Talk about a job perk. I pictured myself beginning each morning with a caramel latte and a croissant.
“Let’s actually make it through a day of work first,” I chided myself. Taking a deep breath, I smoothed my skirt and hurried up a set of wide, sweeping stairs that led to a well-lit reception area. A leather sofa, two plump club chairs, and a polished mahogany coffee table dominated the empty room.
On its slick surface, books had been arranged in a perfect circle around a slim vase of calla lilies. I took a moment to examine the titles. If the Novel Idea Literary Agency represented all the authors on that table, then I had stepped into a workplace representing a remarkably diverse group of writers. From Idiot’s Guides to erotic romance to graphic horror novels, no genre seemed to be off-limits. Excitement surged within me. I felt as though I already belonged.
There was no receptionist’s desk, only a small table stacked with manila folders, unsorted mail, and a telephone. A sign said, “Dial 1 to announce your presence.” Ignoring the instruction, because Ms. Burlington-Duke had told me to come straight to her office, I hesitantly made my way down the main corridor, noting the agent names on brass placards on every closed door. Suddenly, a door to my right opened and a very short, very round woman in a floral dress ran right into me. She bounced backward with a high giggle.
“Oops! Silly me!” Her round cheeks flushed pink. “Can I help you, dear?”
The woman reminded me of the librarian at Trey’s elementary school. With a big, soft body and a generous heart, she, too, had favored flowered dresses and orthopedic footwear. The entire student body adored her.
“I’m the new intern,” I answered and then added, doubtfully, “Are you Ms. Burlington-Duke?”
The woman guffawed, her bosom jiggling in mirth. “No, dear. I’m Flora Meriweather. I handle the children’s and young adult acquisitions. See?” She gestured inside her office.
Leaning over the threshold, I took in a whitewashed wooden desk covered by disheveled stacks of paper, a Tiffany-style lamp, and a computer. There was a butter yellow file cabinet in the corner and a set of forest green bookshelves lining the longest wall. As for the walls themselves, they had been hand painted to resemble the art of a famous children’s book illustrator. I waited for the name to surface in my brain. “Tasha Tudor?”
Flora was delighted. “You’re the first intern to recognize her work!” She clapped her pudgy hands. “Oh, I think this means you’re meant to be here.”
I could have hugged her, but I restrained myself and settled for a grateful smile. “I hope so. My name’s Lila.”
“Oh, that sounds just like a storybook character! Maybe a fairy or a flower princess.” Her merry face dimpled with pleasure. “Do you read children’s books?”
I thought back to the days when I used to read aloud to Trey. “When my son was little, he was crazy about the Hardy Boys and anything by Roald Dahl, but the books we read over and over were Judy Blume’s Superfudge and Beverly Cleary’s Ramona the Brave.” I traveled down memory lane even further. “Personally, I loved the Little House on the Prairie books.”
Flora clapped her hands with glee. “I recently sold a series of chapter books called Laura Ingalls, Prairie Detective. Anyone who ever liked Laura Ingalls or Nancy Drew will just yum these books up!”
“They do sound wonderful,” I agreed.
“Come this way, my dear. Bentley’s in her office, neck-deep in contract negotiations.” She lowered her voice. “She’s working on a major deal for a thriller writer. The man’s desperately been trying to get published for years, and it seems he’s finally penned a winner! Bentley says he’ll be even bigger than Patterson. His name is Carson Knight. Wait until you meet him. He’s so charming he’d cause a catfight among the Disney Princesses.”
We stopped at the end of the hallway. Flora wished me luck and hastily retreated. With her last words hanging in the air, I couldn’t shake the image of Snow White pulling Sleeping Beauty’s hair or Belle biting Cinderella on the hand. Once composed, I knocked on the door.
“Enter!” an authoritative voice ordered.
I stepped into the president’s office.
It was all glass, chrome, and black. A large, black-framed, arched window covered most of the wall facing the door. In one corner, three black leather chairs surrounded a round glass table with chrome legs, upon which sat three tidy and very tall stacks of paper. The austere white wall was broken up with a series of black-and-white abstracts framed in chrome. Black bookshelves with glass doors lined the opposite wall.