“What is this?” I asked Rutherford.
“It’s a treasure map,” Rutherford said. “Mr. Ammon is a history buff.”
That had my full attention. This could be the map.
“It doesn’t look like a treasure map,” I said. “It’s round.”
“Yes, yes, that’s the amazing part of it. It’s unique. And so far it hasn’t given up its treasure, but Mr. Ammon has hopes of cracking the code someday. High hopes.”
Hot damn, am I good or what? I only just got here and I might have located the map.
On the other side, the room opened onto a porch with a spectacular view of the Atlantic. Martin Ammon was on the porch. He had a dazzling white smile, which was the result of either superior breeding or superior dentistry. His eyes were an unsettling pale blue in a narrow spray-tanned face. His frizzed bleached-blond hair was carefully combed over his balding head. His online biography placed him at fifty-two. He was slim and about five foot six in his expensive Italian leather boots. He was dressed in a gray suit, the jacket thrown casually over a wicker chair. In his tailored vest and blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looked like a movie star between takes. More Christopher Walken than George Clooney.
Ammon was standing beside a glass-topped bistro table. A stack of dog-eared pages that I feared was my manuscript was on the table. Even from a distance I could see there was so much red ink on the top page that it looked like fresh roadkill.
“Thank you for making the trip out here,” he said. “I have an office in Salem, but I rarely use it. I find it more efficient and enjoyable to work from Cupiditas.”
“No problem. This is an incredible house. I can understand why you wouldn’t want to leave it.”
“Truth is, I’m only here sporadically. It was fortunate that your manuscript was brought to my attention while I was in residence.”
My heart did a flip. He said it was fortunate! That was good!
“So you like my book!” I said.
He looked down at the pages on the table. “No, I hate it. Actually I despise it. I thought it was ridiculous. The whole concept of it. Who wants to see hot guys cooking? I don’t. Guys don’t. Women don’t. They want to see someone like themselves cooking.”
I’d had my share of rejections with this project, but they all paled in comparison to this. This was like getting hit in the face with a frying pan. The heck with the map and the diary and saving the world…this was freaking insulting. I sucked in some air and made an attempt to steady my voice.
“Let me see if I have this straight,” I said. “You brought me here to tell me you hated my book?”
“Yes, the book is trash.”
He picked the manuscript up and heaved the pages over the railing, off into space. They fluttered in the breeze for a moment and then swirled gracefully to the ground in a paper blizzard. Rutherford and two housekeepers in gray dresses and white aprons ran out onto the lawn, gathered the pages up, and shoved them into garbage bags. I watched in frozen horror, and within minutes it was as if there had never been a manuscript at all.
“Uh, gosh,” I said.
“Much better,” Ammon said. “Now we can start fresh. I don’t want the book, but I do want you. I hated the concept, but I love your writing. You have a way of bringing cooking to life. It’s delightful. It’s conversational. It’s funny. It’s sexy. It’s like we’re right there in the kitchen with you, watching you create wickedly delicious dishes. I want you to start over with a new idea. We’re not going to publish just a book…we’re going to publish you. We’re going to push Lizzy Tucker as a brand. Lizzy Tucker is going to be the new millennium’s Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray and Julia Child all rolled into one.”
“That’s a lot to roll into one.”
“That’s just the beginning. We’re going to put you on television worldwide. You’ll be more famous than Santa Claus.”
“I don’t think I want to be more famous than Santa Claus. And to tell you the truth, I don’t know if I have the time to write a new cookbook.”
“It’s not just about cooking. If you don’t have time to start over I’ll hire someone to do it for you. This is going to be about Lizzy Tucker laundry baskets, and Lizzy Tucker crockpots, and Lizzy Tucker wine. I own a vineyard in New Zealand that’s begging for a brand.”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“I’ll give you a five-hundred-thousand-dollar advance.”
I went thumbs-up. “Let’s get started.”
—
Martin Ammon looked at his watch. “I have an hour before I have to get dressed for a dinner engagement,” he said. “We can use the time to review your life story. My publicity and marketing department has already laid the groundwork of a bright young woman who goes to the big city and enrolls in a prestigious cooking school only to drop out due to sexual harassment.”
“Actually I graduated and there was no sexual harassment.”