Pasta Imperfect by Maddy Hunter Read Free Book Online Page B

the all-important task of judging to a panel of three people, two of whom have devoted more years to the publishing industry than they’d care to admit. Sylvia, would you stand up so people can see you?”
    Three seats down from me on the left, a fiftyish woman with puffy features, mousy hair, and a gray jacket that bagged around her like an off - the - rack elephant leg stood up and waved to the passengers. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the name Sylvia Root,” Blackmore enthused, “founder and president of the acclaimed Sylvia Root Literary Agency. Please observe her nose, because it’s reputed to be the best one in the business for sniffing out best sellers. If Sylvia takes you on, you can be assured of literary stardom. And who knows? The next sensation of the publishing world could be seated right on this very bus.”
    Oohs. Aahs. Sporadic clapping.
    A nod of Blackmore’s head, and Sylvia slumped back into her seat. “Our second judge is a senior editor at Hightower Books and present editor of both Marla Michaels and Gillian Jones. You probably don’t know him by name, but the publishing industry wouldn’t be the institution it is today without his scrupulous knowledge and talent. A touch of his red pen, and he can turn any writer’s work into a literary masterpiece. Gabriel Fox.”
    The man from the basilica with the spit-polished appearance and beard stepped into the aisle close to where Blackmore stood, sketched a bow, then sat back down. From this short second glimpse I caught of him, I judged him to be in his mid-forties with the kind of wiry body that smacked of either good genetics, long-distance running, or the Atkins diet.
    “I’ve not appointed our third and final judge,” Blackmore confessed, “but to ensure a fair mix on the panel, I’d like to open the position to someone whose interests are as far removed from the publishing industry as humanly possible. I know we have some tour guests from America’s heartland traveling with us. A group of seniors from Iowa, is that right?”
    “You bet!” shouted Dick Teig. Hoots. Whistles. Scattered applause. “The only one of us not old enough to join AARP is Emily!”
    “Would any of you be willing to act as the third judge on our panel? I realize you didn’t sign on to the tour to participate in our program, but let’s face it, Midwesterners like you, and Jane Pauley, and —” He stirred the air with his hand, struggling to produce another name. “— and Jesse ‘the body’ Ventura are known for their forthrightness and homespun values, and I need the input of a person whose opinion I can trust to be fair and unbiased. I’m not being overly dramatic when I tell you that your participation could change someone on this bus’s life forever. Do I have any volunteers?”
    Hands shot into the air all over the place. The Teigs. The Stolees. Osmond Chelsvig. I scanned the bus.
All
my group was volunteering. Even Nana. Whoa! This was a switch. Normally, they were so preoccupied with being punctual that they devoted most of their vacation time to checking their watches and queuing up at the bus a half a day ahead of time. Philip Blackmore had read them like books. They might have homespun values, but that didn’t mean they were immune to a little well-placed flattery.
    “Well, this is wonderfully encouraging,” Philip said, obviously delighted with the number of hands inviting him to
pick me, pick me.
“I didn’t expect so many volunteers. But your willingness creates something of a dilemma for me.”
    “No dilemma about it,” insisted Osmond Chelsvig, who slowly unfolded himself from his seat and stepped into the aisle to issue instructions. Osmond was still president of Windsor City’s electoral board despite advancing age, arthritis, double hearing aids, and the fact that he was the only person outside of Massachusetts who’d voted for George McGovern back in ’72. “We gotta be democratic and do this by secret ballot. Listen