“On it,” Terry said.
“Already talking to them about it,” Ron
echoed.
“Good. Any author issues we need to know
about?” Acquiring books and promoting them was only part of their job. Once the
manuscripts were contracted and handed off to the publishers, a great deal of
hand-holding was required to get their authors, especially the new ones,
through the long, arduous process of editing, cover design, and advance
promotion before the books went to press.
“All my chickens are happy,” Terry said.
“Race Evans doesn’t like his cover,” Ron
said. “I can’t say I really blame him, but it’s right for the market and we got
Sellers and Saylor’s art department to come as close as we could to what he was
hoping for.”
“Hopefully he’ll be happier when he sees the
sales.” Emily cast one more look around. Everyone seemed satisfied and on
point. “All right, then. I’ll see you all Wednesday for production.”
She stayed seated while the others left,
adding a few more notes. She had fifteen minutes before a phone call to a
client about acquiring their manuscript, her favorite kind of call. The author
was usually excited, and she was happy to be adding another new title to their
list.
When her cell rang, she checked the number
and answered immediately. “Hi, Vonnie.”
“Hi, Emily,” Vonnie Hall, the president’s
personal secretary, replied. “Can you come on by? She wants to talk to you for
a few minutes.”
Emily frowned and checked her watch. “Is it
urgent? I have a phone conference in five.”
“I’ll let her know you’ll be half an hour.”
“Thanks.”
Thirty minutes and one about-to-be-signed
contract later, Emily tucked her phone and tablet into her shoulder bag and
climbed the winding wooden staircase to the fourth floor and made her way down
the plush carpeted hall to the office at the far end. The top floor housed the
senior agents’ offices and looked as Emily imagined it had a century before
with its vaulted tin ceilings, ornate hanging light fixtures, and recessed
alcoves framed in dark, carved wood. Above the gleaming walnut wainscoting,
framed portraits of generations of Winfields adorned the pale green,
floral-patterned wallpaper. In the muted light, the eyes of the men and one
woman followed her. With each step, she felt as if she moved back in time, although
there was nothing outdated or antiquated about the woman she was about to see.
Like Emily, Henrietta Winfield simply appreciated history.
Vonnie Hall, a trim, flawlessly presented
woman in a red suit with thin ribbons of black along the collar and cuffs,
guarded the door to Henrietta Winfield’s inner sanctum with the ferocity of a
she-wolf and the smile of an angel. She greeted Emily with genuine pleasure.
“She’ll just be a minute. She’s finishing a phone call.”