• • • • •
Five minutes after her first conversation with Zee Zee Reisman, Hannah Nelson knocked lightly on Letha Springfield’s open door and stuck her head inside the office. Letha was on the phone, but she motioned for Hannah to come in and sit down. Letha’s office was four times the size of Hannah’s, complete with a couch and a little round conference table next to windows that looked down into a plaza with trees and a fountain. Hannah sat at the table and tried to look like she wasn’t listening.
When Letha hung up the phone, she said, “So, did you talk to the agent?”
Hannah said, “Yes, and she said she’d like to hear back from us on Wednesday. So could you look this over and see if you agree with me? I really think this is a good one, and if we can come to terms quickly, this book could even make it into the summer catalog.”
Letha’s eyebrows went up and she pursed her lips. “So you really think this book is worth the rush?”
Hannah paused. Talking with Letha was dangerous. She enjoyed making her people take a strong position on everything. That way, if there were problems later on, it was never her fault. But Hannah felt sure about this book, so she said, “Definitely—and I’ll put in the extra hours to get it done right.”
Letha stood up, and so did Hannah. Letha said, “Fine. I’ll read it tonight, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow. And I’m glad I had you read it over the weekend.”
Hannah handed her the envelope with the manuscript. “Thanks, Letha.”
• • • • •
On the bus Monday afternoon Natalie didn’t want to talk about the book. She was afraid she might jinx it or say something stupid and give away her secret. But just before they got to the terminal in Hoboken, her mom brought it up.
“You know that new book I told you about last night?” she said.
Natalie gulped and nodded. “Yeah?”
“Well, I talked to the agent today, and Letha’s reading it tonight. I’m really excited about it.”
Natalie couldn’t resist. She said, “So, what do you know about the author?”
Her mom shrugged. “Nothing, really. Except that she’s a good writer. And she has a good ear for the way kids talk, and she knows how to keep a story moving forward.” Her mom paused and looked out the window. Then she said, “I think finding a new writer is even more fun than working with someone who’s already great. It’s like . . . it’s like finding a new island out in the middle of the ocean. And once you find it, from then on that island goes on every new map. Then every time you look at a map, you see the island, and you say to yourself, ‘That’s the one I found!’”
“That’s neat, Mom.” It was quiet for a minute or so, and then Natalie said, “You really like being an editor, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” Hannah turned to smile at Natalie. “There’s only one thing I like better—and that’s being your mom.”
Natalie smiled back, and the bus pulled into the station.
CHAPTER 16
Poker, Anyone?
Right in the middle of Wednesday’s morning meeting Zoe’s beeper started jiggling. She nudged Natalie, pulled her sweater up, and pointed at it. Natalie craned her neck to read the number and then frowned.
In the hall on the way to science Natalie said, “I don’t get it. I can tell the call is from Shipley, because all the numbers there start with 555. But it’s not my mom’s number.”
“Maybe she called from a meeting in a different room,” suggested Zoe. “But anyway, we know her number, so I’ll just call her at lunchtime like we did Monday.”
When Zee Zee called Hannah Nelson from her soundproof office in the Deary School library, Natalie listened. Right away she could tell there was something wrong.
“Hannah? This is Zee Zee from the Sherry Clutch Agency. What’s the news? . . . Oh. . . . I see. Well, I’m sorry about that. . . . All right. Good-bye.”
Natalie tore off the headphones and stood up. “They’re saying no? But she liked it so much! I don’t get it.”
Zoe shook her head. “No, that’s not it. The good news is that they like the book, and they definitely want it . . . but your mom said someone else is going to be the editor. She didn’t sound very happy about it. It’s someone named Letha Springfield.”
The color drained from Natalie’s face, and she sat down with a thump. Zoe stood up and looked at her. “Are you all right?”
Natalie said, “Letha—she’s my mom’s boss, the one I’m always telling you about. She can’t be the editor. She’s awful! And she doesn’t even like kids. Whenever she sees me, it’s like she wants to push me into a closet or something. I really want my mom to be the editor. Can’t we do something?”
Zoe said, “I’m not sure.”
• • • • •
After school Ms. Clayton listened while the girls told her the good news and then the bad news.
Natalie said, “I’m not kidding. I do not want that lady to be the editor. There must be something we can do.”
Ms. Clayton looked out the window a few moments and then said, “Well . . . there is something you could try . . . but it might upset the whole deal. It all depends on how much they want your book.”
Natalie frowned, “I don’t care. I’ll try anything.”
Ms. Clayton turned to Zoe and said, “You’re going to have to be a pretty tough agent if this is going to work. Do you think you’re ready to play some poker?”
“Poker?” said Zoe. “I love poker. I beat my dad and my sisters at it all the time.”
Ms. Clayton smiled wryly, looking from Zoe to Natalie, and said, “Why am I not surprised?”
Natalie frowned. “But this time you’re not playing for matchsticks, Zoe.”
“No problem,” Zoe said.
And Natalie thought, Yeah, that’s what the captain of the Titanic said.
Even after Ms. Clayton had explained her idea, Natalie still felt like she was on a sinking ship.
• • • • •
Hannah Nelson hurried to Letha’s office at three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. Letha was pacing behind her desk, her high heels clicking as she crossed and recrossed the hard plastic chair mat.
Hannah said, “What’s up?”
Letha stopped, face toward the windows, her back to Hannah. Turning around, she grabbed the high back of her gray leather desk chair, her fingernails digging into the padding. “The nerve of that woman! Talking to me that way . . . giving me an ultimatum! Unbelievable! Tell me—did you make some sort of promise to her? Think very, very carefully before you answer me.”
Hannah was confused. “Promise? To whom?”
“To that woman!” stormed Letha. “Zee Zee, the agent from the loony bin, that’s who! What did you tell her about that manuscript?”
Hannah gulped. Letha was never a picnic to work for, but when she was like this, things got broken, things like vases and computers—and careers. “I . . . I didn’t say anything out of the ordinary. I told her the manuscript had promise, and that we wanted to think about it—and I asked her not to send it anywhere else until we got back to her today.”
“And that’s all?” There was a threat in Letha’s voice, lurking below the shrill surface.
Hannah met Letha’s glare without blinking. “Yes,” she said evenly. “I’m certain I said nothing more.”
Momentarily satisfied, Letha wheeled away, setting her chair spinning. “Then what we’re dealing with is crazy people, both her and her writer! Because Zee Zee says that Cassandra Day has fixed on the idea that no one but you can edit her book!”
Hannah hid her feelings and asked, “And what did you tell her?”
“Tell her?” raged Letha. “Tell her? I told her things don’t work that way in the real world, and that she’d better go and shake her author by the shoulders and get her to wake up. I told her that I’m the editor in chief at Shipley Junior Books, and that I like this manuscript enough to take it on and edit it myself, and that if her little Miss Day doesn’t care for that, then she could t
ake her manuscript and throw it off the Empire State Building! That’s what I told her!”
Hannah wished she could leave, but she nodded slowly and said, “Oh . . . I see. . . .”
Letha wasn’t done. “And do you know what she said to me? She said, ‘Well, Ms. Springfield, I always try to do all I can for my writers, so perhaps we both had better think about this—as if I’m suddenly going to change my mind! The nerve of that woman!”
There was a moment of quiet, and Hannah asked, “So, what are you going to do?”
Letha planted both feet and crossed her arms. “Unless I get an apology, we will not publish that book.” Then, pointing with one long index finger, Letha added, “And if you have any contact with that agent, I want to hear about it, is that clear?”
Hannah nodded. “Certainly.”
Letha sat in her chair and spun away to look out the window. The meeting was over.
Hannah got out quickly, glad that she still had her job. Letha’s door had been open, and everyone on the floor must have heard her shouting. She was glad Natalie wasn’t around. Natalie had called right after school to say she’d be waiting for her in the lobby at five.
Hannah was suddenly desperate for a candy bar, so she walked to the elevator and headed toward the employee snack room on the fifteenth floor. Four minutes and one Hershey bar later Hannah sat alone at a small, round table feeling sorry for herself. She would have loved to edit that book. And she felt sorry for the author. It was a bad break. This could delay the publication of the book for at least six months, maybe more—maybe forever. And it was such a good book. It would be a gain for some other publishing house, and a loss for Shipley.
But most of all Hannah felt sorry for Zee Zee. Hannah was puzzled. Zee Zee had seemed so smart, so capable—but now it appeared very likely that Zee Zee was about to get run over by a steamroller. Hannah had thought that everybody in the New York publishing world knew about Letha Springfield. Letha was the wrong person to have for an enemy. And by the time someone figured that out, it was usually too late.
• • • • •
Natalie knew why her mom was so silent and tense on the cab ride to the Port Authority Bus Terminal Wednesday evening. Once they’d boarded and the bus was heading down the ramp toward the Lincoln Tunnel, Hannah Nelson settled back in her seat and let out a deep sigh.
Natalie said, “Another one of those long meetings today, Mom?”
With a grim smile her mom said, “No, actually it was two short ones, both with Letha.”
“Oh?”
“Yup—one first thing in the morning, and then another one in the afternoon. They were both about that manuscript, ‘The Cheater.’”
“What—didn’t she like it?”
Her mom let out a bitter little laugh. “That’s not the problem. She liked it a lot—you’d have to be a moron not to. But first thing in the morning she calls me in and says, ‘This is a terrific book. This writer really knows kids, don’t you think? You can just feel the zits popping out on their faces. Thanks for spotting it. I’m going to handle it myself.’” Hannah turned to look out the window.
Natalie said, “Can she do that, like, just take it away?”
Turning back to Natalie, her mom said, “Letha? Letha can do pretty much whatever she wants to. What’s so upsetting is she does this all the time. I find a good property, and then she takes it over and steals all the glory, if you can call it that. It’s not the glory I want. It’s just that I’m trying to build a career here, and Letha’s already got a great one. And this book, well, it has real promise, especially since it’s a first novel. This is what an editor like me hopes for—a new writer with a strong first book who has the promise of developing into something more. That’s how an editor gets noticed in this business. I just happen to be cursed with a selfish boss, and there’s not much I can do about it.”
“What about the second meeting?” asked Natalie.
“At about three she yells for me to come to her office, and then she rants and raves about this agent—her name is Zee Zee—because she called Letha and said that the author wants me to be the editor for her book. So Letha practically accuses me of going behind her back and making promises to the agent—which I would never do. So now Letha’s got her high heels dug in, and she’s saying if it doesn’t happen her way, then it doesn’t happen. So the book is probably not going to get published, at least not at our company.” Hannah paused and then said, “What I don’t get is, why would the author be so determined to have me be her editor, anyway?”
Natalie said, “It’s because you’re a great editor, that’s why. And the author probably heard about you, and the agent could probably tell just from talking with you that you’re nice, too—not like that witch Letha. Don’t you just hate her?”
“No, I don’t hate her. . . . I just don’t understand her, that’s all. It seems like it would be so easy for her to ease up a little. She’s got all this talent, she looks great, she makes good money, and she really is an amazing editor. I guess she just has some other issues that make her feel like she has to keep grabbing more and more for herself. In a way I feel sorry for her.” She almost added “And I feel even sorrier for myself,” but she didn’t.
Hannah fell silent and turned to look out the window again.
Natalie was quiet too. She wished she could comfort her mom. She’d say, “Don’t worry, Mom. Because if Ms. Clayton and Zoe know how to play poker half as well as they think they do, then help is on the way.”
CHAPTER 17
High Stakes, Aces Wild
When a package arrived by messenger at nine fifteen on Thursday morning, Kelley Collins double-checked the address label.
Kelley had been Tom Morton’s secretary for the past six years as he worked his way up through the ranks at Shipley Publishing Company. Whenever he had jumped a rung on the ladder, Kelley had jumped with him. And now Tom was the president and publisher of Shipley Junior Books, and Kelley was his Executive Assistant.
Mr. Morton didn’t usually get packages from agents, but this one was clearly addressed to him, so Kelley opened it. He wouldn’t be in the office until one o’clock today, so she had plenty of time to get his correspondence and his afternoon appointments organized.
She started to read the cover letter from the agent, and when she got to the name Letha Springfield, she stiffened. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth formed an involuntary frown. Kelley had been watching Letha Springfield carefully for the past two years. Every time Letha and the other editors in chief came to a meeting on the sixteenth floor, Kelley had the feeling that Letha was measuring the windows in Tom Morton’s office for curtains—her curtains.
Kelley finished reading the letter and then looked at the manuscript. Good title, she thought. Kelley flipped the title page over and began reading. After three pages she was hooked. She read the story off and on all morning and then finished it over the noon hour. And when she got back from lunch, Kelley put the letter and the manuscript at the top of the stack in Mr. Morton’s in box.
• • • • •
At one fifteen on Thursday afternoon Tom Morton called to Kelley through his open door. “Kelley, would you take this down to fourteen and give it to Letha? She really ought to handle this herself.” When Kelley walked in, he was holding out the manuscript and the letter from the agent.
Kelley took the manuscript from him, and Tom looked down at the next item on his desk. But Kelley didn’t leave, and when he noticed, Tom looked up again and said, “Something else?”
Kelley shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then plunged in. Holding up the letter, she said, “Mr. Morton, I know this situation is sort of a can of worms, but did you look at the story? It’s a great book—I read the whole thing . . . over my lunch hour. I think it might be worth taking a look at . . . if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Tom Morton never minded Kelley saying what was on her mind. She had kept him from making at least a dozen mistakes over the years—several mis
takes that could have delayed his promotions, and one or two that could have cost him his job. She had the instincts of a mother lion, and Tom was glad to have her looking out for him.
With a smile he pushed the papers on his desk to one side, took the manuscript back from her, and began reading. Kelley turned and left his office, pulling the door shut behind her.
Ten minutes later Tom Morton buzzed Kelley on the speakerphone.
“Yes, Mr. Morton?”
“Kelley, hold my phone calls for an hour or so, would you? I’d like to finish reading this manuscript.”
Kelley Collins smiled at her phone and said, “Will do.”
• • • • •
At precisely 3:46 on Thursday afternoon Letha Springfield and Hannah Nelson each received an E-mail message, and the little mail-delivery chime bonged on both of their computers. Letha ignored the chime because she was on the phone, but Hannah clicked on her E-mail icon and read the message right away.
[email protected]/ed/smpt//inhouse/
3:45 PM ***2.19.00
From: Tom Morton
To: Letha Springfield
Cc:
Bcc: Hannah Nelson
Re: The Cheater manuscript
Letha—
It’s odd for an agent to send anything directly to me these days, so I took note when someone named Zee Zee Reisman messengered me a manuscript this morning. It’s called The Cheater, and from the cover letter, I gather you’ve seen it too.
I started reading it—couldn’t stop. Made me remember all those years I spent as an editor. I hate to step in, but it’s clear that unless we put Hannah on this project, we’ll lose the book, and frankly we can’t afford to. I smell a hit here, and if we have to let a headstrong author have her own way in order to keep the book, then I say we let her.
I’ve called Susan Yau in marketing and asked her to save a half page for this in the summer catalog. I know a June pub date is pushing it, but this one could build nicely and be strong right into the fall.
Have Hannah handle the deal and the editing, and I’d like her to keep me in the loop on this. Susan will call her in a day or so for catalog information.