The Girl in the Glass by Susan Meissner

would feel like they had been after reading Sofia’s book.
    Gabe, sitting at the end of the table, smiled kindheartedly when I was done. It was not a smile of triumph. He knew before I did that Geoffrey hadn’t thought much of it.
    “The paintings and statues tell her things? Come on,” Geoffrey said.
    Beatriz, resplendent in a fuchsia suit, tapped the tabletop with manicured fingernails. “Can she prove she is a Medici descendent?” Her accent clipped her words short, as did her tone.
    “What difference does that make? She’s a nut!” Geoffrey pushed the pages back to me.
    “But if she could prove she is Medici”—Beatriz’s tone was softer than it had been a minute ago—“and we get her to take out the talking statues …”
    Geoffrey shook his head. “I’m not interested in working with a writer who is delusional.”
    “We do it all the time. They all start out thinking they can buy a vacation home with their first book’s royalties,” Beatriz quipped. Gentle laughter rippled across the table.
    “Okay, fine,” Geoffrey said. “I’m not interested in working with a writer who sees dead people.”
    “Hears them,” I said. More laughter.
    “But you know, if we take the crazy out, maybe she has a good book inside her. I like her style,” Beatriz said. Then she turned to me. “How much does she have finished?”
    “I’m going to see her when my dad and I go to Florence next month,” I said. “I think after I’ve met her and have seen the rest of the manuscript, I will have a better idea of what we’re working with.”
    “We’re working with a nut job,” Geoffrey mumbled.
    “She has a nice way with words, Geoff,” Beatriz said.
    No one else calls Geoffrey that. It amazes me how they get along as business partners even though they are divorced.
    She continued, “I think we should see if Meg can authenticate Ms. Borelli’s ancestral claims and then convince her to downplay the voice.Then Meg can bring the manuscript back to us, and we can talk about it again.”
    “I would never buy a book like this.” Geoffrey waved his hand across Sofia’s pages.
    “You wouldn’t buy a book on destination weddings in Italy either, and we’re publishing one,” I said quickly, and Beatriz, who hardly ever laughs, guffawed loudly.
    “I think it’s got a whole new vibe to it,” Gabe said from the far end of the table. “Meg’s right. We’ll be expanding our readership not only to people who like memoirs but also to those who wish they could see Florence but probably won’t have the opportunity.”
    Beatriz turned to me. “When are you going?”
    “Um. Maybe next month.” I hesitated. “My dad and I are finalizing the details.”
    “Next month is in a couple weeks,” Geoffrey said. “You’re still finalizing the dates?”
    “End of the month.” I forced myself to sound resolute.
    “Don’t promise Ms. Borelli anything, but do see if you can authenticate this claim, hmm?” Beatriz placed the chapters I had given her in her folio, and Geoffrey sighed loudly and retrieved his. “And see if she has more chapters ready to send.”
    Feeling rather triumphant, I headed back to my office after thanking Gabe for sticking up for me. I wanted to e-mail Sofia to ask for additional chapters while Beatriz was still interested. When I got back to my desk, I saw that I had two missed calls on my cell phone. One from my mother and one from Dad’s phone at home, not his cell phone. I quickly sent Sofia an e-mail asking for two more chapters, and then I punched the button on my phone to call my father on his landline.
    On the fourth ring, the call was picked up. I was so certain it would behim who answered, I nearly said “Dad” before realizing it was a woman’s voice who’d answered on the other end. Allison.
    “You called back.” Her voice sounded odd.
    “ You called me?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice. Allison and I are not close. We are cordial to each other when I visit my