Morning (7 page)

Sara went to the kitchen phone and dialed Linda Oldham, the senior editor and president of Heartways House. Linda was an older woman, brisk and businesslike, who had been placed in charge of the publishing firm three years ago and had methodically and efficiently drawn up the plans that she thought would make the company a financial success. Basically, her motto was: Give the public what it wants. The public of Heartways House was women, women longing for romance, and Linda had set forth guidelines for romantic novels that would bear the heart-shaped HH insignia, and ruthlessly saw to it that her authors stuck to those guidelines. During the past two years that Sara had done editing for Heartways House, she had never before had occasion to discuss anything as maverick as these pages with her boss. Sara realized her heart was thumping as she began to speak: all her editorial instincts told her that the Jenny book could be good; she must handle it with care.

“Linda, I’ve got a question,” Sara said cautiously, when Linda’s brusque hello came over the phone.

“Shoot,” Linda replied.

“It’s about an author of yours. I’m editing one of her romances now.
Desperate Dangerous Desire
. Aurora Dawn.”

“Oh, yes, Aurora Dawn,” Linda said. “She’s one of our old-timers. Turns out one of those babies every six months. People gobble them up like candy.”

“Well—well, have you read anything else she’s written? I’m asking because there’s some other material mixed up in the romance manuscript I’m editing now. It looks like material for another book, a memoir perhaps, or a realistic novel. It’s really good stuff, and I’d like to see more of it.”

“Heartways wouldn’t be interested in a memoir, honey,” Linda said. “You know that. Don’t waste your time.”

“Oh, I know Heartways wouldn’t want it,” Sara pressed on. “But it’s so interesting—
I’d
like to read more of it. Perhaps encourage her to finish it, to take it to another house.”

Linda was silent a moment. “What’s it about, this other book?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sara began. “About a young girl growing up on a farm in Kansas—”

Linda’s laughter exploded over the phone. “Honey,” she said, “the last thing
anyone
in publishing is interested in is a farm in Kansas. Good God. You know what people want. They want
Dynasty
. They want castles and diamonds and yachts. Jesus, not a farm in Kansas. I suppose she writes about cows?”

“Well, yes,” Sara said.

Linda laughed again. Then, calming down, she said, “Now what was your question?”

Sara paused. “Well, I wondered if you could give me Aurora Dawn’s address or phone number. I’d like to get in touch with her. I’d like to read the rest of the farm book and encourage her to publish it—with another house, of course—if the rest is as good as this.”

“All right,” Linda said. “I’ll tell Maxine to give you the author’s phone number. She lives in Cambridge. But listen, tell her not to get so carried away with her cows that she forgets to write her romances. She’s a moneymaker for us, you know.” Linda laughed again, then said, “I’ll put you on hold a minute, then transfer you to Maxine. By the way, are you through editing
Desperate Dangerous Desire
? We’ve got it scheduled to come back from you this week.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll have it in the mail today,” Sara promised.

A moment later Maxine came on the line and gave Sara Aurora Dawn’s name, address, and phone number in Cambridge. The writer’s real name was Fanny Anderson. Fanny, Sara thought, it was not so far a change from Fanny to Jenny. Fanny was an old-fashioned
name. Dialing the number, Sara wondered how old Fanny Anderson was, what she was like—if she was the original beautiful Jenny from Kansas or only her creator.

A woman with an Irish accent answered. “Mrs. Anderson is not at home,” she told Sara. “May I take a message?”

“Yes, please.” Sara was frustrated, so near to talking to the author of Jenny, and yet so far. “Tell her that Sara Kendall called, from Nantucket. Tell her that I’ve been editing her book and I want to talk with her about the Jenny pages. Tell her I used to work for Donald James. Tell her—oh, perhaps I should just call her back. When will she be in?”

“I’m not sure,” the woman said. “I’ll take your number and have her call you.” Her voice was cold.

Discouraged, Sara gave the woman her number and hung up.

She went back to the dining room table and stacked the manuscript neatly back in its box, keeping the Jenny pages out. She stretched and looked at her watch. Just after one o’clock—and here she was, still in her robe. What a luxurious way to work. But now was that wrenching time of day when she had to pull herself away from the enveloping fantasy of the books she edited into the messy reality of life. She wandered into the kitchen and turned on the oven.

Dutch apple pie, she thought, yum. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving and she had been assigned to take dessert to the party at Carole Clark’s house—where everyone in the group would be gathered, including Mary.

Well, she had this much to thank Mary for—The Virgin’s “innocent” question about her weight had spurred her into action and for two weeks now she had been dieting and exercising again. Already she looked different: better, slimmer, tighter. She could get back into some of her favorite clothes. And she’d found a new way to style her hair. She brushed the bangs forward and the sides back; it was a pretty look, less punk. She was pleased with her hair now, and with her temperature, with everything. Everything in the world seemed possible.

Sara turned the radio on to the classical music station and sliced apples and rolled pie crust dough to Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
. While the pies baked, filling the house with the fragrance of cinnamon and sugar and apples, she showered and dressed—the size-fourteen jeans were too loose for her now. Hoorah. She took the pies out of the oven and admired the perfectly fluted crusts, then, on the spur of the moment, picked up the phone
and once again dialed Fanny Anderson’s number. It was just after three-thirty in the afternoon, a decent time to call.

Again, the Irishwoman’s cold hello. But this time, “Just a moment, please, I’ll get Mrs. Anderson for you.”

And then, softly, “Hello? This is Fanny Anderson.”

“Oh, Mrs. Anderson,” Sara said. “This is Sara Kendall, calling from Nantucket. I’m a freelance editor for Heartways House. I’ve been editing your
Desperate Dangerous Desire
. But I worked for several years as Donald James’s assistant at Walpole and James, so I’ve had quite a bit of experience in editing—all kinds of books. And I’m calling because I found some pages in your romance novel that didn’t fit. The pages were about a girl named Jenny …” Sara let her voice trail off. Before she plunged boldly into suggesting that Fanny Anderson work on a Jenny novel, she needed to hear more from that woman than just hello.

“Oh, yes,” Fanny Anderson said. Her voice was soft and lilting, with a slight drawl that Sara assumed had lasted from her Kansas days. “I was wondering where those pages were. I didn’t realize—” She didn’t finish her sentence.

“Well,” Sara said, “I called you because I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed the Jenny pages. I thought they were wonderfully well written, and Jenny is fascinating. I’m so curious about what happens to her. And so I thought I’d call and see if perhaps you are working on this as a novel, and if so, how far you’ve gotten, and if you need an editor, and also, perhaps, well, it’s possible that Donald James might be interested in seeing the story. Although I haven’t of course talked with him about it yet.”

For a long moment there was silence. Then Fanny Anderson spoke, her voice softer than before. “I didn’t intend for anyone to read my Jenny pages yet,” she said. “Not just yet. This is all most confusing. I’m not sure just what to say. I really hadn’t meant for anyone to read that particular piece yet.”

“Oh,” Sara said, disappointed. The woman seemed so hesitant, so unsure. “Well, there were about fifteen pages mixed up with the romance novel,” she said. “And I couldn’t keep from reading them—as I said, they were wonderful.”

“You really liked them?” Fanny asked.

“Very much.
Very much
.”

“Well, my goodness,” Fanny said. “This is just so very—perplexing. I don’t know what to say. I think I need to have some time to think about all this. You see, I was really
writing the Jenny pages just for myself, although of course I can’t say I didn’t have the thought of a novel about Jenny in my mind. But I really wasn’t ready for anyone to read it. Yet here it turns out you already have read some of it—and liked it—it seems just a little bit like fate, doesn’t it?” Fanny laughed, huskily, softly. “We writers are so superstitious, you know. We rely on fate so much it’s really foolish. But it does seem—I was trying to decide what to work on next. Whether to start another romance novel, or whether to really settle down with Jenny … and now here’s your phone call. And you say you worked with Donald James?”

“Yes.”

“Well. My. That’s quite impressive. Oh, dear, I don’t know what to do.”

After a moment Sara asked, “Well, do you have any more written about Jenny? That I perhaps could see?”

Silence. A long silence. Then, softly, “Yes. Yes, in fact I do have quite a lot more written.”

“I’d love to see it,” Sara pressed.

“I just don’t know,” Fanny replied. “I just don’t know. I hadn’t even thought about showing it to anyone yet. You see, I
care
about this novel, quite a lot.”

It was then that Sara felt certain that the Jenny pages were a memoir as much as a novel. But she said, “I can understand that. Writing this kind of a novel must be much more difficult than writing a romance novel where it’s easy to stay within certain limitations. The Jenny novel is much more risky.”

“Yes,” Fanny replied, her voice warm with approval. “Yes, that’s it, you see.” Then she was silent again.

“I wonder,” Sara said, “I wonder if I could come up to Cambridge and see you. Perhaps meet you for a drink or take you to lunch or somehow just sit and talk with you about this.”

Silence.

“Please understand,” Sara said, “I’m a freelance editor. I can’t promise anything. And I don’t have any hidden motive for doing this, I just really am intrigued by your Jenny. I would like to see it become published, and, well, all my editorial instincts have been aroused. I think the Jenny book could be very exciting.”

“I just don’t know,” Fanny said. “It’s lovely of you to say all these things, very kind of you—”

“Oh, it’s not
kindness
—” Sara interrupted.

“—but I just don’t know,” Fanny finished.

“Well, I’ve got to come up to Boston early in December—to do some Christmas shopping,” Sara said, inventing an excuse on the spot. “Nantucket’s so small, you know. No big stores. Perhaps when I come up I could come see you for just a little while and we could discuss this.”

Silence. Then, “Tell me about yourself,” Fanny said, her soft voice firm.

“Oh,” Sara said, thrown by the question. “Well. I’m thirty-four years old, I’m married to a carpenter, we’ve lived here on Nantucket for two years and lived in the Boston area before. I went to Williams College and then worked with Donald James for about eight years.… I have no children. I love editing, but my husband was raised on Nantucket and wanted to live here, and so we thought we’d try it. I like editing romance novels, but I also like editing, um, more serious work.”

“Are you very pretty?”

Surprised, Sara said honestly, “Well, I suppose so. Well, perhaps not
very
pretty, but certainly pretty.”

“Beautiful?”

“Oh, no, not beautiful. Well, my husband thinks I am, I suppose, at least I hope he does, at least he says he does, and that’s what counts.…”

“And when you go out of the house, when you walk down the street, when you meet people?”

“Yes?” Sara said, not sure what the woman was driving at.

“Do you always find you make an
impression
?”

“Why, no, I don’t think so,” Sara replied. She was puzzled. “I suppose sometimes I do. But most of the time I think I look just like anyone else. You know, we’re pretty casual down here.”

“You don’t seem overly burdened with vanity,” Fanny Anderson said.

“No,” Sara replied. “No, I don’t think I am.” She laughed. “I’ve never had any reason to be ‘overly burdened’ with it.” Then, suddenly flashing on what it was Fanny wanted to know, she said, “I’ve never been as beautiful as Jenny, for example. I’ve never had to give any care about a gift of beauty. But I’ve had enough so that I could understand her, I think.”

“Yes,” Fanny said. “I see. What, more precisely, do you look like?”

“Well—I’m about five foot seven. I have blue eyes, blond hair—which I’ve just had cut very short. I never was ‘cute’ but I suppose I always was pretty. I think I look more intelligent than anything else in spite of the fact that I’m blonde. I mean blondes are supposed to look cute and sexy and dumb, the stereotype, that is. And I’m a little overweight now, I find I go up and down with weight.”

“Yes, weight can be a problem, can’t it,” Fanny said.

Sara waited. She wondered if she had somehow passed whatever test it was the other woman had just given her.

But Fanny only said, “Well, my. This is very interesting. I must say I am pleased that you like my Jenny pages. It encourages me. Still—”

“I would love to come talk with you about it,” Sara said, determined to pin down this elusive woman.

“Let me think about it,” Fanny Anderson said. “Why don’t you give me your phone number, and your name again so I can write it down, and I’ll think about it and call you back.”

Sara tried to keep the disappointment from her voice as she gave her the information. Yet when she finally hung up, she found she was smiling with anticipation. She had found something, the real thing, she was sure of it, she had found a true eccentric who was writing a truly good book. She felt like Sherlock Holmes on the trail of a culprit, Madame Curie in her laboratory—she was close to a discovery of some importance, and now waiting was a necessary part of the process that would lead to a triumph in her life. She felt sure of this, as if she had been granted a vision.