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Authors: Rene Gutteridge
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younger?”
“Scarier.” Alfred tilted sideways, trying to get a glimpse of Wolfe, but he just saw more people. He looked at Ellie. “Let me ask you something. I’ve been doing my share of observing today, and I have to say, I’m nothing short of impressed. You have quite a strategy.”
“Strategy?”
“Yeah. It’s a little laid-back for my taste, but I’m willing to bet you score on charm alone.”
“What are you talking about?”
He stepped closer to her. “Which author are you trying to steal here? I won’t tell a soul, I promise.” “Steal?”
“Yeah. Surely you’ve got your eye on someone.”
Ellie turned to him. “I’m not trying to steal anybody.”
He snorted. “Right. You’re trying to tell me there’s not a big name here you’d love to draw your twenty percent from?” He scanned the room. “I once heard a guy promise an author he didn’t even represent yet to the editor of a competing house!”
“I’m not trying to steal anyone,” Ellie said. “I’m happy with my clients. I’m actually here to find fresh, new talent.”
“Really?”
“Sure. You never know when you’re going to discover the next Wolfe Boone!”
Suddenly a small woman was standing in front of Alfred, looking up at him like a needy child. Her thick glasses magnified dark circles and deep creases on either side of her eyes. She was trying to smile.
“She’s nervous,” Ellie whispered.
That was strange, because Alfred was also growing nervous at an alarming rate, especially when he noticed the thick stack of papers in her hand.
Ellie said to the woman, “Go ahead. Introduce yourself.”
“I’m Rosalinda Barrington-Glauchmeier.” She shrugged with a lopsided grin. “Actually, that’s a pen name. My real name is Doris Buford.” She held out a hand. Alfred slid his forward, and she grabbed it with the strength of a man twice her size. “Such a pleasure to meet you!”
“Likewise,” Alfred said.
Ellie smiled. “Likewise. That’s cute.” She looked at Doris. “He’s from New York. They say things like that.”
“I was wondering if you had some time to talk with me,” Doris said. “I’ve got a manuscript.”
Alfred’s hand found his face as he tried to look pleasantly agreeable. “Oh, um …”
“He’d love to,” Ellie interjected. “For the sake of new talent, right, Alfred?”
He glanced sideways at Ellie. “Sure.”
Doris’s small frame wiggled with excitement. Before Ellie could add any more suggestions, he said, “Doris, why don’t we sit over here, out of the way? You can tell me about your novel.”
As they sat, he couldn’t deny the strange feeling that was creeping around his entrails. Was that charity tickling his fancy? A sense of goodwill toward men and short mousy women?
Was he actually being a good person? He glanced back at Ellie. She had a tight-lipped grin on her face that seemed to show a certain pride in his willingness to pay attention to Doris.
Alfred gave Doris a reassuring smile, which seemed to do wonders for her fidgeting. She took a deep breath and tried to settle into her chair.
He spread his arms wide and, with a delighted grin, said, “Doris, what can I do for you, my dear?”
Alfred took a third tissue from Doris, and blew his nose with reckless abandon. “There, there,” Doris said.
Alfred couldn’t stop the waterworks. And in a matter of minutes, he’d become touchy-feely. This had drawn more than a few stares, but he really didn’t care. He hadn’t felt this much emotion since he’d received that forty-thousand-dollar bonus nearly a decade ago.
“So?” Doris asked, ready with a fourth tissue. “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Alfred exclaimed. “Look at me! I’m dribble!”
“I’ll admit, I’m not as familiar with the New York scene as I should be, but usually when someone likes a manuscript, they just say so. However,” she added quickly, “I’m all for men expressing their emotion. It really is
“Scarier.” Alfred tilted sideways, trying to get a glimpse of Wolfe, but he just saw more people. He looked at Ellie. “Let me ask you something. I’ve been doing my share of observing today, and I have to say, I’m nothing short of impressed. You have quite a strategy.”
“Strategy?”
“Yeah. It’s a little laid-back for my taste, but I’m willing to bet you score on charm alone.”
“What are you talking about?”
He stepped closer to her. “Which author are you trying to steal here? I won’t tell a soul, I promise.” “Steal?”
“Yeah. Surely you’ve got your eye on someone.”
Ellie turned to him. “I’m not trying to steal anybody.”
He snorted. “Right. You’re trying to tell me there’s not a big name here you’d love to draw your twenty percent from?” He scanned the room. “I once heard a guy promise an author he didn’t even represent yet to the editor of a competing house!”
“I’m not trying to steal anyone,” Ellie said. “I’m happy with my clients. I’m actually here to find fresh, new talent.”
“Really?”
“Sure. You never know when you’re going to discover the next Wolfe Boone!”
Suddenly a small woman was standing in front of Alfred, looking up at him like a needy child. Her thick glasses magnified dark circles and deep creases on either side of her eyes. She was trying to smile.
“She’s nervous,” Ellie whispered.
That was strange, because Alfred was also growing nervous at an alarming rate, especially when he noticed the thick stack of papers in her hand.
Ellie said to the woman, “Go ahead. Introduce yourself.”
“I’m Rosalinda Barrington-Glauchmeier.” She shrugged with a lopsided grin. “Actually, that’s a pen name. My real name is Doris Buford.” She held out a hand. Alfred slid his forward, and she grabbed it with the strength of a man twice her size. “Such a pleasure to meet you!”
“Likewise,” Alfred said.
Ellie smiled. “Likewise. That’s cute.” She looked at Doris. “He’s from New York. They say things like that.”
“I was wondering if you had some time to talk with me,” Doris said. “I’ve got a manuscript.”
Alfred’s hand found his face as he tried to look pleasantly agreeable. “Oh, um …”
“He’d love to,” Ellie interjected. “For the sake of new talent, right, Alfred?”
He glanced sideways at Ellie. “Sure.”
Doris’s small frame wiggled with excitement. Before Ellie could add any more suggestions, he said, “Doris, why don’t we sit over here, out of the way? You can tell me about your novel.”
As they sat, he couldn’t deny the strange feeling that was creeping around his entrails. Was that charity tickling his fancy? A sense of goodwill toward men and short mousy women?
Was he actually being a good person? He glanced back at Ellie. She had a tight-lipped grin on her face that seemed to show a certain pride in his willingness to pay attention to Doris.
Alfred gave Doris a reassuring smile, which seemed to do wonders for her fidgeting. She took a deep breath and tried to settle into her chair.
He spread his arms wide and, with a delighted grin, said, “Doris, what can I do for you, my dear?”
Alfred took a third tissue from Doris, and blew his nose with reckless abandon. “There, there,” Doris said.
Alfred couldn’t stop the waterworks. And in a matter of minutes, he’d become touchy-feely. This had drawn more than a few stares, but he really didn’t care. He hadn’t felt this much emotion since he’d received that forty-thousand-dollar bonus nearly a decade ago.
“So?” Doris asked, ready with a fourth tissue. “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Alfred exclaimed. “Look at me! I’m dribble!”
“I’ll admit, I’m not as familiar with the New York scene as I should be, but usually when someone likes a manuscript, they just say so. However,” she added quickly, “I’m all for men expressing their emotion. It really is
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