Fan mail was fun. It didn't used to be. It used to be like a grab bag that could have goodies inside, or a chainsaw waiting to shred her always threadbare confidence in herself as a writer.
But then someone at the publishing house started vetting the mail first, and sending along only the good stuff. The bad stuff got tossed in the circular file, Maggie knew now, and the really bad stuff got filed away in Toland Books' Losers and Loonies file. In fact, if it hadn't been for that file, the rat thing a couple of weeks ago could have been a lot worse ...
She frowned when she realized that none of the six envelopes had been slit open, which meant that nobody had screened the letters. The way employees came and went at publishing houses, it was no big surprise that a probable new hire hadn't gotten the word yet, and just sent out whatever had been addressed to Maggie in care of Toland Books.
Well, how bad could they be? She had real fans, not just nuts.
Maggie opened the first envelope.
I never wrote to an author before, but I just had to tell you how much I love Saint Just ...
Okay, that one was good. She'd put it aside to read the rest of it later, when she could enjoy it.
I guess you hear this all the time, Ms. Dooley, but I have written a book and I think you'd like to publish it if you'd only read it. I've had the most interesting life, and I think the world would be better for hearing my story. And if you like it and think it needs work, I'd gladly share the profits if you rewrote it for me. If you would send me your address, I'd send you—
"God, some people's kids," Maggie yelled to Socks, tossing the second letter back into the large envelope. "They think I actually publish the books. They think I do the artwork. They think I write the back cover copy. And they think I should write their books for them while I'm at it. When the hell do they think I find time to write my own books?"
She looked toward the kitchen, but Socks was still out there, talking to the cats—who were talking back to him, one of the reasons she so loved Persians—so she picked up another letter, hoping for two good ones out of three.
She read. She read again. And then she threw her head back and laughed out loud, causing Socks to run back into the room to ask what was so funny.
"Read ... read this," she said, waving the letter above her head. "Out loud. I want to hear it out loud."
Socks took the letter and frowned at it, and then grinned. "It's short and to the point, isn't it, Maggie? You really want me to read it out loud?"
"Yes, please," she told him, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. "God, how I needed that laugh. I should have the thing framed. Talk about keeping me humble."
" 'Dear Ms. Dooley,' " Socks began, and then looked at her. "Do you ever get used to it, Maggie? Being called Ms. Dooley? Cleo Dooley?"
"No, not really. I was being a little crazy when I made up the name, but now that I've got it, I'm sort of stuck with it. And I still do like the Os."
Socks nodded. "Sort of the way my pal Jay got stuck with Jayne when he started doing the drag queen thing. He said he did it off the top of his head, but now he's stuck with it, now that he's so popular in the clubs. He really wanted to be Raquel. I don't know, I think Jayne's okay, don't you?"
"Raquel might be a little over the top," Maggie agreed, doing her best to keep a straight face. She'd never been lumped in with a drag queen before. It was kind of neat, seeing how Socks's thought processes worked.
"Yeah, it probably is. Anyway, I'll read the letter now: 'I am a new reader and just love your Saint Just Mysteries series books. I do not like regular historical romances and understand you started out writing them, and so I'm wondering if there is a way I can get a list of the regular historical ones you wrote to make sure I don't buy them when I shop at the used bookstore?' "
It was just as good the third time, and Maggie clutched her stomach as she rolled with laughter. "I'm supposed to send her a list of my historicals. To be sure she doesn't buy them! A kiss and a slap, Socks. Two slaps—considering she buys used, and I don't get a bent penny out of the deal. I love it!"
"Maggie? Are you all right? It's funny, sure. But it isn't that funny," Socks said carefully.
"I know, I know. Okay," she said, wiping her eyes once more. "I'm under control again, I promise. You know I have a car picking me up out front in an hour, to take me to the doctor's office? Good. Now, tell me about your idea. Because you have one, right?"
Socks sat down once more, perching on the edge of the couch cushion, his back ramrod straight, his hands folded in his lap. "It's Jay and me, both. Who got the idea, I mean. We've been thinking about it for a long time. I mean, Jay's pushing forty, and belting out Over the Rainbow every night is getting a little old, you know? And I'll never make it on Broadway, I know that. I've known that for a while."
"I'm sorry it hasn't worked out for you, Socks. So you two are looking to switch careers."
"Yeah, that's what we're looking for. Do you remember my mama's pies, Maggie?"
Maggie had to shift mental gears, but she managed it. "Sure, I do. She makes great pies. Why?"
"Well, I've got all her recipes. Her grandmama's recipes, that is. And her fried chicken recipe. And her—well, lots of recipes. You know when I go to auditions? I usually take some of Mama's pecan brownies or her fig bars with me. Everybody loves them. I almost got a part in the chorus of Wicked, the producer liked her pralines so much. She makes the best pralines."
"Is this going anywhere, Socks?" Maggie asked, as she had pulled a few more pieces of mail out of the pile, and saw that they were all personal letters from people she didn't know, four of them addressed to the "The Jackpot Winner." And there'd been only one mailing day since she won, what with the Christmas holiday. If this was today's mail, what would tomorrow bring?
"Jay? Well, Jay cooks. I don't cook, but Jay does," Socks went on hurriedly, obviously aware he was in danger of losing his audience. "We'd need a place, of course, and some start-up money for inventory, things like that. We already went to the Small Business administration for a loan, but they give most of them to single moms and like that. Not a lot of loans out there for a gay tap-dancing doorman and a cross-dressing Judy Garland impersonator. Jay says it's discrimination, but I don't know. Anyway, we were thinking—"
"You were thinking about asking me for a loan," Maggie finished for him, hating to see him so nervous.
"We'd pay you back, you know that, right?"
Maggie smiled. "I know that. Do you and Jay know that about seventy percent of all small businesses fail in their first year? And restaurants most especially? It's like Yogi Berra said about a restaurant one time, 'Nobody goes there anymore, it's too crowded.' One minute a Manhattan restaurant is hot, and the next minute it's the new parking garage."
Socks nodded as if he understood, and then blew it. "Who's Yogi Berra?"
"Okay, so we've ruled out the Bronx near the stadium as a spot for your restaurant," Maggie said, grinning. "Where do you want to put it?"
Socks coughed into his hand. Choked, actually. "Well ... you know that house you bought?" Then he looked at her, blinking like the innocent she knew he wasn't. "I should have waited, shouldn't I? But, no, I had to go and open my big mouth. He said he'd talk to you while you were in Jersey. Didn't Alex talk to you about that yet?"
"We've been a little busy. Didn't Alex talk to me about what yet?"
"About the bottom floor," Socks said, getting to his feet. "Well, I've already been gone too long. Can't leave the lobby unguarded, right? I'll go watch for that car for you, buzz you when it shows up, okay?"