s readers.”

“Right. So can we get some of that changed? Can you do that?”

“Keep in mind that marketing really has been successful in placing books for us and sales have done fairly well with your titles, except for the last two. They seem to think they can sell this book with that title and that cover.”

“But they aren’t selling what I wrote.”

He leans back in his chair and cocks his head. “Authenticity matters to you,” Irving says.

“Yes. It does.” I cross my arms over my chest in a non-negotiable position.

Irving picks up the Gaudi-like cat and runs his hands over it, petting the ceramic feline, his thumbs rubbing on the amber eyes. “The Oprah idea?”

“That’s a long shot,” I say, my shoulders slump. My fingernails becoming suddenly more interesting than Irving’s colorful porcelain sculptured cat. I don’t even want to discuss Randolph’s idea with the subject of authenticity having been broached. “It’s worse than the mock robbery mentioned in that meeting.”

He sets the cat down and folds his hands over my manuscript. They’re large hands with wide cuticles and well-manicured nails. He raises his eyebrows in anticipation of my explanation. Gosh, he has kind eyes. “We really are in this together, you know. So tell me about the Oprah … thing.”

“Randolph, my agent, has this person, acquaintance of his, who’s willing to act as a Jaime, pretending to be my long lost lover from Spain who wants to be reunited with me on national television. On the Oprah show. You know she always does those reunion things for people, bringing them together, especially around the holidays.”

“The Jaime from the book?”

“Not exactly. But in that vein. He’d pose as a policeman who met me in Barcelona. All that would follow the plot line of the book. It’s embarrassing to even talk about,” I say. “It’s so improbable that against my better judgment I told him to go ahead and see what he could do but I really don’t —”

“And is there a Jaime in Barcelona pining for you?”

I swallow and look away. “For his Miranda, yes, though I don’t really know if he’s pining, exactly —”

“You’ve written an autobiographical novel. That does explain some things.”

“No! It’s just a story. Well, all novels are somewhat autobiographical, aren’t they?” I sit up, my hands resting on the chair arms, elbows out as though I’d take flight. Calm down. He’s on your side.

“Frederick Buechner says both fiction and theology are autobiographic.”

“Does he? I read his works but I never came across that quote.” I like the works that appeal to Irving. It’s reassuring. “I don’t know about my theology, but I do know that the part about Miranda pining away for her lost Spanish lover isn’t about me. It’s fiction. A novel I’m willing to make better, with your help. But I don’t actually think my agent can pull this off.” I sigh. “The only way to make this book have any possibility of being a bestseller is to simply make it as good as I possibly can.”

Irving gauges my answer. He rarely blinks I note, like some of those interviewees on cable who never seemed to need to, their passion so intense for their subject they can’t afford the time loss that comes with a blink.

“Indeed,” Irving says at last picking up the manuscript. “That can be rare in a writer, that willingness to revise time and again until both author and editor agree. It’s been awhile since I’ve worked with someone so confident they’ll consider every possibility of editorial change.”

Confident? Me?

“And one who also has a connection to Oprah,” he adds. “Well, the possibilities are endless indeed.” He smiles, his full lips as inviting as a chocolate bar.

We work through lunch with Miss Sweetheart responding to Irving’s request for sandwiches and herbal teas. We have a number of things in common now: that Gaudi cat, Chai Tea, Frederick Buechner, and that neither of us drinks coffee. I assume that producing a good book will be another.

Later in the afternoon, dark chocolate arrives courtesy of Kind Ken, Miss Sweetheart tells us. “This is good,” Irving says. “Two hour blocks of time are really all one should devote to such intense mind work of seeing with new eyes without a break.”

He sees revisions as seeing with new eyes too!

“We’ve been at it for,” he looks at his Mickey Mouse watch and says, “five hours.”

“I’m sorry it’s taking so long,” I say. “I realize it must be a wretched book to require so many red lines with revisions that are deeper than changing the color of Miranda’s hair.”

“A fair number of authors assume that’s what revisions are, changing a Chapter title or a tidbit of description.” He stretches his arms over his head and the material pulses against well-toned abs. “But when I write, it’s in the revisions where I find out what the story is trying to teach me.”

“You write?” I say.

He nods toward the bookshelf and then he stops himself and turns back to face me. “A little. Mostly I admire others who do,” he adds, “and contribute as I can to richer story telling for them.”

My eyes move toward the bookshelf. Perhaps he hasn’t intended to reveal that writing part of himself. I notice the titles of the children’s books then. “You like Marion Plush, too, I see. Have you met her?”

“Our paths have crossed.”

“Well, I love the sound of her last name, Plush.” I drag out the sh sound.

“It does carry happiness, that word,” he says.

“Real writing.”

“Excuse me?” Irving says.

“Children’s books are real writing. Children won’t let you take three hundred pages to make your point.” He nods agreement. “And they won’t let you preach or pound either. They just want the story. If it’s any good, whatever message there is in it shines through. It’s what we should all aspire to,” I say, “that quick burn into meaning.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve done some thinking about children’s writing.”

“Doesn’t every writer? Until they realize how hard it is.” I munch on the piece of dark chocolate. “Wasn’t it Cicero who apologized for writing his friend such a long letter saying he didn’t have enough time to write a short one?”

“I’d like to see AP publish a few children’s titles,” he says.

“Really? Wouldn’t that cloud your adult publishing waters?” I ask.

“Adults buy children’s books,” Irving says. “I certainly do. For nieces and nephews, friends’ children. I’d be inclined to look at what else a favorite author published, in an adult line, if I liked their children’s books.” He taps his pencil lightly on the desk. “In fact, it’s one of the reasons why I like your works. Your stories are the very kind of stories we could pair well with a children’s market.”

“Well. That’s very kind. Anyway, I’d be lost without an editor to help me cut my words down to size. I could never write a children’s book or even young adult. Marion Plush is so gifted.”

Irving says, “Imagine how useless an editor would feel if the manuscript arrived as perfection. Yours isn’t as difficult as some I’ve edited.”

“There are worse writers than me?”

“Just writers who need more work than yours.”

“But why would you publish them?” The chocolate’s getting softer. The room or my hands are heating up.

“We don’t.” He clears his throat, shuffles papers, doesn’t look at me, and then inhales a deep breath. Looking me straight in the eye he says, “Annie …”

I lick my lips. Here it comes. He’s getting ready to tell me that he’s done all the salvaging we can do and there’s no hope for Miranda or me. She isn’t going to be bilked in Barcelona nor meet her match in La Mancha or have a Spanish knight in her life, either.

“Would you be interested in dinner?” Irving says instead. “Away from here. I realize there might be some trepidation on your part. And it isn’t wise to mix business with pleasure, but it might make this process of finalizing … things go more smoothly if we got to know the authentic side of one another.”

His words melt like Barcelona chocolate, slowly, as though filling up my veins.

Is he flirting? Preparing me for the worst? What kind of a woman can’t tell the difference? What business do I have writing romances anyway, a woman who’s never really been romanced in her life except for Stuart, and I know how that turned out. Jaime? Well that’s another Chapter but I don’t feel like turning any pages.

The room feels small. “Dinner?” I squeak. “Well, I, we could. Certainly.” I flutter my fingers at my earrings, hold my throat, try to find a comfortable place for my hands. They rest on the silver and amber dragonfly, dart away as I fluff my fingers through my hair.

Irving appears to stifle a grin at the same time that I smell the good quality of Kind Ken’s chocolate more powerful than before. I open my palms. Soft chocolate oozes. It must be all over my face too! I reach to pick up my red hat leaving dark fingerprints on the brim from the still melting chocolate. “I’ll freshen up a bit first,” I say, backing out into the hallway.

I make my way to the washroom outside Irving’s office. At least it’s unisex so I don’t have to worry about wandering into the wrong one.

In the mirror I stare at a face that rivals the face paintings of a street fair artist or maybe an Aboriginal child. Chocolate streaks my cheeks, my jaw line, my neck. There are no paper towels so I use toilet paper pieces that dab and stick and the hot air dryer pastes them on tighter. I re-wash my face and hold it against the blow dryer. Calm. Stay calm. It’s only a dinner, a working one at that. I take a deep breath and one last look in the mirror. There’s nothing I can do about my hat hair sticking out over my ears and the blow dryer pushing my bangs upward into a stiff meringue twist. I’m just grateful there’s no author photo shoot in my immediate future.

“Annie,” Randolph says into my cell phone. “You’re going to kiss me all across the continent when I tell you this! Where are you, by the way?”

“Denver. Having dinner. With my editor,” I say. “It’s my agent,” I tell Irving. I give the I-have-to-take-this-call-look and Irving returns to his mescaline salad.

“She’s going for it! Whole Hog!”

“Who? And what?”

“Oprah! And get this. The production manager says they not only want to fly your Jaime here, well, our Jaime, for the reunion, but they want to have the wedding on the air, the entire ceremony. Dr. Phil will do the pre-nuptial counseling and all Oprah’s pals will help you find the perfect wedding dress, order the flowers. Her chef will do the cake and reception and you even get a pre-nuptial spa treatment. The dog, too.”

“You told them I have a dog?”

“You do, don’t you? Oprah loves dogs and they’re springing for something at …” he pauses as though reading. “Here it is. At Élan-Canine Salon for the dog. Everything filmed of course. And then the wedding and the honeymoon too. It’ll be the biggest thing since Trista and Ryan’s wedding a few years back. That Ryan was a policeman, too, wasn’t he?”

“Fireman.”

“Righto. What a tie in. Maybe they could be your best man and matron of honor. I’ll propose that. People will know your name, Annie, and your sales will skyrocket!”

“But not as an author. Not as someone who wrote a good book —”

“No buts about it. This is the biggest thing I’ve put together since I got Barbara Walters to interview that Sumo wrestler who wrote a cook book.”

“Randolph, I can’t! I don’t know this man you’ve hired. It isn’t possible to marry him and Oprah will find out. I’ll be blacklisted forever for misleading her public.”

Irving looks up from his salad, puzzlement on his face.

“I really think —” I continued.

“Well,” Randolph says, “we could bring the real Jaime here. Your Jaime.”

“Who told you there’s a real Jaime?” I whisper.

“Your mother. Your sister. Your friends. They all want your Jaime brought here and I’ve talked to him.” I gasp. “He’s willing. Shoot, kiddo, this is a marriage made in heaven. It was meant to be and it’s all paid for. We bring your Jaime here and it’ll be authentic. It really will be a long lost reunion and you’ll be able to leverage it into a bestseller. Surely your publisher could work those angles in pre-sales. Let me talk with your editor.”

“No! He’s, he’s busy. Randolph, what you’re proposing, it isn’t me,” I say. “Don’t … don’t involve Jaime in this, please. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Come on, Annie. Hand the phone over to your editor.”

“He wants to talk to you,” I say. “Oops, sorry, I guess I cut him off.” I pick up the cell phone I’ve dropped into my salad. I wipe the phone down, then lay it beside my plate. I’m shaking.

“What did he want to talk with me about?” Irving says.

“You’ll know soon enough. I’m sure he’ll call back.” I push the ringer to mute wishing I could do the same to my life.

“Bette, how could you?” I say into the phone in the ladies room. She’s the only one I’m able to reach. Misty, Kari, and Darlien got frantic messages left on their phones while I ignored Randolph’s attempts to call back.

“What?”

“How could you tell Randolph to bring the real Jaime here? Do you know what he’s arranged? He’s got Oprah’s producers willing to produce a wedding! I’m not marrying Jaime, not on terror-vision or anywhere. Not. It’s bad enough to have this total stranger come, but the real Jaime will confuse his life, make him think there’s a possibility of our future when there isn’t.”

“I didn’t think he’d actually pull it off,” Bette says. “None of us did, but then we thought if he did get him here, even if Oprah didn’t do a show related to it, that you’d face your fears and really decide what you want for Jaime and for your life.”

“I know that I don’t want Jaime in my life! You’re my friends! You’re supposed to help me reach my goal, not fly me off course.”

“Speaking of flying,” Misty says, “I read a story about geese and how a lead goose when it tires drops back and lets another goose break down the wind resistance. She’ll let others help carry her. That’s all we’ve done. You’re still in charge, still flying toward that target of getting a bestseller, but you need to step back a bit and let the rest of us carry on for you. We’re birds of a feather flying together.”

“I think you’ve cooked my goose. If Oprah finds out —”

“She’ll understand that sometimes people change their minds. But at least you’ll have him here to work things through and be able to part as friends if that’s what you decide.”

“This has nothing to do with getting a bestseller or having my name recognized as an author,” I wail.

“Maybe getting a bestseller isn’t your real goal anyway, just like going to the fridge doesn’t fill you up. At least I’m guessing that’s why you have that IT’S NOT IN HERE sign under the frig light. There’s something in the back of your frig that I can’t recognize at all.”

“What would my true goal be?” I ask.

“Maybe you want to be happy and you think a bestseller will do it.”

And maybe there’s something in the back of my life I just need to throw out.