“And she became your picture of Greece.”
“Exactly. I spent time hiking in Ia, the most beautiful village in the entire world. One afternoon I lost myself exploring the relics at the Monuments of Greece museum. I rode a moped around the island of Paros, passing rolling hills and men fishing for octopi. I climbed on a sixteenth-century castle in Naousa that was almost entirely submerged in the sea. I saw the Parthenon. I shopped in the bustling Plaka in Athens. But the picture in my mind of a smiling old lady in a black dress and heels climbing a hill with an orange in one hand and loaf of bread under her arm, chatting and laughing and passing white-washed walls with bright blue domes and vibrantly painted doors…that is my picture of Greece.”
“Breathtaking.”
“I never wanted to leave,” I answered.
“Fantastic,” Adam said in a hushed breath.
His enthusiasm was genuine and incredibly sexy. I looked at my sandwich and wondered if he could sense my attraction to him.
Adam leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “I’ve always wanted to see Greece. As a kid all of our vacations were to visit family in Baja. I suppose that now as an adult I have no excuse not to go.”
I blinked, and for a moment envisioned Adam, bare-chested, his arms wrapped around me, the wind whipping through our hair after a long hike along the caldera to Ia.
I resisted the temptation to bring up any mention of us going together. Instead I asked, “What family do you have in Baja?”
“My grandparents on my dad’s side. All my mom’s family is here.”
“In San Diego?”
“No, I mean in the States. They’re all in Arizona.”
“And what is your family like?” Even as the question left my mouth I regretted asking. It was awkwardly phrased and so generic, and it could only lead to questions about my family.
“My family’s pretty normal. I’m close to my parents, and I’ve got a brother and a sister, both younger, both in college. My brother’s getting a degree in animal science or something. To be a vet. He likes to remind me that soon I’ll be calling him ‘Dr. Mestas.’ And he’s engaged to be married to a really nice girl working on her CPA credentials. She’s just one test away from getting certified. They’re waiting until he finishes school to get married.”
“Sounds like they’re really responsible.”
“Yeah. It may sound weird, but I really am proud of my brother.”
He must be as close to his brother as I am to Cleo, I thought.
Adam continued. “My sister’s a little wild, but she’s only nineteen, trying out her new freedom. To hear it from my parents, you’d think her one goal in life is to torment them. I think they blow it out of proportion. She’s just not sure what she wants to do yet, but she knows that she wants to hang out with her friends and shop and travel right now. She’s going to be studying abroad next semester in South Africa. So, she’s a good kid. She just doesn’t know what she wants to do in the future.”
I shrugged. “Who does?”
“Yeah, really,” he laughed, but I was pretty sure that he was doing now what he wanted to do in the future. He was already on his path. And he probably assumed I was, too. “They all still live in Arizona, where I grew up. I see all of them on holidays and often during the summer. It’s a good excuse to go to the river.”
“Do you ski? Jet ski?” I imagined his muscular arms glistening with droplets of river water. Then I turned my eyes demurely back to my sandwich, which was almost finished now.
“Sure do. My folks have a boat and we go out and just cruise around, water ski, swim, relax in the sun. One-hundred-fifteen-degree weather is only good when you’re on the lake with nowhere you need to be anytime soon. Once I step back on land out there, I’m ready to head back to San Diego. Warm sunshine and cool ocean breezes, summer or winter. You really gotta love this city.”
“America’s finest,” I agreed. We toasted the city with our bottles of water, both almost empty.
“What about your family?” Adam finished the last bite of his sandwich. “Your last name is Tahan, which is Middle Eastern.”
“Good job,” I replied. “My dad was Syrian, and my mom is African-American. She’s working in Botswana right now with the Peace Corps, if you can believe it. My mom! After my dad…well, he passed away when I was a teenager. He and my sister were in a car accident, and she healed but he was just hurt too bad.” I lowered my eyes and my hands to my lap, giving myself a moment to regain my composure so that I would not cry. Adam gave me that moment without question, and when I felt controlled, I continued, “Sorry, that’s still just a sad memory. Anyway, after my mom got both my sister and me grown up and out of the house, she went on this inspired rampage to do something good for the world.”
“I’m sorry about your dad,” Adam said.
“Me, too. I didn’t really want to bring that up.”
“I imagine it must be hard to have something that tragic in your past and not have it at the forefront of your thoughts.”
“Some people avoid that. I try, but it doesn’t always work.” I thought about Cleo. She could keep the past in the past. And that just made me feel that it was my weakness that would not let me keep it there.
For a moment, we just stared down awkwardly at the empty plates on the table. I noticed my watch and broke the silence. “I should probably get back to work pretty soon.”
“How does the rest of your week look?”
“Oh, I…” I scanned my internal calendar for appointments. “I’m pretty free after work hours. Oh, but Thursday afternoon I have to see the police.”
“Are they hauling you down to the station?”
“Yeah, for questioning.”
“Of course.”
Adam picked up my tray and returned it to the counter. He held the door open for me and we made our way to the elevator.
“Despite a dark turn in the conversation, Adam, I really enjoyed our lunch.”
“Me, too,” he replied, and he seemed to be telling the truth. “A lunch date is kind of only a half date, you know. We should have a real date. Not one during business hours. One at night.”
“So we’d have a total of one and a half dates? How about Saturday evening?”
“Saturday is all right. But let’s make that one tentative. If I can’t delegate it to someone else, I may have to go to this book reading and signing thing, to interview the author. It’s sci-fi.” He made a face. “Let’s plan something more solid in the meantime. Say Wednesday?”
“A date on a weeknight? How scandalous!”
Adam lifted an eyebrow. “Are you a scandalous kinda gal?”
“I accept Wednesday night dates. You judge.”
“Can I pick you up at your condo on Wednesday, say at seven?”
I’ll need to clean and dust. Buy some good wine. Talk Liam into going out for the night. But what I said aloud was, “Sure! Sounds great!” I smiled invitingly, wondering if he would move in for a kiss. This time I wouldn’t turn away.
“I’ll be at your place at seven, day after tomorrow. I know where you live.” We reached the bottom floor, exited the building, and went our separate ways, kissless. I discreetly watched him in the reflection of the windows across the street. I was overjoyed to see him turn around twice to check me out. And I thought I caught him smiling with what looked in the reflection like satisfaction.
CHAPTER 7
My streak of bad luck was officially broken. I had a follow-up date planned with a hot guy and I felt my new position was inspiring me. Maybe I was just handling the easy stuff, but I was firing through it.
I checked with the typesetter on the author’s proof corrections for Safety in Numbers, which had been turned in after my friendly reminder.
I made my very first offer to a previously unpublished writer for his sizzling mystery, which I couldn’t wait to get out on the market. I had made his day.
Mediocre manuscripts were getting short comments to be incorpora
ted into rejection letters, and I had already decided to let the interns do that. Delegating the more mundane tasks would be the only way I’d ever get all these new responsibilities handled.
I finished penning, “Interesting characters. Not quite ‘mystery’ enough for us. Try some independent presses with less niche,” and dialed the intern department. Whoever happened to be in that day would answer the communal phone. It was Sue Talley, and I asked her to come over to my office when she got a chance. By the time she arrived, I had decided it was good luck that she had answered the phone. This new assignment might help her confidence after those remarks Rain had made when Sue had tried to “cover” for me.
Sue was in my office before I could pat myself on the back for the idea. She came in with a worried look, and I quickly assured her that this was a good meeting, and that I was sorry I hadn’t made that clear when I called.
She visibly relaxed and casually looked around the office. “I’m so glad you got this nice office. You deserve it more than Ms. Orwell, anyway.”
“Thanks. Have a seat. Sorry that chair is so uncomfortable. I keep meaning to bring in my old chair to replace it, but then whoever takes my desk will end up with that one.” Of course, the truth was that I was sure I’d be back at my old desk soon and I didn’t want to end up in the uncomfortable chair Sue was settling herself in now.
“Oh, please, no problem. Hey, you really need to re-decorate this room. Seriously, it still looks like Ms. Orwell’s.”
I cleared my throat awkwardly. “I actually don’t officially have this office yet. I’m just occupying it while I’m taking care of her stuff and while HR is interviewing for Rain’s replacement.”
Sue waved her hand and laughed. “Please. You will so get this job. Gosh, Eliza, there’s no question about it.”
Do I even want it? I asked myself. But I was on fire today, which pumped up my confidence and I answered my own question. I’m up to any challenge. I’m better than Rain any day!
I picked up the pile of papers, ten manuscripts’ first fifty pages. Sue grabbed them excitedly and said, “That was quick! That one that was on the top of the stack. I thought it was good. Did you agree with Ms. Orwell’s comments or mine?” As she spoke, she shuffled through the bundled pages.
I blushed. “Oh, um, actually these are different manuscripts. These were old and easily rejected. I’m still going to get to that stack you gave me, and I really want to give them my full attention.”
Sue wore her emotions on her young face, and I knew she was disappointed. “Oh, sure, okay. I totally understand. Just let me know when it’s ready.”
“Which is the one you were saying you found promise in? I’ll be sure to take a closer look at that one.”
“It was the first one on the stack. It is currently untitled, according to the cover letter. So, what do you want me to do with these?”
“Well, I usually just edit the standard rejection letter, inputting names instead of Dear Author and incorporating my nicer comments to give them a boost. But I am so busy with Ms. Orwell’s stuff, as well as my own, that I was thinking that you could do it.”
Sue looked up, interested.
“You’re doing so well. And I think this would be good developmental opportunity for you. What do you think?”
Sue looked at the note on the top manuscript. “I think that sounds great! This is an honor, Eliza!”
I decided then that this could be Sue’s pet project. To tell her I’d have assigned it to whoever happened to be in the office would have been quite mean at this point. Sue was doing well, and she was such a hard worker. And any extra projects to highlight on her résumé would help put her ahead of other newcomers to the publishing industry.
“Why don’t you roll that chair around the desk and I’ll pull up the template and we’ll go over the manuscript on top. Then I’ll email you the template and you can work on composing those letters. Once you’re done, go ahead and drop them in my inbox with the manuscripts, and I’ll sign them and send them back to the intern office for whoever is doing the mailings that day. How does that sound?”
Sue rolled her chair around, nodding ferociously and smiling. She took notes as I explained what needed to be done. And I added another point to my day’s confidence level.
* * *
By Wednesday, order was returning to my office life again. Sue had returned the letters first thing that morning. All that was left to be done was read them through and sign my name. I went through them, reading them carefully since they’d have my name on them, and signed them.
I read through the final one in the pile.
Dear Ms. Edwards:
Thank you for submitting your novel Silver Strike to J Press. I found the characters quite interesting and the story well-written. However, it is not clearly mystery genre, which means that we unfortunately cannot accept it to our mystery division. I suggest, however, that you try publishers with less focus on niche. This book may be perfect for the right independent press.
This decision does not reflect poorly on your manuscript, and we do wish you the best of luck elsewhere.
Warm regards,
Eliza Tahan
Mystery Editor
J Press
Not bad at all. I signed this last one and sighed in relief at not having to write these anymore. And I was glad that Sue was so happy about taking over the job. I carried the stack to the intern office’s to-mail box and gave Sue a thumbs-up in passing.
“Good job, Sue. They were outstanding.”
She stood up immediately. “Were they?”
I nodded and made my way to the door. “If you are up for it, this can be your own personal task for as long as you’d like it to be. You are quite the writer!”
She blushed. “Oh, thank you. I really love writing. I just love it. Even letters. I’m grateful for this opportunity! Do you think you’ll have any more for me today?”
“I don’t have any yet, but if I’m as productive today as I was yesterday, I’ll be giving you a call this afternoon. What time do you leave?”
Sue looked at her wall calendar. “Um, today’s Wednesday. My first class is at one-thirty today. Will that give you enough time?”
“Sure. I’ll get through some manuscripts this morning and get you a stack by eleven. If you don’t get to them today, you can finish them tomorrow.”
“I actually have something going tomorrow. An all-day thing. I was planning on taking the day off.”
“That’s fine—” I began, but she cut in.
“No, actually, this is important to me. If I can’t finish everything, I’ll postpone tomorrow’s thing. My boyfriend will understand. We’re together all the time. He’ll survive one canceled date.”
We laughed. Date. Date. Date. It rang in my mind. For once, I also had a date. Tonight! Yes, a Wednesday date!
On the walk back to my desk, I couldn’t stop picturing Adam and me drinking some delicious wine on my couch, talking about something really interesting but also sort of funny, laughing now and then. I stopped myself at the part when he started kissing me, and running his fingers up my back. I’d save that thought for relishing during the long commute home.
* * *
By the time that eleven rolled around, I had another stack of manuscripts for Sue, which I left on her desk while she was on the intern phone. Her back to the door and to me, she was speaking in hushed tones. “…Important…see you every night…canceled only this one time…has nothing to do with honoring my man…no, I still love you…” I quietly left Sue in the otherwise empty room thinking that Rain would have fired her for using the company phone. Of course, I used the company phone almost every day, and I’d bet Rain had, too. And Rain would never have walked over here to deliver something. She’d have called Jane into her office to get it or, if Jane were away from her desk, she’d have dropped the pile on Jane’s chair with no explanation, so that Jane would have had to come into her office anyway to get instructions.
I had a ma
nuscript in hand now that I had not left with Sue. It had potential, but it was borderline chick lit, and I wanted to get a second opinion about publishing it as a mystery, so I called up another editor. I knew she appreciated a good mystery as much as she did a nice Coach bag, and she agreed to take a look at it and advise me. Finally everything on my to-do list up to lunch was crossed off.
I decided to have lunch in, and carried back to the office a small plate of vegetarian stuffed grape leaves and a Diet Pepsi from the Arabic place down the street. The owners liked me and had tried to speak to me in Arabic ever since the one time that I paid with my credit card and they had noticed my last name. I’d tried to tell them that I didn’t know much Arabic, but they either didn’t understand or didn’t believe me, because they still tried. So instead of arguing, I’d nod and smile and walk away with my meal and a generous helping of guilt for retaining so little of my dad’s native language. What kind of daughter was I anyway?
The answer to that question popped up on my computer as I checked my personal email while picking up a stuffed grape leaf with my fingers. The only message in my personal email box was from Cleo. She reported that she had spoken with Mom, who was doing well, teaching English in a small village in Botswana. She noted that Mom would be moving soon to an office-type job. Mom wasn’t happy to leave the school, but willing to go if that was where she was most needed. Cleo noted that she herself was happy about the move, because she worried about Mom in the village. Cleo then made a joke in Arabic, but I understood so little of it that I only got that it was a joke at all when she wrote in caps “HAHAHA” afterwards. What kind of daughter was I? A lesser daughter. Cleo was the star.
Every time I began comparing myself to Cleo, I was forced to remember that she had much more to prove than I did, which had pushed her to greater heights. I would not want to be the star if I had to go through the explosion that created it.
Best of Luck Elsewhere Page 8
