Florence had to skim through emails back until November before she found a personal email from someone other than Sylvie.
Helen!!! I hope this is actually you. I just ran into Daphne and she gave me your email address but said she hadn’t used it in ages. How are you?? Married? Kids? Where are you living now? I’m still in Jackson, married to Tim. We’ve got two great girls, and we’re waiting on a third. Let’s just say Tim knows more about Disney princesses than he ever thought he would lol. Anyhoo! I just wanted to say hi. I still see the gang pretty regularly and we all realized we hadn’t talked to you in forever. Do you ever come back to visit? We just built an extension on our house （don’t ask me about it—I’ve barely recovered!） so there’s a guestroom with your name on it…
Xoxo Tori
Florence searched the Sent folder. Helen had never responded, and Tori hadn’t tried again. Florence thought it was little wonder that Helen hadn’t wanted to keep in touch with someone who casually deployed “anyhoo!” in her correspondence.
She looked in Helen’s search history and found a seemingly random collection of terms: Guerlain KissKiss Shaping Cream lip color in “Red Passion.” How to replace a lost passport abroad. Mississippi parole regulations. Someone named Lisa Blackford. A restaurant in a place called Semat, Morocco. Florence’s own LinkedIn page and Instagram account. She flushed when she saw that. Florence was mortified at the thought of Helen looking through her Instagram account, which had barely thirty followers and featured mainly pictures of dogs she saw on the street and quotes from books she was reading.
But of course Helen had researched her before she’d hired her. Besides, Helen wasn’t in a position to ridicule the size of Florence’s social network; other than those emails from Sylvie and Tori, Helen didn’t seem to have any friends at all. The landline at her house had only rung twice while Florence had been there. The first time it had been a telemarketer. The second time it had been Greta, and Helen had asked Florence to tell her she wasn’t home.
A few days after Greta’s failed attempt to reach Helen, she called Florence directly.
“I’m glad to hear you two are off to such a great start,” she said.
“We are, thank you,” Florence replied, still unsure why Greta had called on her cell phone.
“And I appreciate your slogging through all those old emails from my team. I know it’s not exactly thrilling work, but it does need to get done.”
“You’re welcome,” Florence said cautiously. Greta was treating her with a deference that had been entirely absent from their first meeting.
“So listen, I wanted to let you know that I read your stories, and I think you have a lot of potential. I don’t think they’re quite where they need to be yet, but we could work on them together, if you’re interested.”
We?
Greta went on, “As I’m sure you know, story collections—particularly by unknown writers—are incredibly difficult to sell, but that’s not to say impossible.”
“I know,” Florence hurried to explain. “My plan is to write a novel. That’s what I’m going to do up here while I’m working for Helen.”
“Wonderful. Maybe you’d like to send me a draft when you have it.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Call Lauren and set up a time to talk when you feel like you’re ready. But listen, Florence, while I have you here, there’s something you can do for me in return.”
Florence frowned. What did she have to offer Greta Frost?
“I have no doubt that the novel Helen is working on is going to be brilliant, but she’s being incredibly secretive about it and that is making it very difficult for me to do my job.
“I understand that this book is demanding more research than the first one, which is part of the reason she wanted an assistant. But she won’t tell me how much research, or what kind or how long it’s going to take or even what is being researched. I know next to nothing. I realize that Helen finds some parts of the author’s job tedious—the typing, the interviews, the marketing—and for the most part I’m happy to leave her to the actual writing, but someone needs to take care of the other, less exciting details. Do you understand?”
“I think so…”
“What I’m saying is that I’d like to invite you to join me on the strategy side of things. I know you’ll find it helpful for your own career in the future.”
“The strategy side of things?”
“Basically what we can do to make the book a success, beyond the actual words on the page. Communicating with Helen’s editor and various other stakeholders; coming up with the best timeline for submission and publication; putting together a marketing plan. For instance, it would be ideal if the second book were published around when the Mississippi Foxtrot mini-series premieres. But of course to do any of this, I need to actually know what the second book is about, and how far along she is in the process. That’s where you come in.”
Florence didn’t say anything.
“Of course, I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t in Helen’s best interest,” Greta said smoothly.
Florence stalled for time. “Well, I don’t know much yet. I’ve only read a couple of chapters.”
“That’s okay. Why don’t you just email me whatever you’ve typed up so far.”
Florence chewed on her lip. “Umm. I’m not sure I feel comfortable doing that.”
“Okay, forget that idea. We’ll keep it casual. Can you tell me the gist?”
Florence lowered her voice. “Helen’s upstairs right now. She could overhear.”
“Ahh, I see.” Greta paused. “How about this, why don’t you just give me a ring tonight. We can talk about your novel too. This isn’t just for Helen’s benefit. I can’t imagine you want to be a writer’s assistant forever.”
Florence wasn’t a fool. She knew that Greta was playing her. But that didn’t change the fact that Greta was right: In the grand scheme of things, Greta could do more for Florence than Helen could. And anyway, Greta and Helen were on the same side.
“I’m happy to help,” she finally said.
“Wonderful. I knew you were a smart young woman. You know, you actually remind me a lot of Helen when we first met. Did she tell you about that?”
“She said she sent her manuscript to dozens of agents and she couldn’t believe her luck when you took her on.”
Greta let out a short bark of a laugh. “Yes, I imagine that is the story she’d tell. The truth is slightly more complicated. I initially wrote back to her and said her book was incredibly powerful and well told, but ultimately it was just too rough around the edges. I also told her that I didn’t really take on this type of work; there were other agents who would be better suited to it. I think I even suggested a few names.
“A few weeks later, I heard my assistant, Rachel—this was before Lauren—arguing loudly with someone outside my office. I stepped out to investigate, and there was this steely-eyed woman with the strongest Southern accent I’d ever heard; I thought at first she was putting it on. This woman—Helen, obviously—kept saying she’d made an appointment and she wasn’t leaving until I met with her.