people working over them are incompetent morons. It reinforces their own suspicions that they should actually be running things themselves.”
“Yeah, but this girl seems…well, incompetent. I would be happy to give her ego a boost, but I don’t trust her to give me correct information.”
“Hm. Is there anyone else you could ask?”
I thought of Cassie, who looked as if she had never made an incompetent move in her life. “Well, I’ll give it some thought.”
“That’s the spirit!” Fleishman said.
“Anyway, I should be home around six-thirty.” I felt a sudden longing to be there now.
“Good, because I’ve got a huge surprise for you.”
“I hope it involves a large pizza box.” After this afternoon, I had a feeling I was going to need some serious comfort food.
He laughed. “Oh, it’s better than that.”
There was a knock on my door and I hung up the phone to answer it. James, the mailroom guy, was standing there, his stance impatient. He was wearing headphones. “Mail,” he mumbled.
He handed me a plastic tub full of manila envelopes, business letters, and fat padded mailers, all addressed to Julie Spears. I grabbed it automatically and then staggered back under its weight. “Hey, wait a minute!”
He frowned and asked loudly, over whatever was being pumped into his ears, “What’s the matter? You’re her now, right?”
He pointed to Julie’s name.
As much as I would have loved to refuse delivery at that moment, I had to admit that I was indeed Julie now. Damn.
I began to sort through the top of the pile, separating the letters from the packages. I decided that I would come in early tomorrow to open the packages. I needed to think of some kind of logging system, since I didn’t see any evidence of one among Julie’s stuff. Gingerly, I opened a few letters.
Happily, most of them seemed manageable. A woman wanted to know if she could send me her book about a nurse midwife who finds herself pregnant after having a fling at her ten-year high school reunion. Sounded good to me. Another writer was dying to have me read her romantic suspense novel involving a female paratrooper who is taken hostage in a war-torn country and falls in love with a Norwegian Red Cross worker. That sounded good, too. But what did I know? I fired off letters to basically everybody telling them to mail me whatever.
A reader wrote to inform me that she had found several typographical errors, including the misspelling of the word gynecological, in a book called Twins on His Doorstep. She wanted to know if Candlelight books wanted to hire her to proofread their books. I looked up the word gynecological.
Then I looked up misspell.
I put the letter aside with a note to query Kathy Leo.
Several people had written requesting guidelines for writing romances. I searched Julie’s file cabinet, but found nothing under guidelines. When I went over to Lindsay’s cubicle to ask her about guidelines, she wasn’t there.
I was pondering how unethical it would be to rifle through someone else’s filing cabinet when Rita flew out of her door and almost slammed into me. She looked wild-eyed. “Where’s Lindsay?” she asked, practically hyperventilating.
“I don’t know. I came here to ask her about guidelines.”
“She didn’t go to the mailroom, did she?” Her voice cracked on the word mailroom.
“I don’t know,” I said again.
“I hope I didn’t miss her.”
I tilted my head. “Is everything all right?”
Rita sighed. “Probably. But one time she sent a manuscript to the wrong author, and since then I’ve tried to keep my eye on her when she goes to the mailroom so I can follow and double check them.”
“You check every package?”
She frowned. “Is that nuts?”
“Um….” After all, she was my boss. But no wonder she hadn’t taken a vacation in forever.
“You’re right. It is.” She released a long breath and combed her hand through her frazzly hair. “I mean, she’s my assistant,
“Yeah, but this girl seems…well, incompetent. I would be happy to give her ego a boost, but I don’t trust her to give me correct information.”
“Hm. Is there anyone else you could ask?”
I thought of Cassie, who looked as if she had never made an incompetent move in her life. “Well, I’ll give it some thought.”
“That’s the spirit!” Fleishman said.
“Anyway, I should be home around six-thirty.” I felt a sudden longing to be there now.
“Good, because I’ve got a huge surprise for you.”
“I hope it involves a large pizza box.” After this afternoon, I had a feeling I was going to need some serious comfort food.
He laughed. “Oh, it’s better than that.”
There was a knock on my door and I hung up the phone to answer it. James, the mailroom guy, was standing there, his stance impatient. He was wearing headphones. “Mail,” he mumbled.
He handed me a plastic tub full of manila envelopes, business letters, and fat padded mailers, all addressed to Julie Spears. I grabbed it automatically and then staggered back under its weight. “Hey, wait a minute!”
He frowned and asked loudly, over whatever was being pumped into his ears, “What’s the matter? You’re her now, right?”
He pointed to Julie’s name.
As much as I would have loved to refuse delivery at that moment, I had to admit that I was indeed Julie now. Damn.
I began to sort through the top of the pile, separating the letters from the packages. I decided that I would come in early tomorrow to open the packages. I needed to think of some kind of logging system, since I didn’t see any evidence of one among Julie’s stuff. Gingerly, I opened a few letters.
Happily, most of them seemed manageable. A woman wanted to know if she could send me her book about a nurse midwife who finds herself pregnant after having a fling at her ten-year high school reunion. Sounded good to me. Another writer was dying to have me read her romantic suspense novel involving a female paratrooper who is taken hostage in a war-torn country and falls in love with a Norwegian Red Cross worker. That sounded good, too. But what did I know? I fired off letters to basically everybody telling them to mail me whatever.
A reader wrote to inform me that she had found several typographical errors, including the misspelling of the word gynecological, in a book called Twins on His Doorstep. She wanted to know if Candlelight books wanted to hire her to proofread their books. I looked up the word gynecological.
Then I looked up misspell.
I put the letter aside with a note to query Kathy Leo.
Several people had written requesting guidelines for writing romances. I searched Julie’s file cabinet, but found nothing under guidelines. When I went over to Lindsay’s cubicle to ask her about guidelines, she wasn’t there.
I was pondering how unethical it would be to rifle through someone else’s filing cabinet when Rita flew out of her door and almost slammed into me. She looked wild-eyed. “Where’s Lindsay?” she asked, practically hyperventilating.
“I don’t know. I came here to ask her about guidelines.”
“She didn’t go to the mailroom, did she?” Her voice cracked on the word mailroom.
“I don’t know,” I said again.
“I hope I didn’t miss her.”
I tilted my head. “Is everything all right?”
Rita sighed. “Probably. But one time she sent a manuscript to the wrong author, and since then I’ve tried to keep my eye on her when she goes to the mailroom so I can follow and double check them.”
“You check every package?”
She frowned. “Is that nuts?”
“Um….” After all, she was my boss. But no wonder she hadn’t taken a vacation in forever.
“You’re right. It is.” She released a long breath and combed her hand through her frazzly hair. “I mean, she’s my assistant,
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