“That I’m the one who found it.” I looked at the napkin in front of me, at the list of plans we’d been making. “She said the publisher might call.”
Jack’s face did something I was starting to recognize, the look he got when he’d been holding his breath without realizing it and had just let it go.
“Maggie, that’s?—”
“It’s not a job offer. It’s not anything yet. It’s just a door.”
“A door someone opened because you did something they couldn’t ignore.”
I thought about that. About pulling the Winterbrook manuscript from the slush pile, the rubber band and the handwritten note, Louie’s voice in the first paragraph, the cat watching from behind the dumpster with the supreme patience of a creature who understood that some things had to be waitedfor. About standing in Patricia’s office with shaking hands, telling her that safe didn’t win National Book Awards. About doing one brave thing, one right thing, and how sometimes that was enough to change the direction of a life.
“I didn’t do it for this,” I said. “I did it because the book was extraordinary.”
“I know.” Jack reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “That’s why it matters.”
The phone rang again.
We both looked at it. It sat on the counter, beige and ordinary, the curly cord hanging in a loop.
“That’s probably not Patricia,” Jack said.
“No,” I said. “Probably not.”
I picked up the phone.
“Maggie Shaw?” A man’s voice—warm, unhurried, the kind of voice that suggested its owner had all the time in the world and chose to spend it on things that interested him. “This is Jonathan Calloway. Calloway & Marsh, in New York. I hope I’m not interrupting your morning.”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Because Patricia just told me the most interesting story about a young woman who pulled a manuscript out of a slush pile and recognized a masterpiece before anyone else in the building.” A pause. “She also tells me you might be open to moving to New York.”
“Actually, I’d already decided. I’m planning to move in April.”
“April.” He said the word like he was tasting it, deciding whether he liked the flavor. “Well. I’m building something at Calloway & Marsh. A literary list that takes risks, books that matter, books that might not have obvious commercial appeal but have the kind of voice that stays with you. The kind ofbooks, frankly, that most editors would have passed on. Like the Winterbrook.”
“Like the Winterbrook,” I agreed.
“I need people who can find those books. Who can read page one and know.” Another pause, and I could almost hear him choosing his next words carefully. “I’m not offering you a job over the phone, Ms. Shaw. That would be presumptuous. But I am offering you a conversation. When you get to New York, I’d very much like you to come in and talk.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good. April, you said?”
“April.”
“I’ll be here.” A smile in his voice. “And Ms. Shaw? Patricia tells me you have opinions about Hemingway. I look forward to hearing them.”
He hung up. I stood in Jack’s kitchen holding the phone, the dial tone buzzing in my ear, staring out the window at the pale morning.
Jack was watching me. “Well?” he said.
I set the phone back in its cradle.
“He wants to meet. When I get to New York.” My voice sounded strange to me, too steady for what was happening inside my chest. “It’s not a job. Not yet. But it’s?—”
“A door.”
“A door.”
