Wonders Never Cease (8 page)

“
Lattes with God
,” a reporter gushed, “the phenomenal runaway best seller that has now sold more than twelve million copies worldwide. The question is, will God have a second cup of coffee?”

The scene shifted to show a well-dressed young man opening the door to an impressive granite-front office building; the man made a quick nod to the camera as he entered.

“Wes Kalamar is young to be the president and CEO of an entire publishing company,” the reporter said. “But then, Vision Press is a very young publishing house. Though it has only a handful of little-known titles to its credit, Vision Press has made a name for itself in the publishing industry through the release of a single book: the mega best seller
Lattes with
God
. Kalamar picked up the book after it was rejected by a dozen more-established publishers—and he's glad he did. Profits from the book have allowed Vision Press to expand its staff and to relocate its offices here in posh Beverly Hills.”

The scene changed again to an interior office setting. The young man, Wes Kalamar, was now seated casually in a sleek blue-and-gray office chair with gleaming silver accents. His feet were propped up on a sprawling mahogany desk shaped like an artist's palette.

“
Lattes with God
definitely taught us a lesson,” Kalamar said thoughtfully. “It taught us that there's a hunger out there for spiritual guidance, and I think Vision Press is strategically positioned to satisfy that hunger.
Lattes with God
was just our first step. Wait 'til you see what we do next.”

The segment closed with a wrap-up by the reporter standing in front of the offices of Vision Press. “
Lattes with God
was without a doubt a publishing phenomenon,” he said, “but a phenomenon is notoriously difficult to reproduce. The question is, What
will
Vision Press do next? What will be the next
Lattes
with God
—and will Wes Kalamar be the one to find it?”

Kemp switched off the TV and sat staring at the blank screen. His mind was spinning like a flywheel.

He thought about Liv Hayden lying in a coma back at UCLA.

He thought about Mort Biederman and his dwindling ten percent.

He thought about Wes Kalamar and the question the reporter asked him: “What will be the next
Lattes with God
?”

Twelve million copies. Twelve million copies .
. .

Kemp McAvoy had an idea.

8

N
atalie looked around the classroom for a place to sit, but the only adult-sized piece of furniture in the room was the teacher's own chair. It seemed like a bad idea to sit there; the last thing she wanted to do was start off the meeting with a turf war. She looked at the students' desks and considered trying to squeeze herself into one of them, but she imagined what she would look like staring up at the teacher with her knees tucked up under chin. She didn't like that idea either—she felt enough like a child already, called into the teacher's office for a lecture. She finally decided just to stand and wait for the teacher to offer her a place to sit.

She thought about Kemp again and felt a twinge of anger. He should have come with her. He should have known how important this was to her. He didn't have to play the father; he didn't have to say a word. He just should have come—he shouldn't have left her to do this by herself.
He should have known
.

She looked down at herself and smoothed the front of her blouse. She had come directly from work and briefly considered wearing her nurse's scrubs, but decided instead to go for a less professional and more parental look. She hoped it was a wise decision.

The door suddenly opened and the window glass rattled in the brittle wooden frame. Natalie jumped.

“I'm sorry,” a man said, standing in the doorway. “Did I startle you?”

“No. Well, a little.”

The man entered the room dragging a wooden chair behind him; the legs made a dull scraping sound on the linoleum floor. He extended his hand. “I'm Matthew Callahan,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “Just call me Matt. I'm Leah's teacher.”

Natalie returned the smile. She could see why Leah liked this man.
What's not to like
? she thought. He was younger than a lot of teachers, probably about her own age. He looked like a definite California native, with thick wavy hair that could never look combed and skin that had spent too much time at the beach. There was a faint purplish patch down the center of his nose where the old skin was sloughing off and new tissue was about to break through. His eyes were blue and friendly and his smile was genuine. Natalie's instinct was to glance down at his ring hand, but she reminded herself that this was business.

“You're Natalie Pelton,” he said. “Leah talks about you all the time.”

“Uh-oh.”

He smiled again. “Don't worry; it's all good. Thanks for coming in so early in the morning. It seems to be the best time to do these things.”

“I just got off work,” she said. “I would have been dropping Leah off anyway.”

“You work nights?”

Natalie hesitated. “Yes, at UCLA Medical Center.”

“You're a doctor?”

That was generous
. “No, I'm a nurse.”

He gestured to the classroom. “I'm afraid we don't have much in the way of adult seating. If I cram myself into one of the kids' desks I'll never get out again—that's why I bring my own chair. Why don't you take this one and I'll just do this.” He leaned up against one end of the teacher's desk and waited for her to be seated.

“Thank you,” she said. She found herself staring up at him slightly, but it didn't seem to matter—there was nothing intimidating about his manner.

“You obviously got my note,” he said, “so you know what this is all about.”

Natalie nodded.

“That Leah's quite a storyteller,” he said.

“Yes, she is.”

“I think it's terrific.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely. Some of these kids have no imagination at all—too much Xbox and PlayStation, I suppose. But Leah, she's really out there. She's telling stories all the time—you pick the topic, she's got a story about it. It's a real gift. I hope she develops it.”

Natalie said nothing.

“I know. You're probably thinking, ‘If you like her stories, then what's the problem?'”

“Well—yes.”

“A couple of days ago we were doing ‘See & Say'—that's what they used to call ‘Show & Tell' back when we were in school. Leah told a story about seeing an angel on the way to school that morning.”

“Is that a problem?”

“A
story
about an angel wouldn't be a problem at all. The problem is, she didn't tell it as a story—she told it as a real event. I've heard dozens of Leah's stories, Ms. Pelton—”

“Natalie.”

“
Natalie
. I've heard dozens of Leah's stories, and they're always recognizable as stories. They usually start out, ‘Once upon a time.' This one started with, ‘This morning on the way to school.'”

“Maybe she was just trying to make it seem more real.”

“Is that what you think?”

Natalie barely shrugged.

Matt leaned a little closer. “Your daughter is extremely bright,” he said, “but she also has a tendency to be moody—angry—withdrawn. I was hoping you could help me understand her a little better.”

Natalie took a deep breath; this was the part she was hoping to avoid. “Her father and I divorced when she was four. It was—difficult for her.” She offered nothing more, hoping that would be enough to satisfy him.

“Does she still see her father?”

“No. That wouldn't be a good idea.”

“Has Leah ever seen a counselor?”

“Yes, she has. The counselor thinks she makes up stories as a way of dealing with her emotions.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Matt said. “It sounds healthy too—it's a lot better than keeping it all bottled up inside.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“I'm not concerned about Leah's stories,” Matt said. “I just want to be sure that she can separate the real world from fantasy.”

Natalie raised one eyebrow. “Are you saying angels are fantasy?”

Matt grinned. “Not necessarily—but I haven't seen one on the 405 lately either. You need to understand something, Natalie: It's a different atmosphere in the classroom today. Everybody thinks about Columbine and Virginia Tech; everybody's trying to figure out how to spot the next crackpot before he pulls out a gun and starts shooting.”

Natalie frowned. “Leah doesn't own a gun.”

“I'm not talking about Leah—I'm talking about an atmosphere of fear and concern. Schools are paying closer attention to the psychological health of their students these days. That's one of the reasons I asked you here today.”

“Leah's ‘psychological health' is just fine.”

“I hope you'll try to look at this in a positive light. It's one of the benefits of a private school. We have smaller classes; we can pay more attention to individual kids. If Leah were in a big public school, maybe nobody would have noticed.”

“What is it you want?” Natalie asked. “I can tell Leah to stop telling stories—”

“That's the last thing I want you to do,” Matt said. “I just want to make sure that Leah has a healthy grip on reality.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I'd like you to make an appointment with our school counselor.”

“I told you—Leah's already seen a counselor.”

“This is different. This is just to make sure that somebody here at St. Stephen's is tracking with Leah emotionally.”

Natalie glared at him. “Tell me the truth, Matt. Are you really asking Leah to see a counselor for her sake? Or is it so that if Leah turns out to be the next crackpot, St. Stephen's can say they did everything they could?”

“Natalie, please—”

“I tell you what,” Natalie said, standing up and straightening herself. “I'll make sure Leah tells her stories at home. You just teach her math and English and let me worry about her ‘psychological health'—okay?” She turned and started for the door.

“I'm afraid it's not an option,” Matt said.

Natalie turned. “What?”

“If Leah wants to continue here at St. Stephen's, she has to be evaluated by the school's counselor. Please try not to be offended, Natalie—it's school policy. It's only a precaution, and it's for Leah's own good.”

Natalie felt her face growing red. She stared at him for a moment, then turned away again. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Callahan. I'll make an appointment with the school counselor on the way out.”

9

T
he young woman dropped the stack of papers on the mahogany desk. “Here's that manuscript, Wes. We need the copyedits by Wednesday.”

Wes Kalamar looked up. “Why are you giving them to me?”

“Because you're the copy editor now.”

“Me? What happened to Furkin?”

“You let him go last month.”

“Then what about Dunderson?”

“The month before. We went over this in our last ‘reorganization' meeting, remember? You're handling acquisitions, editing, production, and marketing. I'm doing scheduling, author relations, and publicity—in addition to being your personal assistant, I might add.”

Wes looked at the formidable stack of paper. “Can't you do it?”

“Wes, I've got an associate degree in massage therapy—suddenly I'm a proofreader? I can't even spell ‘proofreader.' Besides, I've got four jobs already. Which reminds me—if I'm doing four jobs, how come I only get one paycheck?”

“C'mon, Annie, this is a lousy time to hit me for a raise. You know how it is right now. Things are a little tight.”

“A little tight? We've only got six people left, Wes, and Elliot just threatened to quit unless I give him a fifty-minute shiatsu.”

“Look, we're just having a bad quarter, that's all. Things will turn around—we've got a strong lineup for fall.”

Annie looked at him over the top of her glasses. “Have you actually read any of our books?”

“Well—”

“Honeycutt—our old acquisitions editor? I think he was on drugs. We've got a book called
The Bulimic Diet
. Who wants to read that, Wes? Who should? We've got a children's book called
Things Rich Kids Have
. Is that what you want your kids to be reading?”

“I don't have kids,” he said.

“Maybe that's the problem. We've got self-help books that will put you in therapy. We've got marriage books that could get you strangled. We've got travel books to places no one wants to go. Face it, Wes, we're not just having a bad quarter—we're having a bad career.”

“We've still got
Lattes with God
.”

“Which has already gone from hardcover to trade paper to mass-market paperback. You can buy
Lattes
on the remainders table at Borders for three bucks; you can buy it used on Amazon for a buck-forty-nine. We've also got the audiobook, the study guide, and the
Lattes with God Reflections Journal
. How much milk can you get from one cow?”

Wes grabbed a pen. “That would make a great title for a business book.”

“Forget the business book. Listen to me: We need another
big
book. The ship is sinking and we're handing out floaties—the plane is going down and we're reaching for pillows. How many metaphors do you need? We just got lucky with
Lattes
, Wes, but it's going to take more than luck to keep this ship afloat.”

“I know,” Wes said, “and I'm working on it.”

“Well, you'd better work fast,” she said. “By this time next month you'll be the janitor and I'll be on unemployment.” She shoved the manuscript across the desk to him. “We need it by Wednesday so it can go to typesetting.”