Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,15

to pop. KREOOOOO! "I --" kreooooo "-- I hate when that happens," asserted a voice that wasn't Duncan's. "If you would all return to your seats, I have an announcement I'd like to make."

Keely and Brandy Ann grunted with frustration and headed back to their seats. I boosted myself high enough to see a man in a rose-colored polo shirt with silver hair and a George Hamilton tan standing in the aisle at the front of the bus. Ah, yes. The bigwig Jackie had pointed out in the basilica.

"For those of you who don't know me, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Philip Blackmore, and I'm the executive vice president and associate publisher of Hightower Books, the company sponsoring this tour. Please accept my apologies for this unfortunate calamity that has befallen us. One never expects disaster to strike while on holiday."

"He's never traveled with us before, has he, dear?" whispered Nana.

"I understand the inconvenience of having to travel without any of your belongings," he continued in a sympathetic tone. "I know this is the kind of event that can ruin a vacation, but I want you to know that Hightower Books is committed to doing everything possible to salvage this tour and make it the most memorable trip of your lifetime. To that end, I've been in contact with our company president, who has authorized me to make amends for this catastrophe in a way that is sure to delight all of you who have ever imagined your name in print."

Nana leaned close to my ear. "That means, he don't wanna get sued."

"Drumroll, please," Blackmore said, grinning at his own cleverness. "Ladies and gentlemen, Hightower Books is proud to announce an opportunity for all aspiring writers on our tour. A contest!"

Squeals from the front. Squeals from the back. There was no denying it. The word "contest" created as much pandemonium among romance writers as the word "embargo" created among Iowa grain farmers.

"To the person who submits the most marketable synopsis of a book-length romantic novel, including the first five pages of a proposed first chapter, we are offering a single book contract for publication of said book, and" -- he paused for dramatic effect -- "a cash advance of ten thousand dollars."

Screaming. Yelling. Cheering. The woman in the seat in front of me leaped into the aisle and began to boogie.

KREOOOOOO! "I knew you'd be excited," Blackmore said pleasantly.

"Who's going to judge the contest?" someone yelled out. "You?"

"I'll leave the all-important task of judging to a panel of three people, two of whom have devoted more years to the publishing industry than they'd care to admit. Sylvia, would you stand up so people can see you?"

Three seats down from me on the left, a fiftyish woman with puffy features, mousy hair, and a gray jacket that bagged around her like an off - the - rack elephant leg stood up and waved to the passengers. "I'm sure you're all familiar with the name Sylvia Root," Blackmore enthused, "founder and president of the acclaimed Sylvia Root Literary Agency. Please observe her nose, because it's reputed to be the best one in the business for sniffing out best sellers. If Sylvia takes you on, you can be assured of literary stardom. And who knows? The next sensation of the publishing world could be seated right on this very bus."

Oohs. Aahs. Sporadic clapping.

A nod of Blackmore's head, and Sylvia slumped back into her seat. "Our second judge is a senior editor at Hightower Books and present editor of both Marla Michaels and Gillian Jones. You probably don't know him by name, but the publishing industry wouldn't be the institution it is today without his scrupulous knowledge and talent. A touch of his red pen, and he can turn any writer's work into a literary masterpiece. Gabriel Fox."

The man from the basilica with the spit-polished appearance and beard stepped into the aisle close to where Blackmore stood, sketched a bow, then sat back down. From this short second glimpse I caught of him, I judged him to be in his mid-forties with the kind of wiry body that smacked of either good genetics, long-distance running, or the Atkins diet.

"I've not appointed our third and final judge," Blackmore confessed, "but to ensure a fair mix on the panel, I'd like to open the position to someone whose interests are as far removed from the publishing industry as humanly possible. I know we have some tour guests from America's heartland traveling with