such a comradely ring to it. I perked up. Suddenly I noticed what a rumbly, sympathetic sounding voice Dan Weatherby had. “I’ve been raising heck around here about it.”
I know, I know. But I had to tell the man something. “Raising heck” sure as hell sounded better than “whining to my coworkers.”
“I told Luanne you would,” Dan said.
How did he know? Or rather, how had he arrived at that very shaky and utterly wrong conclusion? He didn’t know the first thing about me.
“I explained to Luanne that there wasn’t a lot that could probably be done at this point.”
“You did?”
I wondered suddenly what Dan Weatherby looked like. He sounded a little like Russell Crowe, when he wasn’t speaking in the Aussie accent. I leaned back in my chair and twirled a Paper-mate pen through my fingers. I really liked Russell Crowe, apart from the jackass movie star behavioral problems.
“I also told her that if you are half of what Mercedes built you up to be over the phone fifteen minutes ago, she’s in great hands.”
Mercedes, a woman who clung ferociously to her misperceptions. God bless her.
I sputtered modestly, “I don’t know about that…”
He laughed. “I told Luanne that it’s always good to have a new editor anyway. That you’ll probably work extra hard on her behalf.”
I would, I swore I would.
At this point, it didn’t even matter whether Dan Weatherby looked like Russell Crowe or just a plain ol’ dead crow. He could have had a face like roadkill for all I cared. I was pretty sure I was in love with him. Such was the power of a seductive phone voice.
We exchanged a few more moments of chitchat before he rang off, with me still assuring him that I was going to see what could still be done about Pursuing Paula, and him assuring me that it would all work out, because I was such a sharp young whippersnapper of an editor. By the time he rang off, I was thoroughly schmoozed.
I leaned back in my chair, savoring the image of myself that Dan Weatherby had imprinted in my head. I was one of those go-to types. A problem solver. The sharpest knife in the drawer, and glamorous to boot.
The seconds ticked by. The image began to fade.
I was me again.
I looked at the clock at the bottom of my computer screen and gasped. It was almost noon! And all I had done all morning was deal with this one cover controversy.
And I still had all those authors to call.
I looked at the list, crossed off the four Cassie had stolen, and considered nipping out to a Chinese restaurant I’d spotted around the corner. A large order of lemon chicken and some potstickers would really bolster my courage.
It would also make the already tight button on my skirt pop.
My stomach rumbled. The sad little sack lunch I’d brought from home mocked me. Could I really face twenty-one—no, seventeen—authors on nothing but tuna salad and an apple? Authors who had been told already that I was a hapless newbie idiot, and maybe worse?
Lemon chicken, lemon chicken, lemon chicken.
Sighing, I picked up the phone and dialed. Let the awkwardness begin.
B y the time five-thirty rolled around, I felt like something that should be carted off and rendered for pet food. As if being on the phone with authors for three straight hours wasn’t enough, at four o’clock Janice Wunch appeared at my door with an updated late list. Somehow my portion of it had grown by another half page in the past day. Something—perhaps the impatient tapping of Janice’s Naturalizers—told me I wasn’t managing my time wisely.
At the end of the day, I filled up an old Candlelight totebag with homework and staggered to the elevator.
“Good night, Rebecca,” Muriel said. The phones were silent, but in her headset she appeared poised for the slightest hint of a ring. The model of efficiency.
“ ’Night.”
“Is it your intention to burn the midnight oil tonight?”
I grunted.
There was an awkward stretch while Muriel stared at me with
I know, I know. But I had to tell the man something. “Raising heck” sure as hell sounded better than “whining to my coworkers.”
“I told Luanne you would,” Dan said.
How did he know? Or rather, how had he arrived at that very shaky and utterly wrong conclusion? He didn’t know the first thing about me.
“I explained to Luanne that there wasn’t a lot that could probably be done at this point.”
“You did?”
I wondered suddenly what Dan Weatherby looked like. He sounded a little like Russell Crowe, when he wasn’t speaking in the Aussie accent. I leaned back in my chair and twirled a Paper-mate pen through my fingers. I really liked Russell Crowe, apart from the jackass movie star behavioral problems.
“I also told her that if you are half of what Mercedes built you up to be over the phone fifteen minutes ago, she’s in great hands.”
Mercedes, a woman who clung ferociously to her misperceptions. God bless her.
I sputtered modestly, “I don’t know about that…”
He laughed. “I told Luanne that it’s always good to have a new editor anyway. That you’ll probably work extra hard on her behalf.”
I would, I swore I would.
At this point, it didn’t even matter whether Dan Weatherby looked like Russell Crowe or just a plain ol’ dead crow. He could have had a face like roadkill for all I cared. I was pretty sure I was in love with him. Such was the power of a seductive phone voice.
We exchanged a few more moments of chitchat before he rang off, with me still assuring him that I was going to see what could still be done about Pursuing Paula, and him assuring me that it would all work out, because I was such a sharp young whippersnapper of an editor. By the time he rang off, I was thoroughly schmoozed.
I leaned back in my chair, savoring the image of myself that Dan Weatherby had imprinted in my head. I was one of those go-to types. A problem solver. The sharpest knife in the drawer, and glamorous to boot.
The seconds ticked by. The image began to fade.
I was me again.
I looked at the clock at the bottom of my computer screen and gasped. It was almost noon! And all I had done all morning was deal with this one cover controversy.
And I still had all those authors to call.
I looked at the list, crossed off the four Cassie had stolen, and considered nipping out to a Chinese restaurant I’d spotted around the corner. A large order of lemon chicken and some potstickers would really bolster my courage.
It would also make the already tight button on my skirt pop.
My stomach rumbled. The sad little sack lunch I’d brought from home mocked me. Could I really face twenty-one—no, seventeen—authors on nothing but tuna salad and an apple? Authors who had been told already that I was a hapless newbie idiot, and maybe worse?
Lemon chicken, lemon chicken, lemon chicken.
Sighing, I picked up the phone and dialed. Let the awkwardness begin.
B y the time five-thirty rolled around, I felt like something that should be carted off and rendered for pet food. As if being on the phone with authors for three straight hours wasn’t enough, at four o’clock Janice Wunch appeared at my door with an updated late list. Somehow my portion of it had grown by another half page in the past day. Something—perhaps the impatient tapping of Janice’s Naturalizers—told me I wasn’t managing my time wisely.
At the end of the day, I filled up an old Candlelight totebag with homework and staggered to the elevator.
“Good night, Rebecca,” Muriel said. The phones were silent, but in her headset she appeared poised for the slightest hint of a ring. The model of efficiency.
“ ’Night.”
“Is it your intention to burn the midnight oil tonight?”
I grunted.
There was an awkward stretch while Muriel stared at me with
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