a romance novel where it’s easy to stay within certain limitations. The Jenny novel is much more risky.”
“Yes,” Fanny replied, her voice warm with approval. “Yes, that’s it, you see.” Then she was silent again.
“I wonder,” Sara said, “I wonder if I could come up to Cambridge and see you. Perhaps meet you for a drink or take you to lunch or somehow just sit and talk with you about this.”
Silence.
“Please understand,” Sara said, “I’m a freelance editor. I can’t promise anything. And I don’t have any hidden motive for doing this, I just really am intrigued by your Jenny. I would like to see it become published, and, well, all my editorial instincts have been aroused. I think the Jenny book could be very exciting.”
“I just don’t know,” Fanny said. “It’s lovely of you to say all these things, very kind of you—”
“Oh, it’s not kindness —” Sara interrupted.
“—but I just don’t know,” Fanny finished.
“Well, I’ve got to come up to Boston early in December—to do some Christmas shopping,” Sara said, inventing an excuse on the spot. “Nantucket’s so small, you know. No big stores. Perhaps when I come up I could come see you for just a little while and we could discuss this.”
Silence. Then, “Tell me about yourself,” Fanny said, her soft voice firm.
“Oh,” Sara said, thrown by the question. “Well. I’m thirty-four years old, I’m married to a carpenter, we’ve lived here on Nantucket for two years and lived in the Boston area before. I went to Williams College and then worked with Donald James for about eight years.… I have no children. I love editing, but my husband was raised on Nantucket and wanted to live here, and so we thought we’d try it. I like editing romance novels, but I also like editing, um, more serious work.”
“Are you very pretty?”
Surprised, Sara said honestly, “Well, I suppose so. Well, perhaps not very pretty, but certainly pretty.”
“Beautiful?”
“Oh, no, not beautiful. Well, my husband thinks I am, I suppose, at least I hope he does, at least he says he does, and that’s what counts.…”
“And when you go out of the house, when you walk down the street, when you meet people?”
“Yes?” Sara said, not sure what the woman was driving at.
“Do you always find you make an impression ?”
“Why, no, I don’t think so,” Sara replied. She was puzzled. “I suppose sometimes I do. But most of the time I think I look just like anyone else. You know, we’re pretty casual down here.”
“You don’t seem overly burdened with vanity,” Fanny Anderson said.
“No,” Sara replied. “No, I don’t think I am.” She laughed. “I’ve never had any reason to be ‘overly burdened’ with it.” Then, suddenly flashing on what it was Fanny wanted to know, she said, “I’ve never been as beautiful as Jenny, for example. I’ve never had to give any care about a gift of beauty. But I’ve had enough so that I could understand her, I think.”
“Yes,” Fanny said. “I see. What, more precisely, do you look like?”
“Well—I’m about five foot seven. I have blue eyes, blond hair—which I’ve just had cut very short. I never was ‘cute’ but I suppose I always was pretty. I think I look more intelligent than anything else in spite of the fact that I’m blonde. I mean blondes are supposed to look cute and sexy and dumb, the stereotype, that is. And I’m a little overweight now, I find I go up and down with weight.”
“Yes, weight can be a problem, can’t it,” Fanny said.
Sara waited. She wondered if she had somehow passed whatever test it was the other woman had just given her.
But Fanny only said, “Well, my. This is very interesting. I must say I am pleased that you like my Jenny pages. It encourages me. Still—”
“I would love to come talk with you about it,” Sara said, determined to pin down this elusive woman.
“Let me think about it,” Fanny Anderson said.
“Yes,” Fanny replied, her voice warm with approval. “Yes, that’s it, you see.” Then she was silent again.
“I wonder,” Sara said, “I wonder if I could come up to Cambridge and see you. Perhaps meet you for a drink or take you to lunch or somehow just sit and talk with you about this.”
Silence.
“Please understand,” Sara said, “I’m a freelance editor. I can’t promise anything. And I don’t have any hidden motive for doing this, I just really am intrigued by your Jenny. I would like to see it become published, and, well, all my editorial instincts have been aroused. I think the Jenny book could be very exciting.”
“I just don’t know,” Fanny said. “It’s lovely of you to say all these things, very kind of you—”
“Oh, it’s not kindness —” Sara interrupted.
“—but I just don’t know,” Fanny finished.
“Well, I’ve got to come up to Boston early in December—to do some Christmas shopping,” Sara said, inventing an excuse on the spot. “Nantucket’s so small, you know. No big stores. Perhaps when I come up I could come see you for just a little while and we could discuss this.”
Silence. Then, “Tell me about yourself,” Fanny said, her soft voice firm.
“Oh,” Sara said, thrown by the question. “Well. I’m thirty-four years old, I’m married to a carpenter, we’ve lived here on Nantucket for two years and lived in the Boston area before. I went to Williams College and then worked with Donald James for about eight years.… I have no children. I love editing, but my husband was raised on Nantucket and wanted to live here, and so we thought we’d try it. I like editing romance novels, but I also like editing, um, more serious work.”
“Are you very pretty?”
Surprised, Sara said honestly, “Well, I suppose so. Well, perhaps not very pretty, but certainly pretty.”
“Beautiful?”
“Oh, no, not beautiful. Well, my husband thinks I am, I suppose, at least I hope he does, at least he says he does, and that’s what counts.…”
“And when you go out of the house, when you walk down the street, when you meet people?”
“Yes?” Sara said, not sure what the woman was driving at.
“Do you always find you make an impression ?”
“Why, no, I don’t think so,” Sara replied. She was puzzled. “I suppose sometimes I do. But most of the time I think I look just like anyone else. You know, we’re pretty casual down here.”
“You don’t seem overly burdened with vanity,” Fanny Anderson said.
“No,” Sara replied. “No, I don’t think I am.” She laughed. “I’ve never had any reason to be ‘overly burdened’ with it.” Then, suddenly flashing on what it was Fanny wanted to know, she said, “I’ve never been as beautiful as Jenny, for example. I’ve never had to give any care about a gift of beauty. But I’ve had enough so that I could understand her, I think.”
“Yes,” Fanny said. “I see. What, more precisely, do you look like?”
“Well—I’m about five foot seven. I have blue eyes, blond hair—which I’ve just had cut very short. I never was ‘cute’ but I suppose I always was pretty. I think I look more intelligent than anything else in spite of the fact that I’m blonde. I mean blondes are supposed to look cute and sexy and dumb, the stereotype, that is. And I’m a little overweight now, I find I go up and down with weight.”
“Yes, weight can be a problem, can’t it,” Fanny said.
Sara waited. She wondered if she had somehow passed whatever test it was the other woman had just given her.
But Fanny only said, “Well, my. This is very interesting. I must say I am pleased that you like my Jenny pages. It encourages me. Still—”
“I would love to come talk with you about it,” Sara said, determined to pin down this elusive woman.
“Let me think about it,” Fanny Anderson said.
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