Best of Luck Elsewhere

  Best of Luck Elsewhere

  Trisha Haddad

  Genesis Press, Inc.

  Indigo Love Spectrum

  An imprint of Genesis Press, Inc.

  Publishing Company

  Genesis Press, Inc.

  P.O. Box 101

  Columbus, MS 39703

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, not known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission of the publisher, Genesis Press, Inc. For information write Genesis Press, Inc., P.O. Box 101, Columbus, MS 39703.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

  Copyright© 2009 Trisha Haddad

  ISBN-13: 978-1-58571-597-8

  ISBN-10: 1-58571-597-2

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition

  Visit us at www.genesis-press.com or call at 1-888-Indigo-1-4-0

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Helen Haddad, who told me “Love, real love, is limitless. And isn’t that wonderful?”

  And also to Derek, who proves each day that this is true.

  CHAPTER 1

  I have rarely read about a murder like the one you have orchestrated here. Brutal and disturbing. An excellent murder.

  I did, however, find it hard to connect with some of your characters. Even if your main character is a murderer, he still needs a character arc or the readers may never really sympathize with him, the way you want them to.

  Unfortunately, we will be unable to accept your manuscript for publication. Thank you for considering J Press.

  Best of luck elsewhere,

  S. Rain Orwell

  Mystery Editor

  J Press

  You think that S. Rain Orwell decides the fate of your masterpiece of a novel. That she’s the one who orchestrates either its glorious life in the hands of mystery fans everywhere or its violent demise with a tactfully worded rejection letter for a tombstone. Everyone thinks that. But even though your cover letter is indeed addressed to Ms. Orwell and your rejection letter is sent under her name, I, Eliza Tahan, am the one that you actually want to sweet-talk. So don’t bother adding to your cover letter a sentence praising her judgment in manuscripts, saying you loved the recent bestseller that she handled. And don’t gush over how much fun you had on your recent trip to San Diego and how you passed her office building on your way to Horton Plaza. Sure, she has the “final say” as to whether J Press will accept your manuscript, but I’m the one who decides if she’ll even see it.

  I read your submissions. I write your rejection letters.

  I’m the assistant editor, a “submissions manager” of sorts. Your manuscript, and many more like it, land on my desk each day. I decide, based on your cover letter, synopsis, and first few pages, whether it gets sent to one of our sadistic interns who have no qualms about stuffing your SASE with a rejection letter, or if it deserves a little extra attention. If you’ve interested me during the above-mentioned first look, your manuscript will follow me home for a more thorough read while Liam, my roommate, plays video games on his Xbox 360.

  If your manuscript makes it home with me but doesn’t make my final cut, I’ll write you a personalized rejection letter to let you know what I liked about it and what needs work. But if your novel is outstanding, I’ll write a report for S. Rain Orwell as to why she ought to spend her valuable time with your masterpiece. I don’t promise anything after I hand the manuscript and report to Ms. Orwell, but you’ve made it further than 95 percent of your fellow writers by this time. Good job.

  Now, you may think that all this supposed power would make me haughty. Quite the contrary! I know I’m good at my job, but, like many people in the publishing industry, I would much rather be an author than an editor. I want to write, but I just haven’t. Not since I finished college six years ago. So what if my college writing professor was certain that I was going to usher in the era of “The New Great American Novel,” a title she gave to the multi-ethnic-woman-writing-powerful-fiction movement she was predicting was coming up in the literary world. I may be Arabic-American and African-American, but this multi-ethnic woman is not producing any fiction, let alone the “powerful” kind.

  And with every manuscript I reject, I also weaken my own confidence in my talent.

  So, please, don’t shoot the messenger. Don’t stab her. Don’t throw her in the bay with her hands tied behind her back and rocks in her pocket. Don’t plot some kind of elaborate and ghastly act of violence against her. Remember, I’ve read your mystery submission and know what evils your mind is capable of!

  Just go easy on me with your rage.

  * * *

  “Are you the one who crushes people’s dreams?”

  I looked up from the letter I’d just finished signing with my boss’s name, surprised to realize that the question was directed at me, and that it came from a handsome stranger with a smile playing across his lips.

  “Excuse me?”

  He waved his hand in the direction of the stacks of manuscripts on my desk. “You crush people’s dreams.”

  “These are manuscript submissions.”

  “And you’re lining them up to reject them, right?”

  I was about to answer, Not purposely, but that’s how they’ll most likely end up, but I caught myself. He’d just been in the editor’s office, where only our star authors were welcome. And I knew that even star authors were once just writers rejected by multitudes of publishing companies. So instead I replied, “Of course not. I get to read them and find the ones that are right for J Press.”

  He shot me a sideways glance, and then looked down at the letter on J Press letterhead. I slid the paper to the side, trying to be nonchalant.

  “And the manuscript that goes with that letter?” he asked.

  “Wasn’t right for us.”

  “You’re Eliza Tahan, aren’t you? The assistant editor?”

  “That’s right. I help Ms. Orwell decide what we publish.”

  As though on cue, S. Rain Orwell emerged from her office. Tall and slender, with graying hair colored raven black, today she was clad in a black pencil skirt and white silk sleeveless blouse adorned with one wide gold cuff bracelet. Rain certainly looked the part of an editor of the mystery department at J Press, a woman who’d launched her fair share of literary careers. She adjusted her black-rimmed glasses and caught my eye.

  It was only when the handsome stranger followed my gaze to my boss that Rain smiled, softened, and moved toward us.

  “Eliza, my dear,” she cooed at me in a way she would never do if there wasn’t a visitor standing there, “I see you’ve already met Adam Mestas.”

  “Adam Mestas? You’re one of the book section editors for The San Diego Union-Tribune.” I fixed my eyes on the man standing in front of me.

  This was the book section editor whose articles and reviews I read in the paper every Sunday? The man teasing me about crushing people’s dreams vanished, and suddenly I saw how truly stunning he was.

  I stood breathless, staring at the tall, young Mexican man who wrote with the grace of someone many years older. I was silenced as much by his youth as by his sensuous lips and his wide shoulders under the smart navy suit jacket. His jaw showed the faintest hint of what would be a shadow within a few hours.

  Whe
n he turned to look at Rain, I caught a glimpse of a long, black ponytail. My fingers ached to touch his hair. Could it possibly be as silky as it looked from this angle, in the sunlight that streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows?

  Rain giggled, playfully resting a hand on Adam’s forearm. I cringed. If anything was worse than my boss’s usual tyranny, it was the mask she wore when someone important or useful happened to be around.

  Adam turned back to me.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Tahan.”

  He held out a hand, and I shook it. He stared at me with midnight eyes full of expectation. Was he expecting me to apologize for my stunned silence, or to profess my lust? “You, too, Mr. Mestas. I appreciate your writing. I’d never have guessed you were so young.”

  “I hadn’t guessed you were so young, either, when Ms. Orwell described you to me.”

  Rain broke in. “I called my good friend Adam this morning about getting Vehicular Manslaughter reviewed in the book section next month, right before it’s pubbed.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s great.” For the first time I noticed Adam was holding the galley of the book. The stark white cover and black letters didn’t hold the slightest hint of the bold, blood-spotted final cover design that I knew was currently with the author for approval.

  “He’s a tough negotiator,” Rain continued, “but I think we came to a reasonable agreement, don’t you, Adam?”

  “I want to write an article about what happens to a manuscript submitted for publication at J Press,” Adam explained. “Ms. Orwell suggested I interview you.”

  “Me?”

  “Would you be up for it?”

  My eyes darted to Rain, who nodded sternly out of Adam’s line of sight.

  “Of course, but I’m leaving on vacation tomorrow.”

  “Then are you available now?”

  * * *

  For a little privacy, we made our way to a small conference room on the north side of the floor.

  “This is an amazing view of Balboa Park,” Adam commented as we entered.

  “Yeah, not half bad, is it? One of the benefits of being twenty floors up.”

  “Do you go there on your lunch breaks?”

  What lunch breaks? I thought. “Not as often as I should.”

  “But you have been to the San Diego Museum of Art, I hope? If not, I’m taking you there right now.”

  “I’ve been,” I replied with a laugh, and instantly wished I hadn’t. Attempting to reopen his invitation, I followed it up with, “Of course, I can’t get enough of the place.”

  There was silence for just a moment, as we both stared out the window. Complete, electric silence. I saw in the faint reflection his eyes darting to steal a glance at me.

  Finally I spoke. “Have a seat, Mr. Mestas. Where shall we start with this? Do you have questions for me?” I brushed my wavy black hair from my face.

  Once we actually got down to his questions, the interview was quite short and much less exciting than the interviewer himself. If it hadn’t been for those lips, that jaw, I might have been annoyed at the interruption on a day I was so busy.

  While I spoke, Adam jotted down notes in his notebook, and I took the opportunity to watch his hands, large and tan. He held the pen purposefully; there was nothing tentative about his grip.

  I answered questions about my background before coming to J Press, my role as assistant editor, and the path a manuscript takes once we receive it.

  And of course, just as at any meet-and-greet party when I tell someone where I work, I was asked to name my favorite book.

  “The Wayward Bus, by John Steinbeck,” I told him.

  “That’s a good one.”

  “I’m surprised you know the book. But of course you do: You’re the book section editor at San Diego’s biggest newspaper, after all.”

  “I suppose most people wouldn’t know it.”

  “True, you don’t look like an editor. But people who read the book section would know your name.”

  He laughed a throaty, honest laugh. “Thanks, but I meant the book. Most people know Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath or The Red Pony. Not The Wayward Bus.”

  Mr. Mestas looked down for a moment, and I assumed he was running over his notes until I stole a glance at his chiseled jaw and saw a hint of a smile after he looked at my hand.

  My left hand.

  Heat rose in my cheeks. Pretty sly move, Mr. Mestas, I thought, pleased with myself for catching his attention. Now with the upper hand, I queried, “Did you have anything else you’d like to ask me?”

  He looked up, as though caught off guard. “What? Um, no. I think that’s it for now. Can I call you later? I mean, if I have any other questions?”

  I reached across to his notepad and he handed me his pen. As I grabbed it, my fingers grazed his, sending heat through my hand starting at the place where my skin had connected with his. Quickly, before I could lose my nerve, I scribbled my cell phone number in his book.

  “Again, I didn’t know I’d be doing the interview today, so I left my camera at the office.”

  Thank goodness, I thought. I looked down at the jeans I’d worn today. They weren’t even sexy jeans. My favorite clothes were all in the dryer at home, waiting to be packed for my quickly approaching vacation. “I’m not dressed for a picture anyhow.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Ms. Tahan, you look lovely. This is no place for false modesty.”

  Lovely? False modesty? “What happened to being the one who crushes dreams?”

  “You gonna hold that against me?”

  “I might. It was pretty harsh.”

  “But it got your attention, didn’t it?”

  Adam’s eyes locked with mine. They searched deep, as though trying to figure out how I’d reply to the question he wanted to ask.

  “Could I come by your place before you leave on vacation tomorrow for a quick picture?”

  A quick something, I thought. But I replied, “I guess so, but I’m heading out pretty early. I suppose that would be okay though. Can you be there by nine?”

  “Can and will.”

  I wrote out my address for him, wondering if inviting a stranger to my house was really as bad an idea as my gut told me it was. But this was not your after-school-special stranger. This was the editor of the book section of The San Diego Union-Tribune.

  And this editor had a killer body.

  * * *

  After walking Adam to the elevator, I headed back to my desk. My phone was ringing, single rings, not double rings, which meant that the call was from somewhere in the building. I gathered up the phone on the last ring.

  “Ms. Orwell wants to talk to you, Eliza. Can you hold on a sec?” It was Jane, the editor’s assistant.

  “Sure, Jane. Thanks.”

  “What took you so long to answer?” snapped Rain’s voice on the line after just a moment. What a salutation.

  “I was walking Adam to the elevator. Sorry.”

  “Not to the lobby? Damn it, do I have to do everything?”

  I rolled my eyes. Adam hadn’t been gone thirty seconds and Rain was back to her usual self. “He insisted I not walk him all the way down. How can I help you, Ms. Orwell?”

  “Right,” she replied. “I want to know how the interview went. Did he get the info he needed? It’s vital that he review Vehicular Manslaughter. Lazy, goddamn what’s-her-name who’s handling the PR on this title hadn’t even talked to him before I brought it up. And with summer right around the corner! If I were her supervisor, I’d have kicked her out on her—”

  “Good thing you talked him into reviewing it then.”

  “No shit. How did it go?”

  “It went fine. He didn’t say when it was going to be printed, though. I forgot to ask.”

  “Doesn’t matter. So long as he’s going to review that book.”

  When we hung up, I pulled a manuscript from the stack in front of me and studied the cover letter attached to it, tapping my fingertips on the pages. As
I tried to resist the urge to call Liam, my roommate, to tell him the news, I stared at my short fingernails. They were painted mauve and made my caramel hands look quite dainty and fashionable. Of course, the paint had matched the thin mauve stripes in my silk, button-up shirt that I wore two days ago. With the crisp white T-shirt and jeans I was wearing today, though, the mauve nails seemed sort of silly. I made a mental note to pick up polish remover before heading to the airport tomorrow.

  I’m a good editor and a fantastic reader, but fashionista, I am not. Willpower guru I am also not, I decided, breaking down and reaching for the phone.

  Liam picked up and said in a buttery smooth voice, “Hello, this is Liam Jack.”

  “Why, Liam, how professional you sound.”

  “I am at work. But, Lizzy, please tell me you went to the farmer’s market at Horton Plaza on your lunch break and are bringing me home some delicious veggies.”

  Oops. I fished in my pocket and pulled out the note he’d left on the kitchen counter this morning.

  Lizzy:

  Don’t forget the farmer’s market this afternoon! Please pick up some strawberries, green beans, and maybe some cheese if there’s some kind that looks really good. I’ll repay your kind efforts by making something fabulous for dinner.

  —Liam

  “So, guess what!” I countered, trying to change the subject. “I’m gonna be famous!”

  “You forgot.”

  “I’m sorry. It was a sweet note, though. Thanks.” I knew full well that he’d still make “something fabulous for dinner.” He usually does.

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, how are you going to be famous?”

  “I just had an interview with the book section editor for The San Diego Union-Tribune!”

  “No!”

  “Yes! About what happens when a manuscript’s submitted.”

  “Did you say something about me? Like I’m your inspiration or something? If you get to be famous, I should be famous, too, by association.” We both laughed and then Liam muttered, “Oops, I gotta go. The boss’s heading this way. You’re incredible, Lizzy, you really are. I’ll see you at home.”

  With a little kiss into the phone, we were disconnected.