Blind Submission

by Debra Ginsberg

  “You look good, Elise.”

  “Thanks, honey, but I have to say you’ve looked better. Well, maybe healthier is a better word. You’re a little pale.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t get out much these days,” I said.

  “I imagine you wouldn’t,” she said, “working for her. Come into the kitchen. We’ll get you something to eat and then you’ll tell me all about it. Best room in the house, the kitchen. It’s the heart and soul of a home, don’t you think?” She led me by the hand as she prattled on. “Nourishment, the nurturing that comes with cooking. Women used to have their babies on the kitchen table in the old days.”

  “Elise,” I said, smiling, “women did not have babies on the kitchen table in the old days.”

  “How do you know?” she said, sitting me down in a comfortable cushioned chair at her own kitchen table. “It’s a little-known fact. Good things happen in the kitchen.”

  I pushed the hair out of my face and sighed. I could believe good things happened in Elise’s cheerful kitchen. I felt comforted and safe and I could see myself sitting there forever.

  “Elise,” I said as she took a tin of loose tea from her pantry and filled the kettle with water, “it’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

  “Me, too, honey,” she said. “I’m very glad you called.”

  “I should have called you long ago. You know, before you left me that message. I’m sorry about that. It’s unforgivable.”

  “Angel, please don’t apologize. There’s nothing to be sorry for at all. I can imagine how busy you’ve been….” She stopped and stole a glance at me. “Anyway, you’re here now, that’s the important thing.” She opened the fridge and cupboards, clattering plates, cups, and silverware.

  “Thanks for letting me come over today,” I said. “I know it was short notice.”

  “Don’t be silly, Angel. You can come over any time you like. Hang on a minute now, I’m going to get you set up here.”

  As Elise busied herself putting food on plates and preparing tea, I felt my body begin to relax. It wasn’t the sleepy kind of unwinding that comes at the end of a hectic day, but a kind of yogalike awareness. It was as if I were slowly coming back to myself.

  “There,” she said, placing a steaming mug in front of me, “drink that. It has great restorative powers.”

  “What’s in it?” I asked.

  “Plain old ordinary English Breakfast,” Elise said. “Nothing like it.” She pointed at the mug. “Remember those?”

  I turned the thick white ceramic mug around and saw the words Blue Moon Books written underneath a cobalt gibbous moon. Years ago, in one of her efforts to increase sales, Elise had ordered several cases of those mugs for the store. We’d sold very few of them, as I remembered, but almost all of them had disappeared.

  “You managed to save one,” I said. “I haven’t seen these in forever.”

  “I thought you’d get a kick out of it,” Elise said, and put a full plate and fork next to the mug. “And here’s some homemade carrot cake for you. That’s right, I made it. Been doing a lot of cooking lately, actually. All that time selling cookbooks and I hardly ever checked them out. Anyway, eat, Angel.” Elise sat down next to me with her own cup of tea and watched as I picked up my fork and started eating. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until the first delicious bite, and then I couldn’t stop, wolfing it down as if it would vanish if I didn’t get it into my mouth as fast as possible.

  “Good?” she asked.

  “Amazing,” I answered, my mouth full of cake and raisins.

  “Well, there’s plenty more,” she said, “so keep eating.”

  In the middle of my second slice, I took a breath and leaned back. I traced my fingers over the moon on my mug. “So you’re really going to try this again?” I asked her.

  Elise shrugged. “The bookstore? I have to. You always knew that, didn’t you, Angel? It’s in my blood. What can I do?”

  “But you seem so relaxed. I mean, it must be nice not having to worry about the store all the time. The books…”

  “Yes, that’s true, it’s been great. I wasn’t intending to get back into all of that mess again, Angel, that’s the truth. But…Well, here’s what tipped me over the edge. I was in a certain bookstore, which shall remain nameless,” she said with mock seriousness, and then laughed, “and I was just snooping around. You know, old habits die hard. Anyway, here’s this kid who obviously needs a book for school and he asks the clerk, who, by the way, can’t be much older than the customer and looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, than wandering around a bookstore, if it could even be called a bookstore—I mean, they’ve got everything but plumbing supplies, I could practically do my grocery shopping there…. Anyway, the kid’s got a piece of paper with the name of the book written down and he says to the clerk, ‘I’m looking for a book by Victor Hugo called Less Miserable. Can you tell me where to find it?’ And the clerk, in his infinite wisdom, says, ‘Uh, I’ve never heard of it. But why don’t you try the self-help section?’”

  I chuckled and Elise joined in. “We laugh, Angel,” she said, “but really, it’s so sad. I mean, there’s dumbing down and then there’s dumbing down, you know?”

  My laughter turned into a long sigh. “Ah, Blue Moon,” I said. “Those were the days.”

  Elise smiled at me. “I’d love to try it again with you, Angel. I don’t know if you’ve given that any thought. You know, after I left you that message I realized how presumptuous it was to ask you to even think about giving up your job to take a chance on something as foolhardy as a bookstore. I just thought, well…I guess I’ve really missed you, Angel.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about it, Elise. Looks like I’m going to need a job, actually, and probably a loan, too.” I looked down at the table, at my crumb-filled plate and my empty Blue Moon mug, and I could feel angry tears brimming in my eyes. I blinked hard and folded my hand into a fist. Elise reached out and gently covered my hand with her own.

  “What’s going on, Angel?” she asked. “Is it Malcolm? Is he okay?”

  He would be, I thought, once he cleaned himself up and slept off his drunkenness. I’d taken him home right before I’d called Elise and driven over to her house. After several cups of coffee, he’d been sober enough to get himself into his apartment, but he was still wasted, ugly, and ranting about how I’d ruined his life. Out of some vestigial need to take care of him, I waited in my car until I saw him unlock his door and go inside. But as I watched him disappear, I found myself wondering how it was possible that I’d wanted to marry him, that I ever believed I loved him.

  “We’ve broken up,” I told Elise.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be,” I told her. “It’s definitely for the best. He…God, Elise, I don’t even know where to start.”

  Elise got up and put more water in the kettle. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, Angel? There’s no hurry now, okay? We’ve got as long as you need.”

  I opened my mouth then and the words came pouring out. I left nothing out, no detail about Lucy, Malcolm, or Damiano or anything that we’d done with or to one another. I told her about the books, the sales, and what went on in the office. I told her about Lucy’s hellish contract with me, which I’d have to break because I couldn’t possibly work for her anymore after what had happened. And I told her, chapter by chapter, about Blind Submission.

  I didn’t stop talking until the daylight faded and the kitchen grew dark.

  Elise turned on the light and I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the electric glare. The table was littered with cups and glasses from the unending rounds of tea, coffee, and water that Elise had prepared for both of us. She pushed them together in the center of the table and started to carry them to the sink.

  “So you think Anna’s the one who’s been writing this mystery manuscript?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure what I think a
nymore, Elise. I’m thinking now that it has to be the two of them. That’s the only way it makes sense—the only way either one of them would have enough information.” I told Elise how, after two cups of Italian roast, Malcolm had been coherent enough to tell me that he and Anna had spoken on several occasions. Somewhere in there Anna took Malcolm’s selfish attempts to extract information as some kind of romantic attention and made a play for him. Then he’d dumped her as quickly as Lucy had dumped him, which explained the tearful phone call Jackson had told me about.

  “It’s not even so much what Malcolm did,” I told Elise, “as how she sat there while I told her that whole story about Malcolm with that disapproving look on her face. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, Elise—it would freeze.”

  “Let me say this first, Angel. I’m not upset that you’re through with Malcolm. I’m sorry for your sake that it got so ugly, but I never liked him. Never thought he was right for you.”

  “I wish you’d told me,” I said. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Some things you have to discover for yourself, Angel. You know that.” She paused, taking time to formulate her words. “I could have told you about Lucy, too. I’ve always known that she was a…difficult woman.”

  “Putting it mildly,” I said.

  “Well, I didn’t really know the extent of it, that’s for sure. There have always been rumors, but you know…But what good would it have done to discourage you, anyway, Angel? And I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “You are? Why?”

  “You don’t see it yet, do you?”

  “See what?”

  “How good you are at what you do. Look how far you’ve come in such a short time. You’ve found your true calling, Angel, even if it came at a certain cost. I mean, Karanuk! Would you ever have thought you’d have a…a literary relationship with one of our most famous authors?”

  That stopped me short and I couldn’t think of how to reply to her. Elise washed her hands and dried them with a bright lemon-colored dish towel. She walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Damiano sounds like a good man,” she said. “Much better for you than Malcolm. I’m so glad you found him, Angel. And I can’t wait to read his book.” She paused, considering something. “Maybe you can get him to consider appearing at my new store when it comes out.”

  “But…you don’t think…”

  “That you’ve scared him off? That he really is Vaughn Blue?” Elise gave a breathy delivery to the character’s name and grinned.

  “Well, when you put it that way…I know it sounds ridiculous, Elise, but I’ve been trying to reach him….” I couldn’t stop the quick sob that escaped from my throat. “What if…if…”

  “He’ll turn up, Angel,” Elise said. “And sooner than you think. I’m quite sure of it.”

  “How do you know that? Have you also got some special information I’m not aware of?” I smiled at her as I said it to let her know that I was kidding, but her face had become very serious.

  “What?” I said.

  She took a deep breath. “Angel, do you remember I told you I had something to show you?”

  “Oh, right,” I said as it came back to me. “Now I do. What is it?”

  “Hold on,” she said. “Let me go get it.”

  “Is it bigger than a breadbasket?” I joked as she left the kitchen. I waited, rubbing out the wet circles of condensation on the table, until she came back a minute later holding an old, beaten-up paperback book.

  “I thought this was just funny when I found it,” Elise said, “and that’s why I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I thought you’d get a kick out of it. But it’s taken on a whole new meaning now. You’ll have to decide what you want to do with it. Here.” She handed me the book.

  I looked at the cracked spine first and noticed that the book was so old its publisher no longer existed. I turned it around and saw that the cover, probably once a garish purple, had faded over time to a grayish puce. The title, Flaming Heart, was printed in large block type and surrounded by orange flames. Below that, in hot-pink script, were these words:

  A novel by Lucy Fiamma.

  I held it in my hands for what seemed like a very long time, staring at the letters until they blurred, and then I turned it over again and read the back cover.

  She was born to a life on the streets but was destined to rise above them to the mansions she saw every day….

  Eden Summer was no ordinary prostitute. With the face of a goddess and the sex appeal of a centerfold, she was desired and pursued by rich and powerful men from around the world. Using her wiles and wisdom, Eden played her men for money and position. She was poised to marry the wealthiest man in the world and live a life of power and influence, and then came the day when she was betrayed…by her flaming heart.

  I opened the book and found a small black-and-white photo of a much younger but instantly recognizable Lucy on the inside cover. The title page had been torn or had fallen out, leaving the dedication as the book’s first page.

  For the Eden inside every woman.

  I flipped through the brittle, faded pages and stopped at random.

  Eden used her body like a knife to cut through the heart of a man’s desire. She loved to hold them hostage, to withhold, then give of her sex until they were trembling and helpless with passion.

  I closed the book and looked up at Elise, who had been standing statuelike over me. I pointed to the cover.

  “Well, they certainly got the color right, didn’t they?” I said. “Prose doesn’t get any more purple than that. Where did you find this?”

  “Buried in Blue Moon,” Elise said. “I found it when I cleaned out. Angel, I hope you know that if I’d known what was going on with you, I would have found a way to get this to you much sooner.”

  “Of course you would have,” I said. I looked again at Lucy’s name on the cover to make sure that it was still there. “Obviously pre-Karanuk,” I said.

  “Obviously. Way pre-Karanuk. She has no idea I have this…this opus of hers. I’m quite sure she’d want it back if she did.”

  “Goddamn her!” I spat. “I should have seen it, Elise. I should have been able to figure it out.”

  “How?” Elise said. “How could you have put yourself in that mind?”

  “And to think I was worried about getting fired,” I said. “Can I keep it?” I asked, holding the book up.

  “Of course,” Elise said. I stood up and, very carefully, placed the book in my purse.

  “You know, Angel,” Elise began, “Blind Submission really does have quite an intriguing concept behind it.” Her voice was sly and conspiratorial, as if she were sharing a particularly juicy secret.

  “Well, she’s certainly got a lot of interest in New York,” I said. “But Elise…”

  “With the right pitch,” Elise went on, “and of course, with your editing…You could sell it, Angel.” I looked up at her and saw her nodding sagely. “You can make this work for you, Angel.”

  “But I can’t work for Lucy anymore. And if I quit, I have to pay—”

  “Honey, you’re not going to have to pay a thing. Think about it, Angel. I mean really think about it this time. I’d love to work with you again, but I don’t think that’s really what you want, is it?”

  I looked up at her and smiled. “What an amazing piece of luck it is that you’re in my life, Elise.”

  “And I’ll always be, honey. Now, you should go home, take a hot bath, and read that manuscript again. You’ll be looking at it with fresh eyes. It’s all going to come to you, Angel. You’ll see.”

  I stood and picked up my purse, holding it gingerly as if it contained a bomb. In a sense, it did. I leaned over and hugged Elise hard. “Thank you,” I whispered into her hair, “for everything.”

  “You’re okay, right?” she asked me. She reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t need to worry about you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “In fact,
I’m better than I’ve been for a long time.”

  But Elise still seemed unconvinced. “You sure about that? You seem a little too…calm.”

  “Really, I’m okay, Elise,” I told her. “I’m going to go home. I’m going to call my mother. I’m going to take that hot bath. And then we’ll see what happens after that.”

  SEVENTEEN

  BLIND SUBMISSION

  Chapter 13

  Alice sat down at Carol’s desk and laid her tools in order. There wasn’t much to contemplate: a bottle of fine, single-malt Scotch, an unopened package of razor blades, and a small sheaf of correspondence from one of the country’s most prestigious publishers. Although Alice knew the contents of this file better than she cared to admit, she opened it one more time and leafed through. There was the original letter of interest in “her” novel. Alice read that again for the slight thrill it could still give her, despite her growing numbness.

  “We are very excited about this book,” the letter read, “and feel that the author’s voice is truly unique. This novel is certainly one of a kind.”

  That Alice knew the truth behind the novel’s creation mattered not a bit to her. She felt the same slow flush of triumph that had come the very first time she’d laid eyes on that letter. Below the letter were several handwritten notes describing the details of the sale. Alice read through those carefully as well. She marveled again at Carol Moore’s ability to put together the perfect deal. A copy of the actual book contract lay beneath the notes. Carol had made sure that this contract had been drawn up and signed in record time. Alice couldn’t bring herself to look at it again. What did it matter if she, as the author, had gotten everything Carol had asked for? It was all over now. The contract had been canceled, nullified. Not only was the publisher refusing to print the book, but they were taking legal action against Alice and Carol both. That was the final piece of paper in the file that Alice held in front of her.