HARRY REFUSED EVEN TO consider Lily’s proposal to continue with her sewing and canning. She had done nobly, but now that The Wars of Archie Sanger was finished, he was not about to live off his wife. He started writing articles again, but uppermost in his mind was Archie Sanger. Finishing the novel had seemed like the biggest hurdle, but now he realized that a far greater one was finding a publisher. He knew that the first stage was finding the right agent. With little publishing experience, he felt as if he were looking for a needle in a haystack. Here he had written a 2,000-page manuscript and had no idea what to do with it.
However much he might delude himself in other areas of life, he was harshly critical of his own work and he knew he had written a good book.
The problem was that he needed to sell the book fast to support his family. He decided the only way to choose an agent was to contact several at once.
Harry drove into the city early one morning and went straight to the public library, where he asked for a copy of Literary Market Place. Going down the list, he felt as if he were picking horses without a racing form, but he copied down twenty-five names and addresses at random. That night, back at the farm, he sat down and tried to frame a letter.
His instinct told him that he should not give away too much of the story; just enough to whet their appetites. Finally, after several tries, he came up with a draft that seemed to satisfy all the requirements. Then he laboriously copied it over twenty-five times, addressed the envelopes, and drove down to the village to post them. His mouth was dry and his confidence wavered as he stood in front of the box. Then, before he could change his mind, he opened the lid and dropped the sealed envelopes inside. Would anyone respond? Or would they all take his carefully framed letter and file it in the closest wastepaper basket?
He drove back to the farm, walked up the gray wooden stairs and then down the hall to his study. He couldn’t even share his fear with Lily; it was imperative that he appear positive, and he was relieved that she and the children were still out.
He had half an hour to himself before he heard Lily call out, “We’re back!”
He got up and went into the kitchen. Smiling broadly, he said, “How was your walk?”
“See what I found?” Melissa chirped, holding up a small spray of pine cones.
“That’s beautiful,” he replied, lifting her up in the air. “But not half as beautiful as you are.”
“Okay, children,” Lily said. “Now scat. Go play while I make dinner.”
Seating himself at the table, Harry watched as she began to prepare their meal. She worked so hard. He prayed to God that the book would sell so he could give her the break she deserved.
Shortly thereafter, the aroma of frying chicken and baking cornbread wafted from the stove.
As they seated themselves, Lily smiled and asked, “How did your day go, dear?”
“Fine—just great,” he answered. “I sent off twenty-five letters to what are, I hope, the best agents in New York. So now all I have to do is sit back and wait for the offers to pour in.”
“Hip, hip, hooray!”
Melissa liked the sound of that and chimed in, “Hip, hip, hooray, Daddy!”
“That’s right, Melissa. That’s what they’ll say the minute they read Daddy’s book.”
After four weeks of waiting, he finally received a response. Ripping the envelope open, he read,
Dear Mr. Kohle:
If you will submit an outline or the first hundred pages of the manuscript, we will be happy to read your work.
Best,
Ellis Knox
Wasting no time, Harry bundled up the first hundred pages of his precious manuscript and mailed them. Then he steeled himself for another long wait while he forced himself to churn out popular articles. Enough editors knew him as a reliable source of well-written filler that he knew he could support his family for the time being. But after six weeks of silence, he decided to write again to Ellis Knox, stating that since he had received no response, perhaps Mr. Knox had been unable to reach a decision on the first hundred pages. Consequently, he was enclosing the rest of the novel. Harry knew it was insanity to send the whole. It was foolish to risk offending one so lofty as Ellis Knox. Then again, what did he have to lose?
Again, he went to the post office in a state of high anxiety. If he had only known what had been happening at Ellis Knox, Literary Agents, his fears would have been allayed.
Harry had been extraordinarily lucky in his choice of agent. Ellis Knox was unusual in that he looked at every piece of work that passed his assistants’ initial screening. In the final analysis, he wanted to make the decisions. But that meant that there was often a considerable backlog on his desk, and the first hundred pages of Harry’s manuscript had gathered dust for almost four weeks. However, as soon as he had read the first pages, he realized that he had found a unique new voice. He had been at the point of dictating a letter to Harry Kohle when his secretary had staggered in with the rest of the script. Ellis felt a curious thrill when he saw the entire manuscript. Picking up the next hundred pages, he read with an increased sense of reverence. “Judy, hold my calls for the rest of the day,” he shouted into the intercom.
Early the next morning he finally laid the manuscript aside and rang Jerry Schwartz. Jerry was the associate whose judgment he trusted most. Now Ellis wanted some confirmation that he wasn’t dreaming.
“Could you come in here?” Ellis asked. “I have something I want you to see.”
The younger man was shocked when he saw the size of the script. “What in the world is that?”
“I want you to read it, Jerry.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. It’s bigger than the Old Testament.”
“Be that as it may, I need your opinion.”
With a wry smile, Jerry said, “There go my evenings for the next week.”
But the following morning he knocked on Ellis’s door at nine. “You’re not going to believe this,” he admitted sheepishly, “but I read two-thirds of that script last night. I don’t think I turned out the light until four-thirty. I just couldn’t put the damned thing down. You were right—it’s a phenomenon.”
Ellis wasn’t surprised. He was as sure of the quality of this book as he had been about anything in his life.
“Sold to the right publisher, it could be one of the biggest books of the year,” he declared.
“The man’s an absolute genius,” Jerry said flatly. “As for sales, we’ll be at war in another year, and while I hate to be cynical, you can bet the public will want war stories by the time this is published.”
That was all Ellis needed to hear. “Judy, get that fellow Harry Kohle on the phone.”
When Lily answered, instinct told her this was it. Harry had been very silent, but Lily knew how he had pinned his hopes on Ellis Knox, though lately his name had been accompanied by none-too-endearing adjectives.
With a nervous stammer, she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Knox, but he’s out at the moment. May I have him call you back?”
“Yes, if you please. I’ll be in my office until five. Otherwise, he can reach me tomorrow morning.”
When Harry returned from the village, where he had gone to buy a paper, Lily cried breathlessly, “Do you know who you just missed?”
“Franklin Roosevelt?”
She could hardly get the words out. “Ellis Knox!”
Harry’s mouth fell open. He grabbed the phone and gave the operator the number.
A moment later, a voice was saying, “Mr. Kohle? I’m delighted you called. We’re very interested in your work and would like you to come into the office to discuss it further. How about tomorrow at two-thirty?”
Harry couldn’t believe his ears, but somehow he managed to stammer, “That will be fine.” Then, impulsively, he blurted out, “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Knox.”
“The name is Ellis. And there’s no need to thank me; you know, without the author, we agents have nothing to sell.”
Harry felt as though he had died and gone to heaven. It wasn’t until the next morning that Jeremy reminded Harry that he was supposed to attend the boy’s school play that afternoon.
He looked at Jeremy as he ate his oatmeal. The child had talked of nothing else for the last week. Harry swallowed his coffee, cleared his throat, and said, “Jeremy, I’m sorry but I have to go into New York today. An agent called, and he wants to talk to me about publishing my book. I’m afraid I won’t be back in time for your play.”
Jeremy’s mouth dropped in dismay. He had been so thrilled when he was chosen to play Christopher Columbus. He wanted his daddy to see him in a starring role. Numbly he stirred his oatmeal. The other children chorused, “Oh, Daddy, please, can’t you go?”
Lily spoke quickly. “Now, I know you’re disappointed that Daddy can’t be there, but there is nothing more important than your father’s work. There will be other plays, and he will be there for them. Now get your schoolbooks. The bus will be here any minute.”
As Jeremy got up from his chair he mumbled, “It’s okay about the play, Daddy. It doesn’t matter. I understand.”
Harry rose and hugged his son, silently blessing him for offering absolution. But on the train into New York he kept wondering if there was something else he could have done.
His doubts vanished the moment he entered Ellis Knox’s office. Harry didn’t know what he had expected, but the name was so dignified that he had pictured Ellis to be in his sixties. Instead, Harry was disconcerted to see a handsome man of about forty, with a square jaw, riveting gray eyes, and dark hair just touched with silver at the temples, who towered over the writer by a good four inches. His clothes were Savile Row, and he had the unmistakable appearance of a man with a table permanently reserved for him at “21.”
“I must tell you that yours was the most powerful manuscript I’ve read in years,” Ellis began as soon as Harry was seated. “Everyone else here agrees. How long did it take you to complete?”
Harry almost pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Even though he’d been confident Archie Sanger was good, he had been desperate for outside confirmation of its impact.
“How long did it take me?” he repeated. “Well, I started it while I was at Columbia. But then I got married, had a family, and was forced to put it aside. Still, Archie burned in my head. Luckily for me, my wife helped me to survive while I wrote the book.”
“Lucky for us, too,” said Ellis, pleased to find that Harry Kohle was not only an extraordinary writer, but an articulate, handsome man. “Now I understand that you are a writer by profession. Where have you been published?”
“Esquire, Harper’s, The Atlantic Monthly.” Harry ran quickly down the list, omitting McCall’s and Redbook.
“I think I have read some of your pieces. I knew your name sounded familiar.”
With the preliminary amenities out of the way, Ellis moved quickly. He drew up an agency contract which Harry scarcely read before scribbling his signature at the bottom. Then the two men stood up and shook hands once again.
“I hope that this will be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship,” Ellis said. “I have every confidence in your book.”
Harry left the building walking on air. He couldn’t wait to get home to tell Lily.
In the agency, Ellis knew he had his work cut out for him. He knew he had a major novel to sell, but it was so long that several of his closest editorial contacts rejected the script without, Ellis suspected, even reading it.
Finally, one afternoon he lunched with Charlie Blair of Farnsworth and Barnes, an old friend and virtually his last hope. “Just read it, for Christ’s sake,” Ellis insisted. “Would I be pushing this if I didn’t think it was something truly out of the ordinary? Haven’t I given you enough winners to ask you to look yourself?”
Blair wearily acquiesced. “Okay, Ellis, you win. Leave the first hundred pages and I’ll get back to you.”
When he read the portion of the novel that night, he became as excited as Ellis had. The book was extraordinary.
The next morning he called Ellis and said tersely, “Bring that monster over right away.”
Closeting himself in his office, he did nothing all day until he reached the last page. What a book! he thought as he sat back to ponder its commercial possibilities.
The following Monday morning over coffee and Danish at the conference table, he tried to ignite his colleagues’ enthusiasm. Everyone trusted Blair’s judgment, but the other editors saw no way they could publish such a long book.
“For God’s sake, Charlie,” said his publisher. “It’s not a book, it’s a goddamn tome.”
Upset and angry, Blair went back to his office. As one of the owners, he knew he could take on any project he wanted, but he also knew the danger of publishing a book without full house support. After a while he picked up the phone and called Ellis.
“The book is great,” he said to the agent, “but everyone has problems with the length. It’s several hundred pages more than Gone With the Wind. Your writer is simply going to have to face some severe cutting if he ever wants his book published at a popular price.”
“I’m not sure how Kohle will react. He’s very protective of his work.”
“Tell him we don’t want to change anything, just shorten it. Look what Perkins did on Thomas Wolfe. Many major writers get cut and if I promise to do it myself, you know you’ll be in good hands. Tell him if we can reduce the book by a third, we’ll pay three thousand dollars.”
“Let me try,” said Ellis. “But I can’t guarantee success.”
“What’s Kohle like?” asked Blair. “I’m curious, after reading his book.”
“Intense, dedicated, believes passionately in his work. The whole world could cave in, so long as it doesn’t touch his typewriter. Lives on a farm in upstate New York with a wife and four children. Incidentally, she’s the former Lily Goodhue, and he’s from the Kohle banking clan.”
Charlie snorted. “Guy probably doesn’t even need the dough. Well, speak to him and let me know.”
At first Harry exploded when Ellis suggested cutting a third of the book.
“Forget it,” he shouted. “How dare they, those Philistines! The answer is definitely no.”
Ellis let Harry fume until he’d run out of steam. Then he said, “Come on, Harry, you’ve got to be reasonable. Several other publishing houses have refused even to read the book on account of its length. Charlie Blair has promised to work very closely with you, and he’s a hell of an editor. I know how you feel, but sometimes you’ve got to compromise.”
“When they’re done it will be theirs and not mine. I can’t do it, Ellis; I’ve struggled too hard.”
“Well,” Ellis said, “don’t make any hasty decisions. I think something can be worked out. Why don’t you sleep on it.”
After hanging up, Harry sat in his study for a long time. He knew the length of the book was a problem, and not only did he want Archie published, he wanted it to sell. He wasn’t so naive to believe the public would pay twice as much for an unknown writer than they did for Theodore Dreiser. So while it would kill him to do it—he loved every paragraph, sentence, and word in Archie Sanger, he decided he would have to give in. He only hoped that Charlie Blair was half as good an editor as Ellis said he was.
That night, he held Lily close, needing the comfort of her warmth and strength. “Lily, I’ve come to a decision about Charlie Blair’s offer; I’m going along with him.”
“But I thought you told Ellis you wouldn’t even consider it. We’re not that desperate for money. Why don’t you wait and try a few more publishing houses?”
“Because I want the book out. By the time it’s printed, America may well be at war. The timing will be perfect. Just because I’m a stubborn bastard doesn’t mean I’m unrealistic. After all, I don’t have Kohle blood in my veins for nothing.”
Hugging him, Lily knew how much he wanted his book to be a success. How much he needed to regain his father’s respect.
Harry slept restlessly, trying to think of a way to cut the book without losing its strength. Finally, at four in the morning, he had an inspiration. Barely able to contain his excitement, he called Ellis at home at eight.
“I’ve got it,” he shouted. “The perfect solution. The way the book is structured, we can publish it as two separate novels. The first would be The Wars of Archie Sanger, and the second The Redemption. It will just mean writing a couple of new chapters at the end of one and at the beginning of the other.”
“My God, that’s brilliant!” said Ellis. “And you’re supposed to be a novice at this game?”
“Do you think Blair will agree?”
“Hell, yes! Do you realize what this means? We’ll have two books to sell. I’ll call Charlie as soon as the office opens.”
“You’ll let me know how it goes?” Harry asked anxiously.
“The second I hear.”
Harry hung over the phone all morning, but it didn’t ring until almost lunchtime.
“I won’t keep you in suspense,” Ellis said. “Farnsworth and Barnes agree to the idea of two books and are offering five thousand dollars.”
Harry’s heart leapt up in his chest. God, how he and Lily had struggled to arrive at this day! His dream had come true.
“I’ll be damned,” he finally stammered. “There’s no way for them to back out?”
Ellis smiled. “Not a chance.”
There was a long silence before Harry said, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to. This is only the beginning.”
“Listen, Ellis. I know that it’s a hell of a long way, but could you drive up this evening? Lily has heard so much about you; she’d love to meet you. I want you here to share our celebration.”
Ellis was only too happy to oblige.
“Ellis Knox coming for dinner—oh my God, Harry! How am I going to entertain him, an important New York agent?”
“Just as you always do, darling. Perfectly.”
Lily piled the children into the car and dashed into the village, where for once she bought lavishly. This was no time for thrift.
By the time she returned home, her menu was set. First she made her silky homemade chicken-liver pâté which tasted almost like foie gras, then began preparing stuffed mushrooms and melba toast. Turning to the main course, she lovingly readied veal Cordon Bleu. She was most confident of her dessert: a spectacular lemon meringue pie.
She wanted everything to be absolutely perfect. Ellis was, amazingly, the first guest they had ever had to dinner—except, of course, her cousin Randolph, who was always happy to take potluck. But the heavy oak kitchen table wouldn’t do for tonight, and they didn’t have a dining room.
Finally she decided she would serve them in the living room. She dragged a round corner table in front of the fireplace and covered it with her one beautiful tablecloth. Then she put out her nicest china, an antique flowered Limoges she had found at a Fourth of July fair. Only she would know that her own dinner plate had a crack in it and that Harry’s saucer was chipped underneath. A huge bouquet of roses brightened the center of the table, and Lily looked at her handiwork with satisfaction.
She fed the children early, then put them to bed, quelling their protests with lavish bribes about taking them to the carnival the following week.
After that, she spent a little time in front of the old-fashioned pier glass, trying on her long-unused collection of Parisian frocks. She supposed that they had formed part of her trousseau; her life had certainly provided little opportunity to flaunt them. After a long day hoeing potatoes, it had seemed incongruous to dress for dinner.
Realizing that time was getting short, she chose a lettuce-green chiffon and brushed her hair into a loose pageboy. As the bell rang, she called downstairs for Harry to put out a couple of bottles of the magnificent French Bordeaux Randolph had given them at Christmas.
Ellis entered the small house to the crackling glow of the fire and the sweet smell of roses. He glanced about the cozy room with pleasure, turning just in time to see the loveliest woman he had ever laid eyes on walk into the room.
Noticing the Paris gown, he reminded himself she was a Goodhue, but what really took his breath was her creamy complexion, the tumble of curling red hair, and her brilliant green eyes.
“Mrs. Kohle?” he murmured. “I’m so pleased to meet you.” He was so entranced by her appearance he almost forgot to give Harry the champagne he’d bought to celebrate the sale of Archie Sanger.
The evening was marvelous, enchanted. The food was delicious, the wine fit for the gods. There was a special air about Lily when she asked her husband, “What do you think?” or “How do you feel about it, darling?” Ellis had never met a woman who made a man feel that important. Shockingly he realized that he was half in love with her himself and, quite frankly, he didn’t know what he would do about it.
Ellis was one of the most charming men Lily had ever met, though where her husband was lively, Ellis was reserved. But he had a twinkle in his eyes and a humorous turn to his mouth. Drifting from one topic to another, they discovered a great deal about each other and realized they were becoming friends. At the end of the evening, they drank a toast to Archie Sanger and their great hopes for the book.
As Ellis rose to leave, Lily found herself clasping his hand and saying warmly, “Be sure to come out and visit us again, won’t you? We’d love to have you.”
“You can count on it,” he smiled. “And next time, I’m determined to come early enough to meet your charming children.”
“Just be sure you come on one of their charming days,” Harry said, laughing.
On the drive home, all Ellis could think of was Lily Kohle. It wasn’t just her incredible looks. She was the most extraordinary woman he’d ever met, so different from all the New York women with whom he’d been involved since his bitter divorce ten years before. He couldn’t get over the gourmet meal she’d cooked without help. Or her obvious belief in Harry’s work. That’s right, he berated himself, Harry, her husband. She’s married to your newest client, and plainly, she’s very much in love with him. But try was he would, he couldn’t stop thinking of Lily Kohle.
Ellis had found out a lot about the Kohles that evening. Although they were both from wealthy families, neither of them had any money of their own. Scuttlebutt had it that Lily Goodhue had been disinherited for marrying a Jew, and Ellis had inferred that Harry Kohle had not fared much better. Old Benjamin Kohle had not taken kindly to the idea of his son becoming a writer.
Apparently, they had survived on Lily’s small inheritance from her grandmother and Harry’s articles—and Ellis knew just how much that kind of writing brought in. Lily had pitched in, selling homemade preserves and handmade clothes to let Harry finish his novel. And yet, in spite of their poverty, Lily seemed a happy woman.