The Fan Letter

by Nancy Temple Rodrigue

  The clerk at the printers came to know Leslie on a first-name basis. Leslie would hand her the typed pages and say, “Two copies. The usual.”

  The books and an introduction letter were mailed to Adventure Novels. Leslie knew it took three days for the mail to reach New York. She figured she'd get a response within two weeks.

  In six days the novels were back in Amherst. Leslie received her first rejection notice. The publishing company dealt only with agents. They were kind enough to enclose a list of literary agents. They were sorry they could not recommend a certain one.

  The list was seven pages long, printed front and back, four columns to a page, twelve to fourteen agencies to a column. Leslie stared at the pages. Over six hundred names all across the country. She rubbed her forehead as a dull throbbing started behind her left eye.

  Saturday was spent back at the library comparing her list to the list in the most current writer's guide. Most agencies were crossed off. Some were circled. A few received an arrow which Leslie used to indicate agents willing to work with new authors and who also accepted adventure novels.

  She then copied an example of a submission letter and silently wondered why she was doing all of this. The throbbing had resumed behind her left eye.

  The printer was visited again to get sets of sample pages and chapters out of her books. The typewriter was drug out of her small closet to type the first six letters to six different agencies.

  Within three weeks, the rejection letters began coming in. For some reason, Leslie assumed they would be pink, but they looked like regular business correspondence. All six were worded differently with six different reasons for the rejection: They didn't handle that type of work; They only handled established authors; They didn't want any more “Time Police” authors. Regardless of how it was worded, it all meant the same thing—No.

  Six more letters and copies were mailed out. As the rejects came back, Leslie's outlook sagged.

  Her parents told her, “You've don't your best. Be proud of your books and just let it be.”

  When the fifth letter arrived, Leslie opened it to see if this agency had come up with a new reason to refuse her work.

  “Dear Ms. Nelson,

  Thank you so much for submitting your sample chapters. We are interested in seeing the completed manuscript of THE LONER FINDS LOVE. If your work meets our requirements, we will forward the manuscript to Adventure Novels. Here's hoping for a long, successful relationship.

  Sincerely,

  Wallace Quimby

  Literary Agent“

  Leslie spent the next two hours on the phone. Janice was thrilled. Anne “just knew this would happen.” Mom was pleased. Dad wasn't home.

  Leslie also dropped a letter in the mail to Phillip Beck to tell him the latest happening. She again sent it through his agent. In ten days a typed letter came back.

  “Dear Leslie,

  I'm pleased your good work is being sent on. Remember that to succeed you must keep trying.

  As I am overwhelmed with my own scripts and books and such, I cannot read your other books.

  Best wishes for success.

  Sincerely,

  Phillip Beck“

  With renewed zeal, Leslie concentrated on rewriting her third book, CHATEAU REX. With growing appreciation and fondness for “her actor,” she was determined to make this her best work. And if her work was published, she was also determined to see it sent to Majestic Studio. This would be a role worthy of Phillip Beck!

  She kept the envelope from Phillip on the coffee table in front of her work area. She now had his home address.

  It took another month to receive word from her agent. The letter from Wallace Quimby was short and to the point:

  “Dear Ms. Nelson,

  This week I sent your manuscript and the outlines of your “Rex” works on to the editor of Adventure Novels. I felt it was strong enough as is for the market.

  These things take time. Usually two or three months. Sometimes longer.

  I will contact you to let you know of their decision. We will draw up the necessary contracts when they are required.

  Sincerely,

  Wallace Quimby

  The Publisher's Agency.”

  Time never drug so slowly for Leslie as it did when she awaited to hear from her agent. Weekly she was asked if she had heard yet. Then, slowly, her friends’ enthusiasm began to dull and a protective suggestion was added: They might say no. Be prepared.

  As the three months turned into four, the queries became fewer and fewer and Leslie experienced a keen disappointment every time the mailbox was empty or her answering machine was silent.

  Only Janice, dear, loyal Janice, kept up the full amount of spirit. She had no doubts. There was no way the response would be negative. This was her friend who knew an actor and had an agent. How could anything possibly go wrong? When she and Leslie went out to lunch, Janice would loudly talk of book contracts and trips to New York and meeting with the actors of the show as they prepared to tape Leslie's episodes.

  Leslie smiled to herself through all of this. She secretly admitted that all of that would be just fine with her. She even let Janice take some photos of her that could be used on the back cover of her first novel. Yes, it was exciting. Yes, she would like to meet all the actors. But, yes, she knew the answer could be negative.

  It was five months before she heard from the agent. That made it a full year since she had sent the short copy of the novel to Phillip Beck and two years since she had written the first word on a blank sheet of paper.

  CHAPTER 3

  Stretched out comfortably on a floating lounge in his pool, a pile of scripts bobbing next to him on a small, inflatable drink table, Phillip Beck was still disgusted. The sky above was a cloudless blue. A motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention as a squirrel from the nearby foothills ran across his terraced backyard and disappeared up the nearest tree. It was peaceful and quiet. Davey was down for a nap and Sarah was learning Japanese from a private tutor to ready her for her trip next month.

  It wasn't his wife's sojourn that was bothering him this time. It was these blasted scripts that his agent Bill kept sending him. He had just finished filming a movie where he played a cheerleader's stodgy father. All the part consisted of was five scenes, twelve lines, and was gone before the second half of the film. Next week he would play a grandfather who dies in the first half hour. And these scripts next to him were more of the same. He felt like pushing them all into the pool.

  Sarah had urged him to consider switching to her agent, Martin Thomas. That is, she again urged him to switch agents. After all, look what wonders Marty had done for her career in just a few short years. Why, Phillip was still just…. She hadn't finished her sentence, but Phillip had done it for her. Many times since, as well. Just where he had been for six long years. Still playing the same types of roles. Still had to audition. Still relatively unknown.

  The big opportunity Sarah had pushed and hoped for through Zenith Pictures and Bob Carlson had resulted in a role as a luxury liner captain that began filming next month. He would be required to stroll among the big-name stars tipping his white hat, break up a fight in the lounge, and dance with the dowagers. My, what a stretch, he thought.

  “It could lead to other offers,” Sarah had perkily told him, the falseness of her tone obvious to both of them. He had seen the disappointment in her eyes after she read his script. She had worked on Carlson all evening at the party—a point that had greatly bothered Phillip then and now. He was quite capable of landing his own roles, thank you very much.

  Phillip knew what he needed. A role that was different, unique, fresh. These scripts were from the same writers turning out the same ideas for the same producers. He glanced over at the pile of scripts and shook his head, disgusted. He would call Bill later and demand some improvement in the quality of what he was being sent.

  The sound of the patio door sliding open interrupted his sour line of thought and h
e glanced over to see Sarah come clicking over the patio. She was dressed to go out. Always the model, she could have been going anywhere from a photo shoot to dinner at Maxim's. “Phillip? I've been called downtown. Marty says there's some problem with Davey's passport. I need to take in his records.”

  “Why don't you just leave him with me while you're gone? Then there would be no problem,” was his pointed, yet hopeful reply.

  Sarah flashed him a smile. He still hadn't given up. “You know this is a wonderful opportunity for him. And Marty can help watch him when I'm on assignment.”

  Phillip felt his stomach tighten as he unconsciously made a fist. Her skuzzy agent would be with his son. He wouldn't trust that man with a wad of used chewing gum and now he has to turn over his son.

  Sarah saw the muscles in his jaw tighten and knew how he felt. She didn't agree at all, but she knew. Marty's cut-throat business practices had benefited her greatly and had taught her a lot. She followed his every word. “You can't let people walk all over you. Do it to them first,” was Marty's motto.

  Not wanting to get into it again and to change the charged atmosphere, she held up some letters. “The mail came. Usual stuff. Who do we know in Amherst?” she asked as she paused flipping through the mail to look at an ivory-colored envelope.

  “Amherst?” he repeated, allowing her to change the topic. He didn't feel like arguing again. Now. “I don't know. Where the heck is Amherst?”

  Again glancing at the return address, she answered, “Apparently somewhere in California. It's addressed to you,” as she stood by the edge of the pool, holding out the envelope. Her curiosity overcame her need to leave. As he paddled over to take the letter as he knew was expected of him, she waited and was rewarded when a look of recognition came over his face.

  “Ah, Bunny!” he declared with a small smile as he opened the envelope and began reading, momentarily forgetting his hovering wife.

  “Bunny?” echoed Sarah, her smile frozen unnaturally on her face. “I don't know any Bunny.”

  Phillip's eyes darted across the lines. “Hmm? No, that's just a nickname some aide at Majestic gave to her. I guess it stuck,” he frowned, thinking back. Glancing up at Sarah, who was on the verge of tapping her foot in impatience, he continued, “Remember that Western script I was sent on the set? That's her. Linda…. No, that's not right…. Leslie,” as he turned slightly soggy letter over to the signature.

  Sarah's smile was still frozen. “That was a fairly interesting storyline, if I remember it correctly. Incomplete, but interesting. Why is she still writing you? How'd she get this address?” Her business downtown was pushed aside. That could wait. This was getting more interesting and worrisome by the minute.

  He noticed she had sat down on one of the patio chairs near the edge of the pool. “What about the passport?”

  “That can wait five minutes,” she snapped. “Do you think it was a good idea for that idiot agent of yours to give out our home address like that? There're a lot of nuts roaming the streets. Anything can happen. Doesn't he read the papers?” The more she thought about it, the more worried she became. Sarah felt her heart start pounding in her chest. Security had always been an important issue for her—all the more so when her career had taken off. She wondered how Phillip could be so lax.

  Having drifted with the gentle waves in the pool, he turned his lounge to face her. His pleasant smile was gone. “First, Bill isn't an idiot and he didn't send the address. I did. And, second, Leslie isn't like that. She has her own agent now and is trying to get published. I don't know why she is still writing me. Probably because she is grateful for the advice and encouragement I gave her before.”

  Eyes narrowed, she tersely asked, “Advice and encouragement for what?”

  He looked away briefly and took a breath. This was turning into another needless argument. “I told you months ago about her two manuscripts. You read them both,” he quietly reminded her. “I suggested she expand them into novel length and submit them to be published. I thought she had wanted them viewed as scripts. Now she has done just that and they are apparently being considered. This letter concerns a convention she attended last week. She didn't seem to have a very good time,” he concluded, glancing back at the letter with a ghost of a smile playing over his face.

  Silent, Sarah now recalled both stories and had liked them. With a little work they would have made excellent episodes for Phillip's character on that television show. Leave it to Phillip to recommend something else. That knowledge did little to allay her fears or to extinguish a small spark of jealousy deep within her. Outsiders can be totally unpredictable. Some had turned deadly. This one had their home address and was using it. And, she and Davey would be gone for at least a month.

  Since her questions had stopped, Phillip returned to the letter and started reading the second page. “Hmm,” he muttered out loud, “sounds like she's done some stage work herself.”

  Sarah sounded nonchalant. “Oh? How nice. Can I see the first page?”

  “Sure,” as the letter was handed back, two wet blotches where Phillip had held it.

  “Hello, Phillip,

  Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the mailbox….

  I wasn't planning on writing you again until I had some word or other from the publishing company. Does time drag this slowly for you when you are waiting to hear whether or not you were chosen for a role you really wanted?

  I do have just three words for you: You owe me! Big! Okay, four words. Let me explain. Since your kind encouragement I have paid more attention to “The Time Police” shows to help me with my writing. I was taken, almost by force, to a Time Convention last weekend in Rancho Blanco. I really didn't want to go. My best friend, Janice, forced, begged, and arranged the whole thing, and hey, let's take my car! No problem.

  The day was hot, the hotel impossible to locate, and we waited in line for forty-five minutes to be admitted into a room filled with “Time Police” merchandise! Be still my heart.

  Okay, I admit I bought a “Police” badge and some pictures (why weren't there any of you? That's want I wanted), and a couple of magazines….”

  The rest of the letter rambled on and on about the convention activities and her continued work on her third book. Sarah had trouble with a few of the lines: “You owe me.” The one about wanting Phillip's picture. Her impatience and ambition. Her desire to see a page from an actual script. There were no outright words of admiration or love or anger. It was the familiarity that bothered her and possible subtle meanings that could be hidden within those lines.

  “Phillip? How many letters have you received?”

  His eyes were closed as if he planned on taking a nap. Hmm? I don't know. Four or five.”

  “This one is sure friendly,” she offered pleasantly. “What were the others like?”

  “I don't know,” he yawned. “You can read them if you like.”

  Her lips parted into a silent “O”. He kept them? Seriously? Her mind visualized his private study. They would be in his desk. Third drawer on the right. That's where he kept his correspondence. She looked back at her husband who was now asleep, hands folded in his lap, shoulders starting to burn from the bright sun. Walking quietly so as not to awaken him, she went back into the house and called Marty. She would be about an hour late.

  The letters were surprisingly easy to find. Phillip had made no effort to hide them. Ignoring the wrinkles it would cause in her meticulous outfit, she sank down on the floor behind his desk and read every word. A search for a mentioned photograph was fruitless. The only pictures on his desk or in the room were of Davey and her.

  In her uneasy state of mind, she read words that weren't there—much like a frightened child sees dangers in shadows dancing on a wall in a darkened room. She focused phrases like “we'll do lunch”, “handsome face”, “next time you are in Amherst”, “fill in the empty evenings”, “555-4029”, “your last call”, and “I really wanted to thank you.” In themselves, these wor
ds had meant nothing to Phillip. He was probably too flattered to recognize the potential powder keg. As usual, she would have to take matters into her own hands—even if it meant a solution neither Phillip nor Marty would like.

  After writing down Leslie's address and phone number, Sarah carefully returned the letters to their original place in the desk. Going back outside, she awakened Phillip and remarked sweetly, “Honey, I've been thinking. Why don't you come to Japan with us?”

  The irritation and grogginess at being abruptly awakened left Phillip. The possibility of him traveling with them to Japan never been broached. It was always assumed he would stay at home, out of the way.

  “That's impossible,” as he rubbed his eyes and flinched when he touched his red shoulder. “I have commitments coming up.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, those two movies don't amount to anything,” she replied airily and missed seeing the hurt look in his eyes. “Bill could get you more of those when we got back.”

  Having gotten out of the pool, he put a protective towel over his shoulders. With a wave of his own hand towards the scripts now piled on a chair, his eyes narrowed. “Might I remind you that one of those movies you helped arrange. And now you want me to back out of a contract? That doesn't do well for one's name in this business,” he pointed out angrily.

  Sarah dismissed that objection. “Oh, I'll have Marty fix that with Bob Carlson. I just think we should all be together in Japan.”

  Phillip looked away from her carefully arranged face. She was trying hard to look sincere. “This job of yours has been planned for months now. For weeks you have been learning Japanese. Now all of a sudden it is imperative that I come along. The heck with my career and promises—just as long as you are happy.” He turned back to face her, his eyes showing the hurt and the anger. “If our family life is so important to you all of a sudden, then stay home! My jobs are just as important to me as yours are to you! They might not be as major as you would like, but you know I am waiting to find that one role that will do it.”