After I received the "alternate titles" request I mentioned in my previous post, I went to these ladies for a little help and found this.
As helpful as it is to be encouraged to relax about a title, to not stress so much over what your novel will be called because chances were never there for your title to stick in the first place, I still find myself checking my email every few hours, waiting on word from the title comittee, who ended their last email assuring me they will take everything into consideration, and hopefully would be able to pick a good one.
Aaak!
Do not get me wrong! I am still totally blown away by this chance... that editors are even calling me Krista and "part of the Covenant family" still makes my toes curl and I find myself smiling into space over all this opportunity.
But, I came up with seven, and then two more, titles to give them. I liked ONE of those. One. And I didn't like it better than the original. The others had me wincing, sticking my tongue out, shaking my head as I typed them into the email.
And I have a feeling this is something I am going to have to get over. Because the lovely people at Covenant know what they are doing, right? RIGHT? Of course they do (mantra chant). And I am guessing my suggestions aren't the only ones on the table.
And Annette Lyon is right. The story was great enough to catch the editor's eyes. They love my book. The title will come. And the next one, and the next one. The Orchard... The Inn... The Lake... like that.
A request for 5-10 alternate titles? What? But... but it's called The Orchard. Umm, okay.
Think.
Think.
Think.
Read.
Think.
I knew this happens. I've read about it. Still, when the request is made of me, I am stunned. Scratching my head, I come up with seven ideas. Still like the original best. At least they ask me.
This is all very interesting. I'll let you know what happens next.
An excerpt, in memory of my daughter, born and died December 17, 1996:
And so it was, that we learned how to prepare for the worst, while hoping for the best. We picked out a name: Kate Afton, after my great-grandmother, Katherine, and the serene mountain valley in Wyoming where Brandon’s parents had recently moved, and where we found perspective, peace, and wonder on our summer visit.
As I sat with my Primary class during singing time, the words of a song the children were learning, and I knew well, caught me off-guard. My voice caught and my vision blurred.
When He comes Again, by Mirla Greenwood Thayne, had always been a beautiful song to me, but hearing it now, it meant something much more profound. It was no longer a song of a child wondering what season Jesus Christ would return in, or if he would be ready. It was a song of hope; hope that we would be with Kate again, that she had a purpose to fulfill here, and our Savior would receive her with open arms.
Overwhelmed, I couldn’t sing, but listened to the children’s voices pick up the words. After singing time, the primary president approached me, and asked if I was all right.
I explained with a tight voice, “We are losing this baby.”
I spent my nights silently fighting the cry that forced its way from my heart, to my lungs, to my eyes, finally to leave my body in muffled gasps and tears that streamed. I envisioned the baby, the little girl, the young woman I would not make memories with as I had done with my other children. Only prayer would help me find sleep.
Heavenly Father, please help everything be all right. Please help Kate feel our love for her. Please help us be strong, and turn to each other, and our Savior.
The Primary song would return, and I would finally drift off. Will herald angels sing…
James Dashner's Maze Runner has been mentioned so many times in my internet browzing, I had to read it for myself. So, after I bought it for my son for Christmas (I'm pretty sure he doesn't check this blog), and before I hid it to be wrapped, I read it.
I am so excited to give it to him.
If you haven't read the opening scene on Dashner's website, and you want to read an example of how to draw a reader into a story, go now and read it... but then come back here because I have a little more to say.
Underdog heroes,twists and turns, tranport into another reality, second guesses, grappling mental and physical challenges... this is a book that moves.
I loved the hidden potential, the discovery of how strong we might be. And we're not done. Not at all.
I could not embrace one of the main characters introduced later in the book, but I wonder if I am not meant to yet. It is one of the reasons I will be looking for the second book. The other reasons are that I want to see evil overcome, I want to see characters avenged, I want to know how the others were tested.
We shall see!
1. What's the last thing you wrote? What's the first thing you wrote that you still have?
I have been editing two books: Remnant, and The Inn. But writing writing? The last pages of Grace and Chocolate were done a few weeks ago.
I have a bunch of poetry and essays I kept from high school and college. Funny (to laugh at), heart-wrenching, dramatic stuff.
2. Write poetry?
Yes. Not as much lately. It really has to hit me and I'll write it down.
3. Angsty poetry?
"Ode To A Punker's Sister, 4/22/86 For Laurel Banner, may she survive being raised by the book." Awesome 80's angst.
4. Favorite genre of writing?
I have to say romance (real, deep, true stuff, not that other kind), though I love fantasy, suspense and some historical fiction.
5. Most annoying character you've ever created?
Cush, a two-faced Nephite traitor who wouldn't shut up and chewed with his mouth open. Ugh.
6. Best Plot you've ever created?
Hmm. So little of my stuff has been read... I love The Lake. I can't wait to get The Orchard and The Inn out so I can get to The Lake. Too soon to tell, I guess. I need more feedback.
7. Coolest Plot twist you've ever created?
Grace and Chocolate. I didn't even see it coming.
8. How often do you get writer's block?
Apparently every Thanksgiving through Christmas. Or is that just busy?
9. Write fan fiction?
I guess I have to say yes. The Orchard is a modern take on Jane Austen's Persuasion. The first half of Orchard gets us to the point where Austen's Persuasion begins, and that storyline is woven into the second half of the book. Although I really appreciated having a story like that as a guide to my first novel, I don't think I will need to do it again.
10. Do you type or write by hand?
I used to write furiously by hand, but most everything is on the computer now.
11. Do you save everything you write?
Yes. Thank heavens for jump drives.
12. Do you ever go back to an idea after you've abandoned it?
I'll save edits I think are great, in case I need them for something else, tweaked to fit.
13. What's your favorite thing you've ever written?
That's hard. I love writing emotion. There was a scene in The Lake... it was 2 am and I was sobbing, just bawling, getting this written (and I'm really pretty reserved emotionally). But there are some suspenseful scenes in Remnant so different from what I'd written before, loved that, too.
14. What's everyone else's favorite story that you've written?
You mean my mom's? Ha ha. I haven't had enough read to know. We'll say The Orchard, because it will be my first publication.
15. Ever written romance or angsty teen drama?
Romance. Even Remnant, a post Book of Mormon speculative... couldn't stay away from it. It happens. The Lake spans 7 years of the mc's life, starting at age 15, so there was some fun teen stuff in there.
16. What's your favorite setting for your characters?
Loved the setting for Orchard and Lake. "Currant Lake" is a fictional lake in Flathead Valley, MT based on a real one where we vacation.
17. How many writing projects are you working on right now?
Ready to get Remnant out to readers, Grace and Chocolate is being read, editing The Inn for submission.
18. Have you ever won an award for your writing?
No.
19. What are your five favorite words?
A few are wretched, caught, hush, ferocious, and squeegee.
20. What character have you created that is most like yourself?
Kirianah, in Remnant. I didn't mean to, but my husband caught it (hey, that's a favorite word) two chapters in.
21. Where do you get ideas for your characters?
Most of them come on their own, some I need help with, mostly minor characters based loosely on family members.
22. Do you ever write based on your dreams?
No, but I have woken up inspired, and The Inn explores dreams and their purposes.
23. Do you favor happy endings?
Yes. I threw The Mill On The Floss, by George Eliot, across the room when I finished it. Unless it's a series. There has to be hope.
24. Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Yes. I edit as I go and it drives me crazy. I've tried not to. It's better that I just let my mental editor free, and no one gets hurt.
25. Does music help you write?
It's too distracting to the movie in my head. I listen to music at almost any other time, though, and put together soundtracks to my novels when I am near completion.
26. Quote something you've written. Whatever pops into your head.
Are we supposed to remember what we've written? Um, since I mentioned Cush earlier... The soaking, slop-eating blood-traitor who soiled himself at the sight of a bloated floater stood before him with his hands on his hips. See, the Lamanites don't like him, either.
A writer and nothing else: a man alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right.
~John K. Hutchens, New York Herald Tribune, 10 September 1961
I am getting The Inn ready for submission, diving into another edit. It is the sequel to The Orchard and centers around Elizabeth Embry, Alisen's older, snobby, successful sister. It had to be different because Elizabeth is such a different character from Alisen. Alisen was so open and searching. Elizabeth is closed and cautious, skeptical. Alisen had never been away from home. Elizabeth is hardly ever home. Alisen had innocence. Elizabeth has been there, done that. It was very interesting, finding her story. But they both had their childhood, shared the pain of the loss of their mother, and, though Elizabeth's awareness of it is latent, are looking for home... a place to belong.
The Inn has been my most difficult novel to write so far. It was my first novel without a definite inspiration (The Orchard was based on Jane Austen's Persuasion) and so I still worry about where it goes, plot and conflict. But I do love the emotion, because Elizabeth is so guarded. I loved having her true feelings forced to the page. So, while I struggle with the twist and timing, here is a snippet of emotion I do like. The X's are to eliminate a spoiler.
She flipped on the entry light and looked around. The cathedral ceilings made the room feel extra large, or maybe she just felt small tonight. The furniture was simply arranged in front of the fireplace on the right wall, and the back windows overlooking the golf course were black, only reflecting the room and her own image. She took a deep breath and headed for her bedroom.
She hung up the dress in her closet, set down her bag, and sat on the bed. Her heart began to thud a little too uncomfortably and she took another breath. Gripping her phone, she pressed the button.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Paul.”
“Liz. How are you?”
She pictured his smile.
She breathed as she spoke, trying to hide the rapid movement she felt from her heart to her throat. “I’m good. I’m sorry I couldn’t return your call earlier. I’ve been on the road.”
“Where to this time?”
“Actually, not too far. XXXXXXXXX.”
There was a pause. “Well, that’s great.”
“Yes, it is.” She tried not to overdo the enthusiasm as she smiled. “It was lovely.”
“Good, Liz. Man, its great to hear your voice.”
Something occurred to her. She looked at the clock. “Are you still in Hong Kong?”
He laughed quietly. “No. I’m in Maine. I opened a restaurant here a while back.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t expected that. “It’s still late, though. I’m sorry.” He didn’t say anything. “Should I call back in the morning?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“So, Maine?”
“Yes. An old friend of mine offered me a chance at his place and I couldn’t turn it down. I missed the homeland. And the restaurant is doing really well…”
He sounded as if there was more. She waited, gently biting her manicured thumbnail. “And…?”
He took a deep breath and she pictured him scratching his hair back and forth as he raised his eyebrows. “…and, I’m getting married, Liz.”
She blinked and felt heat rising up her neck, then her face. She didn’t breathe as her mind flipped like a deck of cards, too fast to land on something to say.
“I wanted to tell you… before you heard it from somebody else.”
She nodded, somehow finding her voice. “Anyone I know?”
“No, no. She’s a schoolteacher here in Maine. She’s… she’s really great, Liz.” His voice was gentle, not boasting.
Elizabeth swallowed, hoping that would affect the water accumulating in her lower lids. It didn’t. “I hope she is.”
They were silent for a few stretched moments. Finally, he spoke.
“Liz… I,” he cleared his throat, “take care of yourself, okay?”
She nodded. She was good at that. “Paul?” A rough rock lodged in her throat.
“Yes?”
She felt the hot, unwelcome sting of a tear escape down her cheek. “I hope everything works out… with the restaurant, and… everything.”
“Thanks, Liz.” He paused. “Liz?”
Couldn’t she just go, now? “Uh-huh?”
He hesitated, then whispered low, “You’re more than you think you are.”
Her hand came to her stomach as if she’d been hit, and she tried to swallow. He had said those words to her before, in a much different situation. She had to let them sink in once more.
Finally, she whispered back, “Goodbye, Paul.”
“Goodbye.”
She hit cancel and dropped the phone. She sat there holding her stomach, holding back the tears, steadying her breathing.
Twenty minutes later, she slowly got up and changed into her nightgown, skimming past the shimmering red kimono robe, noting to herself that she could never wear it again, and hating herself for being that sentimental.
She climbed into bed, set her alarm, pulled the light covers up, and closed her eyes. An hour later, the silent sobs came when she was too tired to fight them any longer.
And she knew her cries weren’t just for him.
Emotion is such a personal thing to write. How do you take words and form them into feelings, while staying true to the character? Share your thoughts.
"Congratulations! Today we officially accepted The Orchard for publication. It's a unique story that captured our imagination, and we love the way you crafted and developed both the plot and the characters. Your revisions were excellent, and we are pleased to be able to bring your book to the LDS market."
It looks like The Orchard will be out for your reading enjoyment Spring/Summer 2011!!!!!!!!!!!! It's still sinking in. I jumped around too much after dinner. Side-ache. It's a good side-ache, though. I love the look on my husband's face. He totally loves this for me.
Thank you, Covenant Communications and the readers! Thank you, Kathryn Jenkins! I can't wait to meet my editor! My head is spinning... ahhhhhh!
The Art of Civilized Conversation, by Margaret Shepherd
In our fast-paced, electronic society, the most basic social interaction (talking face-to-face) can be a challenge for even the most educated and self-assured individuals. And yet making conversation is a highly practical skill: those who do it well shine at networking parties, interviews, and business lunches. Good conversation also opens doors to a happier love life, warmer friendships, and more rewarding time with family.
For those intimidated by the complexity of personal interaction, or those simply looking to polish their speaking skills, The Art of Civilized Conversation is a powerful guide to communicating in an endearing way. In its pages, author Margaret Shepherd offers opening lines, graceful apologies, thoughtful questions, and, ultimately, the confidence to take conversations beyond hello. From the basics (first impressions, appropriate subject matter, and graceful exits) to finding the right words for difficult situations and an insightful discussion of body language, Shepherd uses her skilled eye and humorous anecdotes to teach readers how to turn a plain conversation into an engaging encounter.
Filled with common sense and fresh insight, The Art of Civilized Conversation is the perfect inspiration not only for what to say but for how to say it with style.
I try to leave out the parts that people skip. ~Elmore Leonard
I recently asked the great editors of Writing on the Wall about transitions between sequels. I know we are to be careful with too much backstory, often referred to as "info dump", and flashbacks. So, how does that translate in a sequel, where characters are re-introduced, time has passed since the last book came out, and you want to bring the readers up to speed without causing them to get out the first book and look things up to remember, but you also don't want them to sigh and think, "Yeah, I remember all this, blah blah blah, skip to next scene."
I have come across both in the many series I have read. How do you find that happy place in-between? The smooth transition?
This summer I finished a really lengthy novel, 748 pages, called Remnant. It's a speculative novel about what happened after the final battle at Cumorah in the Book of Mormon. My friend Norma had just split her WIP into two sections and is adding a third book and I borrowed her idea. It worked. Halfway through Remnant I found the perfect leaving off/starting up again point in the story. A 2-part series.
But now I need to apply the advice given me. Heather B. Moore, the author of Abinadi and Alma, among other series, replied to my question and I hope she doesn't mind me sharing her advice,(paraphrased). As I edited the "jump" from one book to the other, I kept in mind what the reader would need or want to be reminded of, and made those changes. The example below are from Remnant, Book II.
-Use internal dialogue and very short explanations.
She nodded, barely making out his silhouette in the shelter. She yawned loudly. “I am ready.” She trusted Muhozheena, one of the leaders of these people who had found them in a darkest hour, helped them though they were strangers to this land of boiling mud and bursting steam. They had saved Teomni’s life. And Zerom’s.
-Do not, as the author, veer from the action or dialogue too long. This is when skimming occurs.
“Sho?”
“Mm?”
“Do you have a longer name, like the others? Pengwi is Mane…Manegitepengwi. Bigwiyaa is Bigwiyaahio. And… Wahatewe… Wahatewe…” she blew out a breath and Sho laughed.
“Wahateweduhbiaisa.”
“Yes.” She pointed to him as they dropped over the bank. “Sho…? Shomaniwayatuka?”
He laughed again, shaking his head. They knelt down and washed the cups and pot. She would learn these names, if only to show her gratitude to this people, to address them with her respect.
“Shohopanogua.” He sat back and reached his hand against the trunk of the young tree above them. “Shohopanogua.” He shook the trunk and looked up.
She repeated him. “Shoho-panogua.”
He smiled and nodded, and patted the tree.
“You are named for that tree?”
He nodded, then turned to go back to what was left of camp.
-Use dialogue to remind readers.
Lahonti was quiet.
“What of Kirianah?” There, he had said it.
“What of her?”
Limhi noted the softening of his son’s tone. “Do you love her?”
Lahonti stopped, and Limhi turned around. He heard the steps of Nawatweda pause.
Lahonti put his hands at his hips and looked away. “Of course I do.”
Limhi stepped to him. “My son, I know you have refused to consider what I talked to you about so many years ago. But, if the time of danger has passed, don’t you think—“
“She thinks of me only as a brother.” Lahonti walked past him and motioned Nawatweda on.
Limhi sighed. He could not argue. He followed and noted they were climbing up a ravine, out of the canyon.
“You have not shown her any other behavior.”
“There were times, I tried. We have been raised together in war. What else do we know?”
-Bring out an article to remind readers of a previous incident.
He gently laid her down and reached for his pack. He drew the attention of Sho and Pengwi as he withdrew the carving, the deer he had brought out of the boral wood so many months ago. He dug and found his knife.
Zerom returned to his place at Kirianah’s side and ran his hands over the wood of his home, over the progress he had made along the way. His fingers ran over the animal’s eyes, and he caught his breath. He began to work, occasionally pausing to brush the shavings in a small pile.
Pengwi brought him a bowl of some sort of stew. He smelled berries and meat, but kept his focus. Sho offered him water, and he did pause to drink, and nodded his thanks to Sho, then furrowed his brow and went back to work, the pile of shavings growing.
Finally, he stopped, and turned the carving in his hands. Sho nodded across from him. It was not finished, but he would save it for another time. He set it down and carefully gathered up the shavings. He motioned to Pengwi, pointing to the bowl. Pengwi quickly got him what he wanted, and Zerom dropped the shavings into the empty horn bowl. He picked up the still smoldering herbs and blew on them, holding them over the shavings. He blew again, and glowing particles swirled and dropped into the bowl. He continued, until the tiny embers were enough to start a thin line of smoke from the shavings. He softly inhaled. It was enough.
Carefully, he lowered the bowl close to Kirianah’s face, and wafted the herbs through the wood smoke. Boral wood, the smells she had described of her father’s workshop. He did this patiently, hope drifting through him like the scent filling his memories. He watched her face.
I will keep trying, but I am so grateful for the good advice I am finding. I will need to apply the same thing to The Inn and The Lake. I already know I have my work cut out for me. Info-dump sites.
BTW, still no word from the editors on The Orchard, but I am keeping busy and looking forward to the holidays. Still a little wring of my hands and an occasional brain hiccup, like yesterday when I was leaving Albertson's, my mind on the book, and I turned into the very wrong lane, facing down a mac truck across the intersection. Fortunately the light was red, and I was able to find my lane, with my hand over my face, and get out of there, wondering if I could change the color of my car and apply for a new license number.
As my friend Matt would say, it's all good.
A critic can only review the book he has read, not the one which the writer wrote. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960
I have heard from the editors. They are ready to take The Orchard to the managing committee for final review. So, as per their request, I am making an itemized list of the revisions they asked me to make and how I addressed them, so they have the list there as they go through the book again.
The quote above is from a work titled, as you can see, The Neurotic's Notebook.
Mm-hmm, yep.
I think it's a good, nervous anxiety, though.
Back to work.
With the harsh scrape of chair against linoleum, Jill jerked out of her day dream as the dripping moss-hung trees of an ancient forest dissipated into the bland meeting room of the offices of Brasher Books, Inc. Blinking, she heard more chairs pushed away from the conference table. They had been dismissed.
It wasn’t like her, to lose focus like that.
She looked over the notes she’d just taken, circling the number she was to call the minute she returned to her desk, where she’d absently left her phone on a pile of paper. Again, out of character. People filed out of the room, murmuring about trends, clients, and the Labor Day weekend they had planned.
“Is this a manuscript?”
Jill hastily looked to the manicured fingertips pressed on the stack of documents next to her. “Oh,” her gaze moved up to the face belonging to the red lacquered nails, “Ms. Martin. Yes. I mean, no. I mean . . . I was just cleaning out my desk before the meeting and it was tucked in my—“
Rowena Martin, managing editor of Brasher Books Publishing, pointed to the name under the title. “This is you?”
“Yes.”
“What is it about?”
“Umm . . .” She swallowed. She had just read somewhere that an author should have two really good sentences at the ready, so she can answer that exact question. Jill hadn’t taken the time to think of any. “It’s a novel . . . based on a woman’s faith . . . and overcoming obstacles against all odds.” Ugh. Boring. “It’s a romance.”
“What faith, if I may ask?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m LDS.” Wait for it. “It’s a Mormon novel.”
Ms. Martin’s sharp eyebrows rose. “And this is the title?”
“Yes. Tentatively.”
In a quick movement Jill’s manuscript was in the woman’s arms. “Are you any good?” She looked down, lifting the top page. What kind of question was that? The woman didn’t seem to expect an answer. “I’ll take a look. We’re exploring a new division, as you heard. Faith-based fiction. Ripley and Grosskopf have already approached me with their own ideas.”
Jill thought to argue that though Ripley and Grosskopf were slush-pile editors, given the mind-bending task of sorting through doubtful first submissions, they were probably above mere secretaries on the publishing ladder. She held her tongue.
The woman perused the unbound pages. “This falls into that category, does it not?”
Jill nodded numbly, her voice receding somewhere deep inside her abdomen, not to be found. The woman turned on her heels and walked away.
Jill blinked, then panic slapped her in the gut, dislodging her voice. “Ms. Martin!”
The woman turned, looking over her rectangular glasses.
Jill stood and steadied herself, eyeing the manuscript in such powerful hands. “I’m sorry, Ms. Martin, but I can’t let you take that.”
The woman stared, disbelieving.
“I mean . . . that’s only the second draft, a partial. It’s a mess. Since then I’ve cut two characters, an aimless subplot, and thirty pages off the ending. That’s not the copy you want.” She swallowed and tried to stop grasping at her hands. She pulled them behind her back. “Actually, I’ve already submitted it to Brasher. The edits were based on remarks in the rejection letter.” Jill lowered her eyes, but then blew out a breath and stepped forward, lifting her chin. “I can get you a copy of the finished revision, though. It’s on my jump-drive.”
Ms. Martin gazed at Jill, then snapped her wrist over and glanced at her watch, then at the title page in her grasp. She handed the manuscript back.
Jill’s voice fled back to its hiding place, along with any hopes this encounter had conjured.
“I’ll be in Bob Brasher’s office until 2:00. Get the copy to me before I leave, Miss Parish.”
Jill’s heart raced. “Yes. Thank you. I will.”
The glass door closed behind Rowena Martin, soundless.
Jill stood, magnetized in place, trembling hand holding the partial manuscript. She had nearly thrown it out while cleaning her desk, but decided last minute to hang onto it with the crazy notion it might, just might, be valuable someday. It was sheer luck that she’d mistakenly grabbed it with her notebook in her haste to get to the meeting.
“I would get on that if I were you.”
Jill jumped at the soft voice next to her ear. A shiver dispelled any lock the moment had on her. It was not pleasant.
“Not so close, Ortiz, I’ve got your wife’s cell phone on speed dial.”
He put his hands up defensively, his dark eyes wide in feigned innocence. “Hey, hey. Just sayin’ you shouldn’t waste time, that’s all.”
Jill cut him a sharp look, ignoring his smoldering grin and heady cologne, and gathered her things.
He chuckled. “I love it when you call me by my last name.”
Ugh. She pushed through the door. She could think of a few things she’d rather call him. She made her way to her cubicle.
Marci popped up over the partition, her red bob bouncing. “Hey, how’d it go?”
“You mean besides the visual groping I just received from Ortiz?” Marci grimaced. Jill took a deep breath. “Ask me in twenty minutes.”
“Right-o.” Marci dropped back down.
Jill liked that about Marci. Not too pushy. She opened the top drawer of her desk. “Keys, keys, keys . . .” they weren’t there. She began again, methodically this time.
“My keys are gone. My keys are gone . . . Marci.”
Marci popped up. “Yes?”
“Have you seen my keys? You know, four keys, library card, very important zip-drive?”
Marci was nodding her head, searching the unusually littered desktop over the partition. “Yeah, with the silver palm tree. No, I haven’t seen them. Wow, I’ve never seen your desk this messy.”
Jill spoke from below the desktop. “I was cleaning it out.”
“Why are you cleaning your desk now?”
“I wanted it done before the long weekend.” Jill blew out an exasperated breath and scanned her desk on her knees. She attacked the drawer where she kept her keys once more. “Wait a minute.” Her eyes came up, searching. “Where’s my phone?” She stood up. I left it here on top of this pile.” She glanced around the office. “Has anyone been at my cubicle?”
“I didn’t see anyone while I was here. But I’ve been down in editing for the last hour.”
Jillian sat down hard on her chair and rubbed her hand over her forehead. “Okay, okay, I’ve got it at home.” She looked at the time. She’d never make it. And her keys were missing. She dropped her elbows on the manuscript. “Why would this happen right now?”
Abruptly, music started playing and she jumped.
“Is that your phone?” Marci asked.
“No, I don’t have that ringtone.”
“Well, it’s coming from your desk.”
“It is coming from my desk. What in the . . .?” She sorted under some files and wrapped her fingers around the slim phone. She pulled it up. 3 Doors Down played Away From the Sun. “This is not my phone, but the call is my number.”
“Well, answer it.”
“Don’t you think this is odd?”
Marci shrugged, her blue eyes unquestioning.
Jill lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, I believe you have my phone.”
“Who is this?”
“Stand up.”
She didn’t have time for this. “Why should I? Do you have my phone?”
“Relax, Sister Parish, and the phone won’t get hurt.” His voice was friendly. “Stand up . . . please.”
Carefully, she stood.
“Now, walk to the east windows.”
Marci followed her as Jill canvassed the east windows beyond the next row of cubicles. She entered the empty conference room she had just left and stood facing the next glass building on their block. Cape & Moore Publishing occupied the same floor in that building as her company did in this one. They were a smaller company, new.
“Is something going to blow up?” she asked, only half joking. Marci widened her eyes and stepped back, twirling a short lock of red hair in her fingers.
The voice chuckled. “No. Well, maybe your temper, but I hope not.”
Jill took a deep breath and folded her arms. “Who is this and how did you get my phone?”
“Fourth window from your right, straight across.”
She counted. She saw him. “Wave.”
He did. He placed his hand in his pocket. Scott Gentry.
Marci peered forward. “Ooh, do you know him?”
Jill covered the phone and steadied her breathing. She did know him. A little. She doubted he remembered. “He moved here a couple of weeks ago . . . goes to my church.”
“Hm. Church-going, and bold. And cute. At least from here. Well, what does he want? Not to blow us up, I hope.”
Jill’s curiosity was overcome by her sense of minutes ticking away.
His voice came across again. “Do you have a key to that drawer in your desk?”
Jill took a deep breath. “Yes.” She pictured it in the tray, next to the place her keys should have been.
“Hm. You should use it. By the way, your desk is a mess.”
“How dare you. Listen, I—“
She stopped at his soft laugh and watched him as he paced casually behind the window. “Please, the front desk was busy, so I asked someone where I could find you. I only wanted to get your attention.”
Her heart flopped unpleasantly. “Why would you want to do that?” If he remembered anything at all, he would say so now.
“I don’t know, I was hoping we—“
Wrong answer. “So you stole my keys?”
“Well, I didn’t want you driving off. And I borrowed them. They’re ransom.”
“My phone isn’t?”
“Well, you have my phone.”
“Not for long. You have my attention Brother Gentry, but I don’t think it’s the kind you’re after.”
“See, you do know me. And it’s Scott.”
Her teeth ground at the clumsiness of her heartbeat. “Listen, Scott, I am in dire need of those keys.” She glanced at her watch. “There is something on that zip drive and if I don’t get it in the next ten minutes, I could miss the opportunity of a lifetime. Do you understand me?”
She watched him fumble in his pocket, then look at the drive in his hand.
“I’m sorry.” The play in his voice had gone. “What do you want me to do?” He looked her way.
She thought. Elevators would take too long. Sprinting down the stairs in heels would be risky in more than a few ways. “Unless you have a high-powered slingshot, I suggest you stick that drive in the nearest computer and send me the file called Grace and Chocolate.” She’d like to tell him where else he could stick it, but hung on to what was left of her composure.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, Scott, I am. So serious, my fingers are hovering over the number for the downtown Portland Police Bureau.”
He disappeared from the window. “I’m uploading the file right now. Where do I send it?”
“jparish at brasherbooks dot com.” She shook her head at the ceiling and made her way back to her cubicle. “What were you thinking?”
“Is this a book?”
“Yes, and you are to delete the file as soon as I receive it, got that?”
“Hey, this is you. So, you’re a writer.”
“Aren’t most of us?” She could name at least a dozen aspiring authors on her floor alone.
“There, it’s sent.”
She breathed a silent sigh of relief as she watched her inbox. “I hope it prints in time,” she mumbled.
Marci leaned over her back. “Does somebody want it?”
“Maybe. Rowena Martin.”
“Rowena Martin?”
Jill found herself annoyed Scott Gentry was still on the phone. “Yes, Scott, Rowena Martin, Managing Editor of Brasher Books. She gave me until two. O’clock.” His silence reminded her of her previous question. “Well, what were you thinking?”
“I . . . well it’s pretty lame, now . . .”
“I’m thinking it was pretty lame before.”
“I asked about you. I heard you were . . . well, that you were . . .”
“That I was what?”
“That you were difficult to . . . distract.”
“Distract from what?”
“From your busy life.”
She felt a small lurch in her stomach. “Well, Scott, you’ve certainly succeeded in distracting me for several infuriating minutes, but now I have to get back to that busy life and see if I can make something of it. I have the file. You can pick up your phone at our front desk. I’ll expect to find mine there, too. And my keys. Goodbye.”
She handed the phone to Marci. “Could you please take that down for me? Scott Gentry.”
“Sure.” Marci took the phone. “Mind if I wait around, have a peek when he brings yours in?”
“If you do I don’t want to hear about it.”
Marci gave her a pout, turned her petite frame, and pranced away to the elevators. Jill sent the file to the high-speed printer in the copy room, and only then did she fold her arms over her messy desk and drop her head on top of them.
Difficult to distract? Difficult to distract? Compelling a man to theft? Whatever happened to a rose and a telegram, like in the old movies? Or a chance encounter . . . briefcases colliding and eyes meeting over the mess of papers. That is a distraction. Finding each other at sunset along a tropical shore . . . But, theft? Who had he been talking to? And he certainly did not remember . . . it was a long time ago. A lifetime.
Jill groaned into her arms. “I have a busylife.”
Her eyes lifted to the computer screen. Printing: 85% complete.
She jumped out of her chair, stuffed her purse into the cabinet and locked it with the key from the drawer. She hurried to the copy room, only then remembering the phone call she had been assigned to make as the meeting let out. Jill reached for her cell phone, then pulled her hand back from her empty pocket. The call would have to wait.
Jill strode toward the desk in front of Robert Brasher’s corner office, the manuscript feeling warm, thick, and new in her arm. She had almost slipped it into one of the large copy envelopes, but decided against it, using only a big jaw clip on the top edge. Out of sight, out of mind. She looked down again at the title page. Right out in the open.
Saved By Grace and Chocolate
Jillian Parish
“Whoa—” Something heavy slammed against the book and her arms. She felt the pages fan out and her fingers grappled to keep them together in that thickness she loved, but the clip had other ideas, slipping away and flinging to the floor, followed by the gentle fluttering of three hundred and twenty-eight newly printed pages of a faith-based fiction romance.
“Oh no,” she heard him say.
She dropped to her knees as her eyes were drawn to the origin of that voice. Scott Gentry was dropping down with her, tossing his own things aside, scrambling to pick up page after page after page . . .
