Turnabout's Fair Play (20 page)

The way this Ragnelle was written—unlike every other fan-fiction version of her he’d ever read—made Jamie truly believe her worthy of marrying his favorite character.

By the time he reached the most recent installment, his eyes drooped and he kept reading the same paragraph over and over. Giving up, he turned the computer off and set it on the nightstand.

He reached up to turn off the lamp and came to a sudden decision. Starting tomorrow, he was going to stop shaving until he got a job or enrolled in school, whichever came first. His last conscious thought before falling asleep was to pray that if God wanted him to go to nursing school, He’d show Jamie by sending him a job he could do part time or that he could work around his school schedule—because if he did go back to school, he wanted to get through it as quickly as possible.

Mom said to pray specifically, and he couldn’t get much more specific than that.

Chapter 14

B
eing chased through the halls of the Gregg Agency wasn’t the best way to start a Monday morning.

Jamie rolled over onto his back, heart pounding from the very realistic dream. He hadn’t known what was chasing him, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want to encounter it again.

He stared at the tray ceiling above his bed. Today was the first day of his laid-off life.

He could stay in bed all day if he wanted to.

He could get started on that long list of things he needed to do around the house.

He could have an all-day marathon of watching the extended editions of every single movie he owned that had anything to do with the legend of King Arthur.

He could start rewatching some of the TV shows he owned on DVD.

He could get his lazy carcass out of bed, take his computer, go someplace where he’d be around people, and start scouring the Internet for a job—and for information about nursing programs in the area.

Yep—he couldn’t let himself fall into bad habits. He climbed out of bed—and turned around and straightened up the covers for the first time in ages, because he wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere—and dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes.

The mugginess of the morning air made him stop running after six miles. Ugh. First week of June and already shaping up to be a miserable summer.

Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, he ran his knuckles over his jaw, happy with his decision not to shave for the time being. He’d never grown a beard—he had done the goatee thing about ten years ago but never a full-on beard. Maybe he’d like it. The goatee had taken way too much maintenance, and he’d shaved it off after a few weeks.

He’d just taken the Armory Drive Exit off I-65 when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the local number that showed up. Rather than answer it while trying to navigate the exit, he let it roll to voice mail. As soon as he parked in the Panera parking lot, he dialed in to listen to the message.

“Hello, Jamie. Shandi Patel from Lindsley House Publishing.” The mellow-voiced woman had a slight accent—British, maybe? “I’m the marketing director, and your name was given to me as someone who might be interested in doing some freelance publicity work for us. We have some upcoming sports-related nonfiction titles that we’d like to talk to you about. We need to start moving on these pretty soon, so I’d love it if we can meet today or tomorrow—or sometime this week.” She left her number—Jamie played back the message three times before he found a scrap of paper and a pen to write it down.

He punched the number in, but before he hit the button to put the call through, he took a deep breath and looked up—his gaze only going so far as the car’s black fabric liner, but his spirit rising much further than that. Was this God’s way of answering his prayer for a job he could fit in around a class schedule?

The phone rang twice and then, “Marketing, Shandi speaking.”

“Shandi, hi, this is Jamie O’Connor. I understand you’d like to talk to me about some publicity work and that you’d like to do it soon. Does this afternoon still work for you?”

“Thank you for calling me back so promptly. I can see you…at two, if that works with your schedule.”

Jamie looked at his watch. Almost ten o’clock now. “I should be able to make it at two.”

“You know where we’re located?”

“I do. Should I ask for you at the front?”

“Yes. Also, could you bring your résumé with you? And I’ll need to have you fill out paperwork so that we can pay you, so you’ll need your social security number. I know most people have it memorized, but I’ve learned over the years not to expect that.”

“Certainly. I understand.”

“Good. I’ll see you at two, then.”

After getting off the phone, Jamie went in to the restaurant, ordered a ham-egg-and-cheese sandwich on whole-grain bread and a large coffee for breakfast, then sat down to work on updating his résumé, something he hadn’t done in ten years. There’d been no point since he hadn’t dreamed of leaving his job.

It took two refills of the large cup of coffee to get his résumé updated to the point where he felt it adequately reflected everything he’d accomplished at the Gregg Agency but didn’t take up more than two pages.

Getting a steak salad to go, Jamie headed home to get ready for his…what was it? Not really a job interview because it wasn’t a job and he wasn’t being interviewed—or at least Shandi made it sound like the freelance work was his if he wanted it.

After eating lunch, he dressed in a nice pair of gray trousers and a button-down blue shirt and then scrutinized himself in the mirror.

He
really
needed a haircut. But no time for that now. He rasped his fingers along his cheek. His whiskers halfway between stubble and scruff, he considered shaving for a moment. But no, he’d made the decision to grow the beard until he knew for certain what he’d be doing. If Shandi didn’t give him the work because she didn’t like the fact he wasn’t clean shaven, then this wasn’t meant to be.

He e-mailed his updated résumé to himself on the netbook and turned on his desktop computer, where he pulled up the e-mail and downloaded the attachment so he could print it. The big computer hadn’t been used since before his trip to Utah, so he left it turned on and downloading updates while he drove a few miles east to the Maryland Farms business park. One thing was sure—if they wanted him to work out of their offices, he’d have a short commute.

All of the visitor spots near the building were taken, so he had to park in the far end of the lot, which wouldn’t have been too bad except for the sweltering heat that seemed to have followed him home from Utah.

When he exited the elevator on the fourth floor, he paused. Across the hall directly in front of him were two glass doors, into which was etched L
INDSLEY
H
OUSE
P
UBLISHING
. He reached up to straighten his tie—and remembered he wasn’t wearing one when he touched the open top button of his shirt.

He tucked his leather padfolio into the crook of his arm and pulled the right-hand door open.

A young man sat at the front desk, wearing a headset hooked into a large phone console. He held up one finger and smiled at Jamie.

“Just a moment, sir. I’ll connect you.” He punched a button, dialed four numbers, punched another button, and then pushed the microphone away from his mouth and looked up at Jamie. “Welcome to Lindsley House Publishing. How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Shandi Patel. I’m Jamie O’Connor.”

“Let me call her for you.” He pulled the microphone down and dialed a four-digit extension. “Ms. Patel, Mr. O’Connor is here to see you.” He punched another button and looked at Jamie again. “Ms. Patel will be with you momentarily. Please, have a seat or feel free to look around at the displays.”

The open-front cases with glass shelves had caught Jamie’s attention, so he gladly stepped away from the reception desk to survey the products—mostly books, but a few games and children’s toys—on display.

He picked up
Courage and Comfort for the High School Athlete
and flipped through the gift book, packed with inspirational quotes from sports stars and coaches throughout the ages. He flipped open his pad and wrote down the title, wanting a copy for himself.

“Jamie?”

He set the book back on the shelf and turned. A Middle Eastern or maybe Indian woman stepped toward him, right hand extended. He shook it. “Jamie O’Connor.”

“Shandi Patel.” With a broad gesture, she waved him toward the archway. “This way.”

For some reason he was surprised to enter a large room filled with cubicles. Why had he assumed everyone who worked at a publishing house would have a private office?

He followed Shandi out of the main room and into a hallway made up of tall cubicle walls on one side and the offices he’d expected on the other. The cubicles here opened up directly across from each office. They turned a corner at the end of the hall and—“Jamie.” Jack Colby stopped and shifted the box he carried under his left arm.

Jamie shook hands with the associate publisher. “Jack. Good to see you. I guess I have you to thank for this.”

Frowning, Jack shifted the box back in front of him. “For what?”

Jamie inclined his head toward Shandi. “For offering my services to Shandi for freelance marketing work.”

“Really? I mean, if I’d have thought of it, I would have done that for you. But …” Jack’s expression went from consternated to amused in a heartbeat. “I think the person you should be thanking is Flannery, not me.”

Seriously? “Oh. Well, I’ll be sure to try to find her after we’re finished. Thanks, Jack.”

“I’ll send her your way if I see her.” Jack continued on around the corner, and Shandi led Jamie to her office.

It wasn’t huge but at least as big and well appointed as his at Gregg had been. He sat in a tapestry-covered guest chair and set his pad on the desk while Shandi settled into her chair.

“Here’s my résumé, as you asked.”

“And here’s the W-9 form for you to fill out. Just the fields I’ve highlighted.”

Jamie pulled his pad onto his lap, opened it, and set to work filling out the Request for Taxpayer Identification Number and Certification while Shandi perused his résumé. Since the form only required his name, address, social security number, and signature, it didn’t take him long.

Shandi put the W-9 form and the résumé into a folder. “I’m really glad to see you have both experience working with the media as well as in coordinating onsite events.” She showed him the existing marketing materials for the four books she wanted his help with—what looked like standard forms and catalogs that went out to booksellers, a press release for each title, as well as some marketing and advertising text that had already been written.

Jamie offered some suggestions. Shandi added some comments. Two hours later, they’d come up with full-blown publicity plans for two of the four titles. Jamie would gladly have kept going, but Shandi’s phone rang.

She looked at the phone. “That’s a conference call I’ve been waiting for.” Hand hovering over the receiver, she gave him an apologetic look. “Call me first thing in the morning, and we’ll talk about everything else—including how you’re going to get paid for this. Can you find your way out?”

He nodded. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

She answered the phone, and he let himself out of her office, pulling the door closed softly behind him. If he turned left and followed the hallway, he’d be back at the front office. But he hadn’t seen Flannery’s name etched into any of the windows beside the doors of the offices he’d passed on his way here. So if he turned right, he should find her office.

He couldn’t leave without thanking her. To be honest, he couldn’t be this close to her without attempting to see her—to see if their somewhat-normal conversation at the airport had been a fluke or if it could happen again.

He followed the hallway, reading the names on each window. The office at the end of this hallway was Jack’s—but he wasn’t in. Jamie turned left and continued reading names until he came to the last office before the big open room again. And—yes, success! Flannery McNeill’s office.

Raising his hand, prepared to knock on the open door, he looked in. She wasn’t at her desk.

“Can I help you with something?” A very young woman with bright-blond streaks in her brown hair stepped out of the cubicle directly across from Flannery’s office.

“I’m looking for Flannery McNeill.” He nodded his head toward her office. “Do you know where she is?”

“She’s in a Publishing Committee meeting for the rest of the afternoon. I’m Brittany Wilmette, Flannery’s editorial assistant. Is there something I can help you with?” The way her eyes bored into him told him she
really
wanted to help him…with
anything
.

“It’s personal. Can I leave her a note?”

“Oh, sure. There should be some paper or sticky notes on her desk, if you want to do that.” She waved her hand toward the office.

He walked in—and was suddenly overwhelmed by a side of Flannery he’d never guessed at, though he probably should have. Framed photos and posters of Irish landmarks hung on the two walls that weren’t dominated by dark-wood bookshelves. Displayed on those shelves in and amongst the books were Irish-themed trinkets and souvenirs. Leprechauns and four-leaf clovers. Small, cut-crystal bowls and cups filled with what looked like green-and-gold Mardi Gras beads.