Summer at Castle Stone. Lynn Hulsman Marie
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on my feet, “What if your cookbook…in addition to showcasing your skills as a gourmet chef…included, say, things you cook for your mom?”
Without warning, a lump grew in my throat as I flashed back to carrying a steaming bowl of chicken soup on a tray to my own mother. It was her favorite food and one of the few things she ever taught me to cook start to finish.
“That’s…” he began. There was a pause. “That sounds interesting, Miss Sheridan. I like it better than anything I’ve heard before, to be honest with you. But I’m sorry, since the last time I spoke to Brenda, I’ve decided to put a stop to the deal.”
A woman with dark hair and a shape similar to Lizbeth’s, but who was not Lizbeth, walked out of her office. Maybe someone from legal? It didn’t matter, if Lizbeth wasn’t in her office, where was she? A whoosh of adrenaline shot through my limbs, leaving my fingertips numb.
“Oh no, Tom…Mr. O’Grady…you can’t do that. You see, I…” My mind was racing. Everyone must already be at the Javits Center. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. I had 15 missed calls and texts coming in every 30 seconds to the tune of “where the hell are you?”
“You see, I just know I’m the one to write your book.” I hadn’t known this when I picked up the phone, but in the course of five minutes, this book had become my book. I had inklings of pages in my head. I didn’t have it yet, but I imagined a large pot of chicken and vegetable soup. Home.
“Sorry to disappoint, Miss Sheridan, but my mind is made up.” He paused for a moment. I sat stock-still, straining to hear something in his breathing that would give me hope.
“Nah,” he finally said. “It just won’t work. Good luck to you.”
I couldn’t even speak.
“Goodbye then, I suppose,” he said and put down the phone.
I shoved 12 dollars I couldn’t afford to spend into the cab driver’s hand and flew across the wide sidewalk to the myriad glass doors of the Javits Center. People everywhere carried tote bags and wheeled little carts stacked with displays or swag collected from the booths at the Book Expo.
I had no idea where I was supposed to be, but I was running all the same. I detoured by the information desk, trying to grab a map off the stack as I went.
A Chanel-suited grand dame in giant black sunglasses slammed her cocktail-ring-encrusted claw down on top of mine.
“Ow!” My hand flew to my mouth and I sucked on my knuckle. I tasted blood. “What the hell, lady?”
“I was here first,” she said, snatching the top map off the stack.
“No you weren’t! And even if you were, would it kill you to say ‘excuse me?’ There are rules to living in society.”
“Don’t you lecture me, you…” she gave me the once-over, “you…riff raff!”
“Who says riff raff?” A crowd was gathering.
“Don’t you shout at me! According to the law, that’s assault!” A pair of NYPD cops ambled over from the opposite corner of the outer hallway.
“You assaulted me!” I hissed. “Look, I’m bleeding. Listen,” I said to the information guy, “don’t call the police, they’re right there. Here’s my card.”
I shot a look at the indignant Dowager of Manhattan. “If the police want to file a report, tell them to come back and talk to my bleeding finger.” I blew past the old lady, who was literally shaking her fist at me.
I ran past miles of booths, some offering snacks, some blasting music, and some with long lines of fans clutching books to be signed by their favorite authors. I spied Matty from a mile away. I could have seen him from space. He was wearing one of those Ralph Lauren Olympic cardigans, and handing out ski caps emblazoned with the title of an inspirational biography we’d published by a double-amputee downhill skier. Next to him, another assistant, one of the office hotties, was wearing a leather dress and handing out ping pong paddles printed with the title of a kinky sex book for housewives. I tried to blend in and swim through the bodies to the back while Lizbeth was busy yelling at an intern.
“There you are,” Matty hollered. “Lizbeth! Shayla’s here!” He hopped up and down, trying to catch my boss’s attention over the heads of the crowd. Lizbeth turned away from the pie-eyed intern midsentence and cut a straight line through all the bodies to get to me. “You’re late! Don’t apologize, I don’t care. Give me some packing tape, now,” she held out her open palm.
Frantically, I patted my purse. My supply bag! It was sitting under my desk. “I’ll run to the drugstore and get some. I can be back in 10 minutes.”
“Useless,” she muttered. “No! I’ll send an intern. Get dressed and get into your spot.”
“Yes, Lizbeth,” I said walking away, but in no particular direction. I’d missed last week’s staff meeting after cracking a filling on a stale bagel I’d found on a leftover platter from a client meet-and-greet. I did not know the plan. I had no choice but to ask Matty what was what. He was wearing a red carpet-worthy smile and schmoozing one of our authors and her handler when I approached. The second the author shook his hand and walked away. Matty’s smile disappeared. “What?” he snapped.
“Where am I supposed to be?”
“Somewhere in middle America, running the obituaries column for the local newspaper.” He flashed a smile at a passerby and pressed a hat and a press kit into her hand.
“Come on, Matty,” I pleaded.
He exhaled an elaborate sigh. “Go between the booths and put on your outfit. Look at the chart back there and go stand at your post.”
I shoved through the crowd and wedged myself into the narrow space that we used as an office-slash-staging area. There was a mirror on the wall, a plot of our booths, some folders with papers in them, and enough space for three or four people to gather behind a makeshift curtain. I hung my garment bag on one of the hooks and unzipped it. Inside was a gingham pinafore, a bonnet, and a plush, stuffed shepherd’s crook. Oh, no, no, no.
I snatched an agenda out of a hanging folder and read:
Shayla, first shift: Handing out press kits and hand puppets for Little HPC’s 25th Anniversary Re-release of Cuddle the Lamb: A Bedtime Story, southeast corner of Booth Number 3, side aisle
Shayla, second shift: Straightening pamphlets and literature on the table/coffee run.
I scanned down the page to see what jobs other assistants and interns had been assigned during my missed meeting. Matty was, of course, on the main aisle in front of booth 1, wearing his designer sweater. His second shift was meeting the breakout novelist of the year at a swanky hotel and escorting him here for his book signing and acting as his handler onsite. Maggie had been crossed off the list and someone had penciled in “office coverage.” This was seriously the worst day ever. I wouldn’t even have her here for moral support. I scanned down the list:
Carly, first shift: Handing out HPC bookmarks / Greeting guests in front of booth 2, main aisle
Carly, second shift: Handler for Theodore Reichel / book signing Booth 1, 4 p.m.
No way. Carly was an intern who hadn’t been in the office more than a couple of months. I worked 50-plus hours a week, and had for over three years. I was in line for an associate editor position. Fucking broken filling. Fucking Matty.
I peeked out the curtain and saw Carly standing by a small table off to the side, filling a shoulder bag with bookmarks. I made a beeline straight for her.
“Carly, change of plans,” I said, snatching the bag and turning her by the shoulders toward the staging area. “You’re me and I’m you,” I declared. “Lizbeth said,” I lied. “Cuddle the Lamb by booth 3,