Read Online The Immaculate Deception by Sherry Silver - Free Book Online
Authors: Sherry Silver
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moaning dramatically as soon as I’d realized it was written by hoity-toity Fifth Avenue New York literary agent extraordinaire, Miz Tiffany Crigler-Hufnagle. She’d sent me a form rejection on my one-page query letter, seeking representation for my first completed romantic suspense novel, Hundred Dollar Bill . It was no different from the other eighty-odd rejections I’d received. A poor-quality photocopied Dear Author letter. I have personally considered your proposal and I am afraid it does not sufficiently excite me. I am much too busy with all of my celebrity authors to be bothered with a nobody. The writing is not strong enough to be commercially marketable. The characters didn’t come to life. Lots of luck finding representation elsewhere .
The writing isn’t strong. The characters didn’t come to life. How the hell could she tell that from a one-page query letter? She hadn’t even seen the manuscript. That’s okay. It was business. I just needed to find the right agent to match-make me with the acquisitions editor at a publishing house who would adore my characters.
If I would have been able to attend the writers’ conference last week, I could’ve pitched my book live and in person to both an agent and an editor. And since my submission finaled in the writing contest, all the agents and editors there would have been chasing me down the red carpet, begging at my Cinderella-slippered feet. Well, if I won they would have. All I knew was I made it into the top ten in the suspense category. I’d probably get the scores in the mail.
But I’d never get the mail if I didn’t get across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and home. I started the engine, turned up the music, shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway, halfway into the Meddlesteins’. I shifted into overdrive and let the horses run down the block, to a rolling stop at the corner. Oh yeah Momma, you do know how to select an automobile.
There was no residual rush hour traffic tonight, it was after nine and the moon rose fast. I turned up the volume and stretched my back. Shoot! My driver’s license was in my wallet in the bag behind the wrought iron railing in the living room at my parents’ house. I’d better be mindful of the posted speed limit. Shoot! A sea of red lights. I slowed to a stop. Well, either there was an accident or they had raised the bridge again and it was stuck open. What imbecile designed a drawbridge on the Capital beltway? And just who was that important that we needed to inconvenience thousands of commuters so that his or her yacht could pass through this section of the Potomac River?
Could be an accident. I called this area of the beltway the Wilson Triangle. Cars traveled two thousand miles across the country and by some misalignment of the planets and underwater craters, they crapped out on this bridge. Then the bridge was shut down for hours. I had gotten caught on it once. On my wedding day. I had missed it. The whole thing. That was back in the days before cell phones. My groom Joel had thought I stood him up at the altar. Tammy had suggested it, surely enough. By the time I had arrived at the United Methodist church in Maryland, it had been locked up tight.
I turned up the music. So that’s what brought up this memory, the Bee Gees love song “Too Much Heaven”. It had been our song. The first song Joel and I danced to at one of Tammy’s wedding receptions. I sure didn’t get too much heaven . I interlaced my fingers and positioned my thumbs side-by-side. Here is the church. I unfolded my index fingers. Here is the steeple. Open the doors and see all the people. I pulled my hands apart and sat on them. The church was empty.
Well, my church had been empty by the time I had gotten there, four hours late. Nobody left skulking around but Daddy. I hadn’t even been sure that he would’ve walked me down the aisle. He was opposed to the marriage. He and Momma had paid for my eighty-dollar wedding gown. I had
The writing isn’t strong. The characters didn’t come to life. How the hell could she tell that from a one-page query letter? She hadn’t even seen the manuscript. That’s okay. It was business. I just needed to find the right agent to match-make me with the acquisitions editor at a publishing house who would adore my characters.
If I would have been able to attend the writers’ conference last week, I could’ve pitched my book live and in person to both an agent and an editor. And since my submission finaled in the writing contest, all the agents and editors there would have been chasing me down the red carpet, begging at my Cinderella-slippered feet. Well, if I won they would have. All I knew was I made it into the top ten in the suspense category. I’d probably get the scores in the mail.
But I’d never get the mail if I didn’t get across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and home. I started the engine, turned up the music, shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway, halfway into the Meddlesteins’. I shifted into overdrive and let the horses run down the block, to a rolling stop at the corner. Oh yeah Momma, you do know how to select an automobile.
There was no residual rush hour traffic tonight, it was after nine and the moon rose fast. I turned up the volume and stretched my back. Shoot! My driver’s license was in my wallet in the bag behind the wrought iron railing in the living room at my parents’ house. I’d better be mindful of the posted speed limit. Shoot! A sea of red lights. I slowed to a stop. Well, either there was an accident or they had raised the bridge again and it was stuck open. What imbecile designed a drawbridge on the Capital beltway? And just who was that important that we needed to inconvenience thousands of commuters so that his or her yacht could pass through this section of the Potomac River?
Could be an accident. I called this area of the beltway the Wilson Triangle. Cars traveled two thousand miles across the country and by some misalignment of the planets and underwater craters, they crapped out on this bridge. Then the bridge was shut down for hours. I had gotten caught on it once. On my wedding day. I had missed it. The whole thing. That was back in the days before cell phones. My groom Joel had thought I stood him up at the altar. Tammy had suggested it, surely enough. By the time I had arrived at the United Methodist church in Maryland, it had been locked up tight.
I turned up the music. So that’s what brought up this memory, the Bee Gees love song “Too Much Heaven”. It had been our song. The first song Joel and I danced to at one of Tammy’s wedding receptions. I sure didn’t get too much heaven . I interlaced my fingers and positioned my thumbs side-by-side. Here is the church. I unfolded my index fingers. Here is the steeple. Open the doors and see all the people. I pulled my hands apart and sat on them. The church was empty.
Well, my church had been empty by the time I had gotten there, four hours late. Nobody left skulking around but Daddy. I hadn’t even been sure that he would’ve walked me down the aisle. He was opposed to the marriage. He and Momma had paid for my eighty-dollar wedding gown. I had
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