“An excellent book.” He tapped his large ears. “I listened to an audio recording of that work while driving to the Masters this spring. I found it quite moving.”
Just then, a breeze blew in from the open window behind his desk, fluttering some pages. Franklin put his hand down to stop them from flying onto the floor. “I need to get a paperweight. I love to breathe the fresh air, despite the humidity.”
I smiled at him. I preferred to inhale Freon-free air as well. “I’d better finish my rounds. See you soon, Franklin.”
“I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends,” he said, returning my smile.
I rapped on the next door but received no response. I checked the name. Jude Hudson. He must not be in yet, either. Bypassing Bentley’s door, I returned to the lobby.
I was just about to leave for Espresso Yourself when a man emerged at the top of the stairs. His appearance was so startling that I froze on the spot, Zach’s ten-dollar bill hanging limply in my hand. It took me several seconds to react, because the man seemed so incongruous with the surroundings that I believed he might be an apparition. He had the appearance of someone I’d expect to see on the street corner with a shopping cart filled with possessions, but not here, in the pristine offices of the Novel Idea Literary Agency. What had brought him upstairs? Was he lost? Confused? Off his meds?
“May I help you, sir?” I spoke gently, as if I were addressing a frightened child or injured animal.
The man scratched his long, knotty beard and stared at me with a pair of dark, deep-set eyes. Though partially ob-scured by wild, bushy brows, those eyes seemed haunted. The man’s dirt-encrusted fingers abandoned his beard and traveled to a spot on his scalp, which he clawed roughly. The action seemed to further entangle the mat of unkempt hair, which was the color of steel wool. I couldn’t see the other hand, as it was hidden behind his back.
My eyes traveled from the man’s weathered face to his dingy clothes. Despite the warm temperature outside, he wore long pants and a long-sleeved denim jacket over a striped T-shirt. None of his apparel looked as though it had been washed recently, and judging from the shade of the feet protruding from a pair of tattered leather sandals, he hadn’t seen the inside of a shower stall for quite some time, either. My heart went out to him. How had he become this decrepit and troubled creature?
“You’re new,” he croaked as though his throat were parched and raw.
“I am,” I agreed with a warm smile. “Would you like some water? It’s so humid out already.”
He nodded humbly and withdrew a handful of wild-flowers from behind his back. I had never seen flowers like the ones he held forth. They were shaped like snowballs, made of dozens and dozens of tiny white blossoms, and at the base of each individual blossom was a reddish purple ring. The leaves were large and waxy, and the stem was brown and wiry, as though the stalks had been clipped from a bush.
“These are for you,” the man said in his gravelly voice and gently laid the flowers on the coffee table.
I stared at the blooms for a moment, totally taken aback by the bizarre scene in which I was somehow a player. And I had thought a quota of query letters would consume my entire day.
Shrugging myself into action, I removed the bottled water from my purse and handed it to the man. “I’ll accept your gift if you’ll accept mine.”
“Thank you.” He smiled, displaying a set of surprisingly white and perfectly aligned teeth. The frightened look in his eyes abated. He took a deep, grateful drink of water, and I wondered if it had been a long time since someone had shown this man any kindness.
“My name’s Marlette.” He spoke softly as though wary of attracting attention. “Have you read my letter yet?”
A homeless man had submitted a query letter? “I don’t think so. This is my first day, and at this point, I’ve only had the chance to read two.”
He cast a glance at the folders on the coffee table. A look of pleading crossed his face. “There’s one in with the flowers. I always put one in with the flowers.”
Suddenly, the sound of voices tripped down the hall. Eyes widening in alarm, Marlette turned and fled down the stairs, leaving a waft of foul-smelling air behind him.
“There goes our resident lunatic,” Bentley Burlington-Duke said to me. “He’ll be back. He always comes in twice. Just give him an hour or two in the sun to get a little riper. That man has absolutely no sense of personal hygiene.” Without warning, she grabbed the flowers from the coffee table, gave them a disgusted shake, and dropped them onto the floor. Turning to the incredibly attractive man who’d accompanied her down the hall, she said, “Dispose of these in the Dumpster, would you, Jude?”
This must be Jude Hudson. My, my. He was so handsome that I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Focusing on his chiseled features, I briefly forgot about Marlette’s query letter.