The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,8
Not surprisingly, she hadn’t been invited back.
“Aaaah, Noel, it’s Jerica. Your girl told me you were out. I dropped off my manuscript. I think it’s good. What am I saying, I’m always good. Let me know when you’ve read it.”
Jerica was the last of my authors—maybe the last author in the world—who still delivered paper manuscripts. I had asked her many times, pleaded with her, to just email them to me, but she wouldn’t. I dialed her number. As usual, she answered on the first ring.
“Noel, honey, it’s me. Jerica.”
I know, I thought. I called you. “Good morning.”
“It’s afternoon, honey. Did you get my manuscript?”
“Not yet. I’m out of town. I haven’t been in the office since Monday night.”
“No, honey, that doesn’t work for me, I dropped it off yesterday morning with your girl. Where are you?”
“I’m in Utah.”
“Good Lord, what are you doing there?”
“My father passed away.”
“Oh. That’s a shame, isn’t it? So, when will you be back? I want to know what you think of the rewrite. I tossed William to the scrap pile. I never liked the man. I think the flow’s better. When do you get back?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “My father’s funeral is Saturday.”
“You won’t be back until Saturday? Do I really have to wait that long? Trust me, there’s nothing in Utah worth staying for.”
“No, I won’t be back until Sunday at the soonest. You know, you could always just email your manuscript to me and I’ll read it today.”
She groaned. “Oh, not that again. You know I don’t do that.”
“I’ve forgotten why that is.”
“It’s not how I do things. Just hurry back.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said.
“Good girl.”
Jerica always hung up without saying goodbye. And I always felt like a dog when she said “Good girl.” In fact, she’d say it to her dog and me in the same sentence. Her dog, Pinot, was a teacup Maltese poodle, which I was more familiar with than I’d like to be. Jerica lived in SoHo, so, on the rare occasions when she agreed to do a book tour, she did a fair number of signings in Manhattan. For local events it was customary for me to escort her, a responsibility I had fulfilled on more than a dozen unpleasant occasions. As I said earlier, she wasn’t the kind of author a publishing house liked to parade.
Jerica insisted on bringing Pinot with her wherever she went, transporting the small ball of fur in her purse. The canine was clearly of much greater importance to her than her readers were, and it wasn’t unusual for her to stop signing books to feed her. Once, at a particularly large and well-publicized signing that she was late to, I suggested that she wait to feed her dog until after the signing. She informed me—with indignation—that Pinot’s breed (which, she frequently reminded me, was of royal descent and even written about by no less than Aristotle) suffered from hypoglycemia and needed to eat regularly to keep their blood sugar levels up.
It gets worse. She would brush the dog’s teeth during the signing since, as I was also informed, Maltese are known for having dental problems. Twice I had to drive her to a dog dentist in New York. I’m not making this up.
If that wasn’t enough, Jerica would occasionally let Pinot relieve herself on the bookstore carpet. (At least Amy Tan made her dogs wear diapers.) Once, a manager told her that dogs weren’t allowed in the store and she responded by walking out, leaving almost three hundred fans standing in line. It’s how she does things.
I called my editorial assistant, Lori. She had been with me for almost six months. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“Not much.” Her voice sounded tense.
“Are you okay?”
She paused a beat before answering. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just stressed.”
“I get it,” I said. “Speaking of stress, I just heard from Jerica.”
“Yes, she brought her manuscript by. I left it on your desk.”
“That’s why she called. How was she?”
“Her usual,” she said. “How’s your father doing?”
“He passed away.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. When it rains it pours, doesn’t it?”
Her response confused me. “Did something else happen?”
She hesitated. “No, just that.”
“Good, because I don’t need any more bad news,” I said. “Oh, before I forget, would you email Baldacci and remind him that production is waiting to get his sign-off on his new box-set design, and publicity’s waiting for his approval on the flap copy.”