Do Not Hurry the Journey

Chapter 1 Giving in to a big yawn, Paula Levitt lay down the thick manuscript she was reading. As she reached for a coffee mug, her assistant, Christine, a grin on her round face, barged into her office. “I know I’m not supposed to interrupt—” “Unless it’s very important.” “Oh, it is. I just got a call from William Walden’s secretary. He’s inviting you to lunch tomorrow. Le Bistro du Midi.” “Lunch?” Paula’s voice rose in surprise. “I haven’t had lunch with him in twenty years.” “Oh! So you lunched with him in your youth?” “Let’s just say we were friends twenty years ago.” Christine’s eyebrows lifted. “How come you never told me about this relationship?” “It wasn’t a rela-- Well, maybe it was for a few months but in the end we wanted different things.” “Such as?” “The usual. He wanted marriage and family and I wanted my own firm, Printed Page.” “Whatever. But he wants to dine with you tomorrow.” Paula glanced at her calendar. “I can’t. I’m going with Betsy to her oncologist at two.” Christine thrust her hand on her hip. “You can still do that. Lunch is at noon and with a top independent New York publisher.” Paula reached for the crimson phalaenopsis at the corner of her desk, shifted the orchid around so it would get more sunlight from the long, narrow window looking out toward the street. She would not be at Bill Walden’s beck and call; she never had been and she wasn’t starting now. “Make lunch with him for another day.” Paula stood up and paced the narrow strip of beige carpet between her desk and the window. “Did his secretary say what it’s about?” Christine shook her head. “Believe me, I asked. The secretary knew nothing. You’ll just have to suffer through a cheese soufflé and glass of cabernet to find out.” “No way I’ll order a soufflé – takes too long to make. I’ve got to be at Sloan Kettering on time.” Christine, pushing herself up, adjusted the waistband on the slacks circling her ample waist. “Mmmm, a cheese soufflé. I wouldn’t mind the calories one bit.” Paula grinned. “You never do.” Christine made a face and waddled out. Paula turned to her computer, Googled Gemstone Books. The information she found was stuff she already knew – privately owned by Bill, specializing in non-fiction, biography, history and, in recent years, self-help books. As if he weren’t rich enough, she thought, he moves into self-help, the publishing subfield with the highest sales. She read further down Walden’s bio. Never married, an apartment on 72nd Street, a home in Westchester on Long Island Sound, a sailboat. He must have substituted sailing for skiing, or maybe he did both. Her mind kept wandering. Bill couldn’t be calling about business. She published fiction exclusively. He would have no interest in that. Possibly, he was trying to raise money for some cause. He had made a name as someone who set up writing programs at colleges, adult schools, even high schools. Well, she wasn’t averse to helping people write fiction. She took another look at her computer. His photo on Google wasn’t a very good one, but it showed his thick hair, once brown, now silvery, and penetrating eyes. She took a long breath. He still looked good, but so what? This wasn’t a date. It was a business meeting, although she had no idea what for. Le Bistro du Midi, on 69th Street just off Madison Avenue, was small and rather cozy, the walls covered in red damask, the tables decorated with carnations, sparkling wine glasses, and elegant silver. Paula arrived, dressed for the occasion in a black and white hounds tooth suit and crimson scarf. Bill, in his trademark oxford blue shirt and blue blazer, rose as she approached his table and pulled out her chair. After their greetings, he said, “Please have whatever you like, but, in the event you like cheese soufflé, I ordered one ahead of time.” “That’s most thoughtful. My assistant knows all about the house specialty. She’ll be extremely jealous, but she’d kill me if I didn’t try it.” “Don’t worry. There will be plenty left over. You can return to the office with a doggie bag.” He signaled to the waiter who brought over two bottles of wine. “Red or white?” “Whatever you’re having.” Paula, who rarely drank at lunch, remembered Christine’s words about soufflé and cabernet and was pleased when the waiter poured the red. “They seem to know you here,” she said. “I live a few blocks away and, a failed cook, I often have soufflé for dinner.” “I wish I could work that way, but with a small outfit I need to be there. How is the world of nonfiction these days?” He pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “To tell the truth, I’m getting a bit bored. Everyone is writing about the gap in wealth, the one percent and the ninety-nine. Doubtlessly important but…” The rich but sharp smell of cheese enveloped the table. The waiter rolled up a trolley holding a silver platter and a huge pouf of browned cheese in a ceramic dish surrounded by carved radishes. Walden nodded at the waiter then turned to Paula. “I ordered the robust version, jarlsberg with a large portion of very sharp cheddar.” “It smells heavenly,” she said as the waiter broke into the crust with a heavy silver serving spoon and scooped a large portion onto a plate he set before her. He carried out the same operation for Walden, who reached out to the platter and snared several radishes he placed on Paula’s plate. “You must munch on these with the soufflé. Brilliant combination.” They dug into their mounds of fluffy cheese. Paula savored, smiled, nodded. “I understand what all the fuss is about.” “There’s a lot there. Your assistant will be happy.” “Delirious, although it will be criminal to heat this up in an office microwave.” “No, no. She must take it home and heat it up at 250 degrees.” “I wonder if she’ll be willing to wait.” He grinned, picked up a radish from his plate. “Have a radish. More soufflé?” “I can’t, but it was lovely.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Then it must be time to get down to business. I want to talk to you about publishing.” “Well, you’ve certainly got me in an accommodating mood.” “Good. I want to talk to you about fiction. You’ve become a superb editor.” She looked at him curiously. “How would you know?” “I’ve read the last four books you’ve put out, and they’re all serious contributions to the genre.” “Bill, you don’t do fiction. Why would you be reading novels from Printed Page?” He tapped his fingers on the tablecloth. “I decided to cross the tracks.” “Okay, but I do mostly women’s fiction. That’s pretty far over the tracks.” “Actually, not. I’ve been reading in some other fields -- suspense, romance, literary fiction, mystery. I find women’s fiction, especially from Printed Page, the most compelling. By far.” He stared into her green eyes for a long moment. “Ms. Levitt, I’m going to get straight to the point. I want you to join Gemstone Books as our fiction editor.” Her mouth dropped open. “You don’t do fiction. I guess I already said that.” “You did. The point of this conversation is to persuade you to do it for me, to have you launch a fiction division at Gemstone.” When she started to object, he held up his hand. “You can bring the whole Printed Page operation, all four of you, to Gemstone. We can afford you. You can operate pretty much the way you do now except you’ll have to report to me and, occasionally, to the Board of Directors.”