Maybe you think a Disney vacation isn’t as romantic as going to Hawaii or Paris or somewhere in Greece or Italy or Fiji or the Caribbean, but Portia and I never got to go to Disney World when we were kids, and so we do it up for a week in Orlando with Tommy, who doesn’t have a single bad dream in the Magic Kingdom.
CHAPTER 32
It’s a blistering hot July, and we’ve got our air conditioning on full blast as Tommy, Portia, and I eat corn on the cob and salted tomato slices at the kitchen table. We’re talking about maybe driving south for a mini-vacation somewhere when Portia’s phone buzzes.
“Who’s that?” Tommy asks.
“It’s an e-mail from a literary agent I queried,” Portia says, and goes into her office.
A few seconds later she starts screaming like she just accidentally cut off a finger.
Tommy and I run to her. She hugs us both, and we all start jumping up and down.
The huge smile on her face is so beautiful.
“What the hell is going on?” I say.
She seems incapable of speech, so she points to her computer screen.
Tommy and I read the e-mail from some agent at an agency I’ve never heard of before, but then again, I haven’t heard of any literary agencies. There’s a lot of praise for Portia’s novel—“an aching tale of loss and redemption” sticks out in my memory—and then the man says he’d like to represent Portia.
“So this means he’s going to publish your book?” Tommy says.
“I think it means he wants to be her agent,” I say.
Portia says, “Hell yes, it does!”
“It means he’ll try to sell Portia’s book to a publishing house.”
“So people can read it?” Tommy says. “I want to read it.”
To Portia, I say, “Congratulations. Seriously.”
Portia puts her arms around Tommy and me, and we do another family hug, during which Portia breaks down crying, but it’s a happy cry, which makes Tommy and me laugh.
“What the hell, Portia?” I say. “You okay?”
“I am,” she says and then adds, “I just never thought I’d actually find representation in New York City. Me. Portia Kane.”
She’s been submitting her manuscript for a few weeks now and hadn’t heard anything before today. I don’t know if this is a quick response or not, and I’m not really sure if Portia knows either. She’s sort of doing this blindly, with no advice from anyone really, because she doesn’t know any other published authors personally. She purchased a few how-to books off the Internet and just jumped in. Even though I believe in Portia, it’s a little hard for me to accept it can happen this fast—that you just get an e-mail one day, and then you have a literary agent representing your book.
“Maybe you should call this guy?” I say, doing my best to be supportive. “It says he’d like to speak as soon as possible, right?”
“It’s Saturday night, though.”
“It does say as soon as possible.”
“So you think I should call right now? Do you think that would make me look too eager? Or lame for being home on a Saturday night?”
“He’s e-mailing you on a Saturday night,” I say.
“Yeah,” Tommy says.
“Okay, I’ll call him. But you have to leave the room.”
I kiss Portia once on the lips and say, “I’m proud of you,” before Tommy and I load the dishwasher.
Ten or so minutes later we hear Portia screaming in her room again.
“What did he say?” Tommy asks, once we’re back in Portia’s office.
“He loves it,” Portia says, pushing the palms of her hands against her heart. “And he wants to start submitting on Monday, first thing in the morning.”
“Submitting?” Tommy says.
“My book to real publishing houses in New York City,” Portia says. “My book!”
Then she starts screaming again, pushes past us, throws Mötley Crüe’s Shout at the Devil album on the turntable, and cues up “Looks That Kill.”
We’re all jumping on and off the couch, playing air guitars and drums, making guitar solo faces, and screaming the lyrics.
And it feels so good to be rocking out to Mötley Crüe in celebration of Portia’s accomplishment. I watch Tommy spazzing with us, and it’s the happiest I’ve seen him since his mother died. He didn’t even look this happy at Disney World. And I can tell that he’s feeding off Portia’s good energy.
There are more calls from the agent on Monday morning after the manuscript has been pitched and sent to several houses, and then a few days after that, there is a small bidding war for Portia’s novel, during which she has to talk to real editors on the phone and decide which one is right for her. “How do you choose?” she keeps asking me. “Besides going with the top bidder?”
The bidding gets up into the six-figure range, and I tell her that she should pick the editor she feels most comfortable with, because she will already be pulling in more than four times my yearly teaching salary with the sale.
It all seems too good to be true, but maybe it really is this simple. After all, what the hell do I know about the publishing world? Still, part of me is waiting for the catch, although I don’t say that to Portia. She’s just so damn thrilled, and I don’t want to do anything to ruin this moment for her.
She actually goes with the second highest offer because that editor seemed to “get the book more,” which I’m not really sure I get, but we hire Lisa (Jon the cop’s there too, because they’re living together now) to babysit Tommy and go out to dinner in Philadelphia to celebrate regardless. Portia keeps saying, “I know Mr. Vernon will read this book. I just know it,” which makes me nervous, because who knows if Mr. Vernon is still alive? And the last time we saw him, he made it pretty damn clear that he never wanted to interact with us again, let alone read a book written by a former student.