CHAPTER two
Take a good book to bed with you—books do not snore.
—Thea Dorn
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 28, 2015
I woke to the incessant clucking of the cuckoo. The room’s blinds were closed and were glowing against an already high sun. I leaned over and grabbed my phone from the nightstand to check the time. I had forgotten to charge it. It was dead.
I pulled back the sheets, got the charger from my backpack, and plugged in my phone, then went to the kitchen, looking up at the now-silent clock. It was noon. I’d slept for almost twelve hours.
I opened the cupboard where my father had once kept the coffee. I wasn’t surprised that it was there. My father was a man of habit. The location was the same, but his taste in coffee had changed. Like most Americans, he had gone from the ubiquitous grocery store brand to a more exotic blend—Kona Vanilla Macadamia Nut.
As I put the coffee on to brew, I heard my phone beep. I walked back to my room to see who had called. I had two text messages and four missed calls, two of them from local numbers I didn’t know. There were three voice mails. The first text was from Jerica Bradley, one of my more popular authors. It simply said:
What did you think of revision?? Tossed the LI
LI. Jerica’s abbreviation for “love interest.” Haven’t read it yet, I thought. Some of us need sleep.
The other text was from a number with an 801 area code, but there was no name attached.
Your father’s funeral will be this Saturday. I left you a phone message.
I went to my voice mail. The first message was from my roommate, Diana.
“Hey, Noel, it’s Diana. Hope your father is okay. Sorry to bother you during this, but Darrin is moving back in next Wednesday, so I’ve got to get your things out. When will you be back?”
I groaned and went to the next voice mail.
“Noel, this is Wendy. Your father’s funeral will be this Saturday at the church on Parleys Way or Boulevard, whatever they call it. It’s the one by the house.
“The viewing starts at nine a.m. and the funeral begins at eleven. I’ll have a place saved for you at the front of the chapel. Your father had his funeral planned out. He didn’t put you on the program but asked me to give you the chance if you wanted to participate. Call me at this number if you have any questions. Bye.”
It was just like my father to have his own funeral planned out. He was planful.
I was stuck here until Saturday. The good news was that there wouldn’t be many distractions, and I could actually get some work done without all the meetings my supervisor, Natasha, loved to pile on us. I had a lot of reading to do.
The last voice mail was from Jerica Bradley. Jerica had a crusty smoker’s voice that sounded chronically angry—which was basically true. She was one of those authors that every publisher wanted but no one wanted to work with. She was best kept in the basement writing books—not just so she could write more, but because her book signings usually left her readers offended and disillusioned. After meeting her, longtime fans would, out of principle, stop buying her books. Her torturous personality wasn’t just reserved for her readers and publishers. She once walked out of Today’s greenroom just twelve minutes before her appearance for the stated reason that she didn’t like their coffee selection, leaving me and her publicist, Hannah, to do damage control with the show’s producers. Not surprisingly, she hadn’t been invited back.
“Aaaah, Noel, it’s Jerica. Your girl told me you were out. I dropped off my manuscript. I think it’s good. What am I saying, I’m always good. Let me know when you’ve read it.”
Jerica was the last of my authors—maybe the last author in the world—who still delivered paper manuscripts. I had asked her many times, pleaded with her, to just email them to me, but she wouldn’t. I dialed her number. As usual, she answered on the first ring.
“Noel, honey, it’s me. Jerica.”
I know, I thought. I called you. “Good morning.”
“It’s afternoon, honey. Did you get my manuscript?”
“Not yet. I’m out of town. I haven’t been in the office since Monday night.”
“No, honey, that doesn’t work for me, I dropped it off yesterday morning with your girl. Where are you?”
“I’m in Utah.”
“Good Lord, what are you doing there?”
“My father passed away.”
“Oh. That’s a shame, isn’t it? So, when will you be back? I want to know what you think of the rewrite. I tossed William to the scrap pile. I never liked the man. I think the flow’s better. When do you get back?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “My father’s funeral is Saturday.”
“You won’t be back until Saturday? Do I really have to wait that long? Trust me, there’s nothing in Utah worth staying for.”
“No, I won’t be back until Sunday at the soonest. You know, you could always just email your manuscript to me and I’ll read it today.”
She groaned. “Oh, not that again. You know I don’t do that.”
“I’ve forgotten why that is.”
“It’s not how I do things. Just hurry back.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said.
“Good girl.”
Jerica always hung up without saying goodbye. And I always felt like a dog when she said “Good girl.” In fact, she’d say it to her dog and me in the same sentence. Her dog, Pinot, was a teacup Maltese poodle, which I was more familiar with than I’d like to be. Jerica lived in SoHo, so, on the rare occasions when she agreed to do a book tour, she did a fair number of signings in Manhattan. For local events it was customary for me to escort her, a responsibility I had fulfilled on more than a dozen unpleasant occasions. As I said earlier, she wasn’t the kind of author a publishing house liked to parade.
Jerica insisted on bringing Pinot with her wherever she went, transporting the small ball of fur in her purse. The canine was clearly of much greater importance to her than her readers were, and it wasn’t unusual for her to stop signing books to feed her. Once, at a particularly large and well-publicized signing that she was late to, I suggested that she wait to feed her dog until after the signing. She informed me—with indignation—that Pinot’s breed (which, she frequently reminded me, was of royal descent and even written about by no less than Aristotle) suffered from hypoglycemia and needed to eat regularly to keep their blood sugar levels up.
It gets worse. She would brush the dog’s teeth during the signing since, as I was also informed, Maltese are known for having dental problems. Twice I had to drive her to a dog dentist in New York. I’m not making this up.
If that wasn’t enough, Jerica would occasionally let Pinot relieve herself on the bookstore carpet. (At least Amy Tan made her dogs wear diapers.) Once, a manager told her that dogs weren’t allowed in the store and she responded by walking out, leaving almost three hundred fans standing in line. It’s how she does things.
I called my editorial assistant, Lori. She had been with me for almost six months. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“Not much.” Her voice sounded tense.