The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,30
for boys.”
“You made that suit?”
“My tailors did.”
“It’s nice.”
“Thank you. We do quality suits.” He lifted his menu. “What would you like to eat?”
“What do you recommend?”
“Their signature dish is their ‘flaming wheel of cheese’ spaghetti carbonara. It’s served tableside.”
“That sounds good.”
“Unless you’re Charlie.”
“Who’s Charlie?”
“He’s one of my employees. He has long hair that caught on fire while they were preparing it.”
“Was he hurt?”
“No. I threw a glass of water on him. It made for an exciting meal.” He looked back down at the menu. “I’ll order some bruschetta as an appetizer. Do you like tomatoes?”
“Yes.”
“And one caprese salad to share.”
A waitress, one of the few non-Italians on the crew, took our order. Dylan filled my glass with wine, then his own.
“What should we toast?” he asked.
“How about books?” I said.
He lifted his glass. “To books.” He took a sip of wine, then set the glass down. “Speaking of books, tell me about your job in New York.”
“Former job,” I said.
“Sorry. Your former employment.”
“I was a senior editor for one of the big publishing houses.”
“Senior editor. That sounds important.”
“It’s publishing. We get paid in titles, not paychecks.”
“What do you do, correct spelling and grammar?”
“No. That’s a different kind of editor.”
“I didn’t know there were different kinds of editors.”
“Many,” I said. “Just like there are different kinds of engineers. What you’re describing is a copy editor. They tend to be a bit OCD. At least the good ones are. They’re the kind of people who can’t help but correct your grammar.”
“We call them grammar Nazis,” Dylan said. “They’re annoying.”
“They make my life a lot easier,” I said.
“Then what kind of editor are you?”
“Senior editor is more of an all-purpose position. I’m kind of like a coach. I give my authors suggestions on their books and act as a liaison between them and the publishing house. Then, in my spare time, I also look for new talent, which means I’m reading constantly.”
“That doesn’t sound fun.”
“You don’t like reading?”
“Will it end our date if I say no?”
I cocked my head. “Is this a date?”
“One question at a time,” he said. “No, I don’t hate reading, per se. It’s like anything else; once you’re required to do it, it’s not fun anymore. Basic human psychology.”
“I’ll forgive you, then,” I said. “On account of basic human psychology. So, to the next question. Is this a date?”
“It’s dinner,” he said. “What skill set does it takes to be an editor?”
“Nice changeup,” I said. “I’d say the two main qualities of being an editor are, first, you’ve got to love to read, and second, you can’t want to make any money. That mostly sums it up.”
“And you should probably love English,” he added. “I got As in English because of you.”
“Do you remember what they called me in school? Thesaurus Rex.”
“That’s a compliment.”
“It’s not when you’re thirteen.”
“Everything’s upside down when you’re thirteen.”
“I’ve got news for you. Everything is still upside down.”
He lifted his glass. “To upside down, then.”
I clinked my glass to his and took a sip. “That’s not bad wine.”
“Salvatore’s Sicilian. Bad wine is blasphemy. Or at least sacrilege.” He poured a little more into my glass. “How’s the bookstore doing?”
“It’s been busy. I think the holiday season has officially begun for Bobbooks.”
“Bobbooks,” he repeated. “I love that name.”
“That makes one of us.”
He looked at me over the rim of his glass. “You don’t like the name of your bookstore?”
“No. Never did.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I didn’t say anything was wrong with it, I just said I don’t like it. It’s not my taste.”
“What would you have named it?”
I held my hands up for emphasis. “It Was a Dark and Stormy Bookstore.”
He looked at me blankly. “Explain it to me.”
“If I have to explain, you still won’t like it.”
“Which is why it would make a bad name. Besides, it’s way too long for a sign.”
“That’s your opinion,” I said.
“No, I’ve bought signage—it’s not cheap, and Dark and Stormy is a whole lot of letters, as opposed to Bobbooks, which is”—he stopped to count—“eight. Besides, the whole thing sounds gloomy.”
“What’s wrong with gloomy?”
“People read to get away from gloomy.”
“Tell that to Stephen King.”
“Stephen King’s a writer, not a bookstore. Give me the name of a successful bookstore with a gloomy name.”
“I’ll give you three. Dearly Departed Books, Ohio. Dead End Books, New York. The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale.”
“Those are really names of bookstores?”
“They really are.”
He looked down for a moment then said, “All right, apparently I know nothing about the book industry. I mean, I go to bookstores to