Chapter 8
Dear Mystery Editor and Intruder into My-Most-Secret-Precious-Oasis-of-a-Room,
If you are reading this . . .
Help.
It’s been three days. Or, as my mind prefers to think of it, 4,320 minutes. Four thousand three hundred twenty excruciatingly long minutes since I left the Post-It note on the manuscript in my hidden little sparrow room and waited for an answer. I live this way now. In minutes.
Lyla is convinced I have a urinary tract infection. I “visit the ladies’ room” about fifty times a day, and then, when I escape our shared office and smile and give a little stroll-by wave to the others whose doors are propped open down the hall, I turn the corner and all but sprint up the tiny, twisting stairs for the attic. I’ve done it so much these days I’ve met my daily step goal each day and lost three pounds.
(But seriously. Three pounds. Olivia is thrilled.)
And now, this Wednesday, I sit in my office chair by the window, chewing my nails to the nubs (a disgusting habit, I know), while I do what I do every Wednesday morning for our editorial meeting. I click on Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day and try my best to focus on the task at hand and not the looming deadline and the desperation in my heart. I read the large, bold word: bailiwick.
Hmmm.
1. Bailiwick: law enforcement: the office or jurisdiction of a bailiff.
That’ll be tough to include naturally in conversation. Let’s see . . .
“And what makes this particular subject of the history of Russian philosophy from the tenth to eighteenth centuries so unique, Ms. Pennington, is how the bailiwick are so often referenced in . . . with unique symbolism . . . to . . .”
No. Moving on.
2. Bailiwick: the sphere in which one has superior knowledge or authority: a special domain.
Now there’s something I can work with. Super knowledge. Authority. Let’s see . . .
I’m just scrolling down to see some examples of bailiwick in a sentence to make sure I’ve properly grasped it when Lyla pops her earbuds out of her ears and stands. “C’mon, Sav. I wanna get there before all the doughnuts are gone.”
My body says, Good point—I only like the chocolate frosted ones, while my mind stays steady.
Above Lyla’s head, a utilitarian clock hangs on the wall. Nine fifty. And I still need to read through these examples and be sure I’ve got it.
“You go on ahead,” I’m at the cusp of responding when Lyla says, “Not to mention, the new boss is back and will probably be watching for the stragglers so he can cut them.”
I drop my hand off the mouse and stand up so abruptly my knee knocks painfully on the corner of the desk. “Okay,” I agree and catch sight of my face in the decorative mirror above Lyla’s workstation. My dark hair is a mess. The pale-gray sweater I put on today looks bulky and shapeless. And is that—I peer into the mirror more closely. Is that a grotesque pimple right above my lip no female in this publishing house had the decency to inform me of?
So much for sisters-in-arms! I cry out in my head, grabbing for my purse.
It’s all that sugar. All that stupid sugar I’ve consumed in the form of Twizzlers and ice cream and Diet Coke till the wee hours of the morning to keep me awake while I try desperately to figure out how to fix my manuscript.
I pull out a tube of concealer and start dotting at the spot.
A small crease forms in the middle of Lyla’s perfectly spotless forehead, and she crosses her arms.
“I’ve just got to . . . freshen up,” I say, putting more dots beneath both eyes. And I can’t miss those two dark shadows on each temple. And my forehead—I grimace at my reflection and begin dotting every area like my face is a polka-dot rug.
“Easy, Sav,” Lyla says, observing my actions with the same expression of horror one would make watching someone eat a dozen hot dogs at a county fair.
I rub at them all vigorously until it’s all blended in.
Oh no.
Now I look like some pale, lifeless, overworked ballerina who still somehow has bags under her eyes. Why can’t I be rid of them?
“We’ve got to go,” Lyla says impatiently, checking her watch. “Why do you care all of a sudden anyway?”
“It’s a competitive house,” I retort, starting to slap my cheeks. “There’s a lot of pressure to be professional.”
“Well, you’re really nailing it,” Lyla says, eyeing me as I repeatedly smack my cheeks.
But sure enough, two little rosy spots start to form. “There,” I say, standing back and admiring myself. “See? It worked.”
Lyla nods. “Yes. Throw away the blush, ladies. Savannah Cade has solved all our makeup problems of the twenty-first century.”
“Okay,” I say, breezing past Lyla. “Hurry up, then,” I add in my most professional tone. “We don’t want to be late.”
I’ve walked halfway down the hall by the time Lyla chimes in beside me, “Hey, Ms. Professional. You forgot your laptop.”
I wince, looking down at my empty hands, and march back with as much dignity as I can.
Wednesday-morning Pennington Pen meetings are always held in the Lilac Room. There are a few reasons for this. It’s one of the bigger rooms we have, plus it’s one of the few technologically advanced spaces in the old building. And the walls are thick—which we need, because you wouldn’t believe how heated conversations can get over color-code teal level #2C4952 versus virtually identical teal level #7CADA2 on a cover design.
There are eight members of the Pennington Pen division. Two rather personality-lacking acquisition editors, Rob Orren and Yossi Jacobs, and myself. One editorial director, Giselle Shaw, who apparently snagged a job as a young editorial assistant back in college via her good looks and Daddy’s checkbook. One marketing manager, Clyve Prinz, who is sixty-five and has yet to nail down the purpose of a Google calendar. One publicist, Marge Dippolito, whose ability to get our titles into some truly incredible prints has led a number of us to wonder if she’s not working some sort of shady, back-alley business. One graphic designer and digital marketing wiz, Lyla, ironically the most talented and least enthused of the lot of us.
And now, Will.
I haven’t seen Will since our last meeting on that beer-stained, cowboy boot–scratched floor. He wasn’t at LOA the following morning, and word spread that he had left for New York—on business, presumably, although nobody knew for certain. All we knew was that decisions had once again fallen into Giselle’s hands, thus explaining why I, specifically, had been pinpointed for the task of reorganizing every piece of paper in the filing cabinets dating back to 1970, and why the coffee breakroom had a shiny new pink espresso machine.
“Let’s get to it, everyone. Settle in.”
Lyla and I hurry into the room, and I set my stack of papers and laptop down on one of the remaining seats at the oval-shaped table. Lyla, meanwhile, drops her bag in the seat beside mine and veers for the doughnuts. Ms. Pennington stands at the head of the table, her pen tapping impatiently at the lot of us. Her blue eyes are piercing, her permanent frown is firmly in place, and her blazing red pantsuit is impeccable.
Her frown deepens as her eyes dart to the utilitarian-style clock, a match to the others that adorn every room in the building. She pauses.
Lyla slides into her seat with a doughnut in each hand.
We wait.
And as the second hand strikes the top of the hour, Ms. Pennington drops her eyes to us. “Let us begin. Yossi, we’ll start with you. Did you get the ASMI report back from Rogers?”
Yossi, who despite twelve years in the company jumps every time at the sound of his name, grabs for his papers. “Well, Pam has been very busy this week, what with traveling here from Louisiana for the conference—”
“You’ll have to cut to the point, Yossi. I have another meeting—”
“Uh, no,” Yossi stammers, taking off his glasses and rubbing them furiously against his tweed coat pocket. “She did say she’d send it to me by next week, though, and—”
“Failed to receive report,” Ms. Pennington interjects, giving a short nod to Brittney, seated closest. Brittney, the delicate twenty-three-year-old assistant who spends every day trailing after Ms. Pennington with a notebook and pen, begins scribbling feverishly. The poor woman writes everything by hand because Ms. Pennington is so traditional. Pennington loves all old things—wallpaper, handwriting . . . It took ages for her to grudgingly agree to computers, and that, I hear, didn’t even happen until the early nineties.
“Rob. Tell me about”—she glances down at her paper—“the developmental edits for Sonya. Has she received them, and how did she take it?”
And as Rob begins his own winding, skittish answer to her question, I take a moment to survey the room. Snow is drifting down outside the two windows facing the small yard beyond, and a cardinal sits on a nearby branch. Inside, the table is one giant mass of laptops and coffee cups, doughnuts and papers. And two seats to my left, at the foot of the table, is Will.
I feel a slight jump in my stomach and blink quickly back toward Ms. Pennington, not daring to let my eyes linger on anything but her. Rachel, our former marketing manager, was caught distracted by that cardinal out the window not too long ago and was fired on the spot for insubordination.
But as the questions and answers fire around the table, while I keep my eyes glued to Ms. Pennington, my mind wanders off to other matters.
Why does Will look so tired? There’s a red rim around his eyes, looking like mine do after too many hours staring at a computer with not enough sleep. He’s wearing glasses today, subtle copper-colored rectangular frames that make him look even more intimidating in his white button-up and navy-blue tie. Intimidating . . . and . . . well, sleek. Let’s just call him sleek.
Does he always wear glasses? Or are those the blue-light glasses Lyla has been badgering me about buying? Honestly, I do not care.
“Savannah, did you finish that manuscript by Smith? What were your thoughts?”
I blink to attention.
“Yes. Smith.” I shift in my chair, looking for my notes. “Smith’s manuscript was . . . impressive,” I say, pushing my stacks of papers aside in the hunt for Smith’s proposal. “His perspective on the way George Bird Grinnell, America’s environmental pioneer, led the way with such . . . such . . .” I hesitate, scouring my mind for the word. Ah. This is what I get for being so behind I didn’t get a chance to prepare my statement back at my desk. “Well, it was definitely his bailiwick,” I say at last. “It’s insightful. Smith really is”—I think quickly, trying to recall the words—“a leading authority in his field. I’d like to pursue taking his project to acquisitions.”
“Fine,” Ms. Pennington says, clearly not impressed by my word choices this week as she has been in previous ones, but not unimpressed either—and in our world, that’s pretty good. She looks down at her paper to move on, but then, as though remembering something, suddenly lifts her head. “Oh, and Savannah.”
“Yes?” I say quickly, only halfway through an exhale of relief.
“Giselle tells me you were spotted drinking coffee with Claire Donovan from Baird Books on Saturday. Please explain.”
The room stops. Every muscle in my being pauses.
“Oh,” I say in surprise, feeling a surge of both shock and revulsion toward Giselle. “Yes, that. Well . . .” Quick, Savannah. Think. What were you doing sitting with an editor at LOA? During work hours? With an editor of romance? Why . . .
I feel the panic within me rising as any plausible response falls short. All eyes are on me, including those of Giselle, who’s sitting coolly in her chair, a simpering smile thinly veiled as she holds her silver tumbler to her lips.
“I asked her to.”
Everyone at the table turns to Will in surprise, including me.
Ms. Pennington raises a brow. “You did, William? Why?”
Yes, William. What on earth can you possibly say now?
Will’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker, and his words don’t miss a beat. “Claire Donovan is one of the most respected editors in the industry, one with whom I’ve had the pleasure of acquaintance for several years. She is nearing the end of her tenure, and I wanted to get her thoughts on a potential project before the opportunity slipped by. But as I ended up occupied at our appointed meeting time, I sent Savannah in my stead with my apologies.”
Ms. Pennington’s eyes narrow.
Will looks coolly back.
“A meeting with Claire,” she says.
“Yes.”
Somewhere in the distance, I hear a pencil snap.
“As you are well aware, Will, Pennington thrives on being a stable foundation in the nonfiction and literary fiction sector—”
“Given the financial reports of the past twelve months, one might disagree on both the terms stable and foundation here—”
Everyone’s eyes bounce back to Ms. Pennington. “We have a loyal following—”
“Who are leaving in flocks for competitive publishers—”
“And decades of accomplishments lining our walls—”
“The dusty clippings from the eighties. Yes. I’ve seen them.”
“And most important, we have no intention of prostituting ourselves out with flighty paperbacks one drops into one’s shopping cart while perusing the aisle for Cheetos—”
All heads snap to Will. “Which is well and good, just so long as you inform everyone here to start looking for employment elsewhere as soon as possible.”
“It will never happen.” Ms. Pennington’s voice is so fierce it’s shaky, and she stares across the table at her son so long I find myself counting to thirty before anyone moves.
Eventually, Ms. Pennington straightens. When she speaks, her voice has regained control. “For some of those here who may have forgotten, Pennington Publishing began in 1969 under my hand as a place to curate only the most distinguished literature worthy of publication. Its mission and purpose will remain steadfast as it charges into both the new year and the years to come. Now, if you’ll all excuse me . . .” She nods to Brittney, who shuts her notebook and stands. “I have another meeting.”
Ms. Pennington sweeps out of the room, tailed by Brittney, and we sit in utter silence while they parade past.
Nobody. Nobody in the whole world besides her own son could’ve gotten away with what he just said.
Like everyone else at the table, I’m trying to process everything that just happened, every word that was just revealed. But also at the forefront of my mind is the growing warm recognition of a single fact: he stood up for me.
For some unknown reason, Will Pennington took the blow for me. Although, is it really called “taking the blow” when you do what he just did? No. It was more like he entered the ring for me, dodged every fist thrown at him like a master, and then reared back, giving clean strikes, until his opponent toppled. Or, in this case, found a handy excuse and got out of the room as quickly as possible.
A cobra. That’s what he is. Will Pennington, the cobra.
And all at once the room explodes with questions.
“Are we about to lose our jobs?” Clyve asks.
“Just how much financial trouble is Pennington in?” Marge throws in before Will has the chance to respond.
“Why hasn’t Ms. Pennington told us?” Rob interjects, looking bewildered by the chaos around him. “Is she going to cut our division after all?”
But instead of answering, Will smoothly stands up and addresses the room. “I want an update on your assigned tasks discussed in this meeting by this evening. Email me your responses, cc’ing the entire Pen team, and we can discuss there. As for the sensitive matters discussed in this meeting, rest assured that when I have more information regarding the situation, I will inform you. Let’s adjourn.”
With feeble attempts at a few more unanswered questions, everyone eventually disperses into the hallway. Lyla, the only one who gave such a satisfactory answer to every one of Ms. Pennington’s probing questions that she walked away with no assignments, takes my arm.
“What do you think that was about?” she says casually, as if we overheard two strangers arguing in a coffee shop and not a threat of losing our jobs. “You think the whole place is going under?”
I play back the conversation as we turn the corner and move toward the lobby stairs. It certainly was bizarre. I mean, we know there has been financial trouble; we have seen several cuts the past year. But nothing so serious that it seemed the entire company as a whole was threatened. Because it’s normal with publishers this size. This is the struggle most smaller industries face these days. This is the conversation you just have to get used to when you work in this environment.
Right?
Right?
We reach our floor, and I feel the familiar temptation to tread on. To keep going. For a second I waver, my foot hovering on the following step, trying to be strong. I should get back to work. Clearly, with everything I just heard, I should get straight back to my computer desk and start typing away.
But . . .
“I’m just going to use the bathroom real quick,” I say and remove my arm from Lyla’s grasp.
She hesitates, raises an eyebrow, and checks her watch. “Really, Sav, you need to get that checked out.”
“I know,” I affirm, nodding fervently, pulling my feet toward the next set of stairs. “I’m going to make a doctor’s appointment soon,” I continue, taking steps upward.
“Tomorrow!” she calls after me. “I mean it!” And I give a thumbs-up before disappearing around the corner.
Scurrying through two more hallways and two more flights of stairs, I finally reach the ARC room and yank open the door. The whole way there I fight the rising anxiety that accompanies me every time I search the room.
What if nobody has touched it?
I’m on day three of forty-four and have tried to cut out that character, and sure enough, it’s caused a total mess of the whole manuscript, and I can’t make heads or tails of what to do with the ice-skating scene now. And should I even try to redeem chapter 8? And don’t even get me started on the completely stilted dialogue I’m now seeing between my main man and leading lady—
I halt, one foot inside the tiny room.
Stare at the manuscript on the center of the rug.
Particularly the new handwriting in thick black ink on the green Post-It note lying on top of the stack. I take a step closer.
Dear Mystery Editor and Intruder into My-Most-Secret-Precious-Oasis-of-a-Room,
If you are reading this . . .
Help.
Rule 1: Stay on point.