which she doubted, or he didn't do much work in the office.
Jennifer abandoned the desk for the bookcases that lined the back wall. They were filled with history books, atlases, and political works, along with personal biographies of newsmen like Tom Brokaw and Walter Cronkite. Tim's Russert's book was there. She drew one out and opened the cover. The book was signed by the author with To Kyle scrawled across the top. Hah! So whoever cleaned out Browning's belongings skipped the bookcase.
She jerked open the doors to the covered area below. The shelves were bare except for three laser-paper boxes. The first was stationery personalized with Browning's name and the station's address. The second held plain sheets. The third was almost empty, but the top sheet was filled with print. She dumped out the small stack and took it back to Allen's desk.
My Life as a News Anchor by Kyle Browning was centered on two lines above the first page of type. It began: "Growing up poor in Macon, Georgia, I never thought I would amount to anything."
Jennifer scanned the first five pages, at the end of which little Kyle was walking and all of eighteen months old. The manuscript was forty-four pages long.
Jennifer flipped to the last page. "I didn't go to my senior prom. Natalie Morgan turned me down."
So old Kyle was a late bloomer; so late in some areas, his literary skills had yet to sprout. Browning was famous for reducing a major news story to a three-minute report. Too bad he couldn't recognize the high points in his own life.
She started to slip the manuscript back into the box when she noticed a brown, nine-by-twelve-inch envelope folded in the bottom. It was addressed by hand to Kyle Browning with no return address. So even celebrities had to send self-addressed, stamped envelopes when submitting to a publisher or an agent.
The envelope bore an Atlanta postmark. Jennifer unfolded it and slipped out an 8½ x11 sheet of paper. She recognized it immediately. It was one of those infuriating standard rejections.
Dear Writer:
Thank you for thinking of the Penney Richmond Literary Agency. We've read your work with interest, but I'm sorry to say it's not right for us at this time. We wish you luck in placing your manuscript with an agency that can give your work the enthusiasm it deserves.
Across the bottom, in pen, was scrawled:
Kyle, you've got to be kidding, sweetheart. It was a joke, wasn't it? Burn this thing and start over—and remember, what people want to read is the dirt, sweetie. You've got a name big enough to carry a bestseller, but you've got to tell your readers the story they want to hear, not whether or not you ate your peas and carrots as a kid . Do it, Kyle. Just do it. P.R.
So Penney Richmond was an equal opportunity S.O.B., insulting the famous along with the unknown.
Jennifer closed the box and took it back to her desk where she slipped the manuscript and the letter into the tote bag in her drawer.
She wasn't really stealing, she rationalized. After all, Browning was dead, and dead people can't own property, at least under the law. And if anyone else had wanted it, surely they would have taken it by now. Aw, heck! What was one more cracked Commandment?
She heard Moore and Edith chatting as they came down the hall. She grabbed the first thing her fingers touched, a desk calendar, and started frantically flipping through it.
Moore stopped at her desk and leaned down. "Busy?" he asked, the faintest whiff of alcohol escaping with his breath.
"I was just checking the holidays," she babbled. "Easter comes on a Sunday this year."
"You don't say." Moore chuckled. "Come into the office. I've got a little project I want you to help me with."
All right, so where was Sam, her protector, the guy who assured her Moore could be handled? She opened her lap drawer to take out a notebook.
"Don't bother. You won't be needing that."
No, she'd probably need a billy club or a baseball bat. Unfortunately, neither
Jennifer abandoned the desk for the bookcases that lined the back wall. They were filled with history books, atlases, and political works, along with personal biographies of newsmen like Tom Brokaw and Walter Cronkite. Tim's Russert's book was there. She drew one out and opened the cover. The book was signed by the author with To Kyle scrawled across the top. Hah! So whoever cleaned out Browning's belongings skipped the bookcase.
She jerked open the doors to the covered area below. The shelves were bare except for three laser-paper boxes. The first was stationery personalized with Browning's name and the station's address. The second held plain sheets. The third was almost empty, but the top sheet was filled with print. She dumped out the small stack and took it back to Allen's desk.
My Life as a News Anchor by Kyle Browning was centered on two lines above the first page of type. It began: "Growing up poor in Macon, Georgia, I never thought I would amount to anything."
Jennifer scanned the first five pages, at the end of which little Kyle was walking and all of eighteen months old. The manuscript was forty-four pages long.
Jennifer flipped to the last page. "I didn't go to my senior prom. Natalie Morgan turned me down."
So old Kyle was a late bloomer; so late in some areas, his literary skills had yet to sprout. Browning was famous for reducing a major news story to a three-minute report. Too bad he couldn't recognize the high points in his own life.
She started to slip the manuscript back into the box when she noticed a brown, nine-by-twelve-inch envelope folded in the bottom. It was addressed by hand to Kyle Browning with no return address. So even celebrities had to send self-addressed, stamped envelopes when submitting to a publisher or an agent.
The envelope bore an Atlanta postmark. Jennifer unfolded it and slipped out an 8½ x11 sheet of paper. She recognized it immediately. It was one of those infuriating standard rejections.
Dear Writer:
Thank you for thinking of the Penney Richmond Literary Agency. We've read your work with interest, but I'm sorry to say it's not right for us at this time. We wish you luck in placing your manuscript with an agency that can give your work the enthusiasm it deserves.
Across the bottom, in pen, was scrawled:
Kyle, you've got to be kidding, sweetheart. It was a joke, wasn't it? Burn this thing and start over—and remember, what people want to read is the dirt, sweetie. You've got a name big enough to carry a bestseller, but you've got to tell your readers the story they want to hear, not whether or not you ate your peas and carrots as a kid . Do it, Kyle. Just do it. P.R.
So Penney Richmond was an equal opportunity S.O.B., insulting the famous along with the unknown.
Jennifer closed the box and took it back to her desk where she slipped the manuscript and the letter into the tote bag in her drawer.
She wasn't really stealing, she rationalized. After all, Browning was dead, and dead people can't own property, at least under the law. And if anyone else had wanted it, surely they would have taken it by now. Aw, heck! What was one more cracked Commandment?
She heard Moore and Edith chatting as they came down the hall. She grabbed the first thing her fingers touched, a desk calendar, and started frantically flipping through it.
Moore stopped at her desk and leaned down. "Busy?" he asked, the faintest whiff of alcohol escaping with his breath.
"I was just checking the holidays," she babbled. "Easter comes on a Sunday this year."
"You don't say." Moore chuckled. "Come into the office. I've got a little project I want you to help me with."
All right, so where was Sam, her protector, the guy who assured her Moore could be handled? She opened her lap drawer to take out a notebook.
"Don't bother. You won't be needing that."
No, she'd probably need a billy club or a baseball bat. Unfortunately, neither
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