The Other Black Girl(47)

“So, tell me, Nella,” Richard said, “what made you decide to get into publishing?”

Nella considered the rehearsed speech she’d given Vera a few days earlier about her love of reading and writing and how books could make the biggest difference in a young person’s world. Go with that speech You know that one so well.

“Honestly… I’m kind of obsessed with Kendra Rae Phillips and Burning Heart.”

Her quick words slipped out unexpectedly. Surprise washed across Richard’s face, followed by amusement. He took a sip of tea before staring wordlessly at her once more.

Nella cowered, immediately hating herself for doing so. His eyes were just too damn bright, that piercing, artificial kind of bright that belonged in science fiction movies, and she longed for some sort of distraction.

“You’ve heard of her?” he finally asked.

Nella nodded excitedly. “Burning Heart made me fall in love with reading.”

“Mmm. Well, I actually turned down the opportunity to edit that book,” Richard confessed. “I loved the early draft I read—I knew it was going to be huge!—but the moment I heard Kendra Rae had the slightest bit of interest in working on it herself, I stepped out. I knew Kendra Rae would be the better editor for Diana.”

“Really? Wow. I always thought Kendra Rae discovered her.” Nella assessed the skin on his forehead and in between his eyebrows. She’d pegged him as fiftysomething, but Burning Heart had been published in 1983, putting him into his mid-seventies at least. “That’s pretty cool of you, stepping aside.”

“Yes. I knew Kendra Rae really was something then.”

He rested his gaze on a small rubber plant that was on the corner of his desk, an impression of some kind of memory splashed across his face. Her cup of tea was burning her fingers, but now that his eyes had found something else to occupy them, she felt bold enough to say, “You must really miss her.”

Richard’s head snapped up. He cleared his throat. Confusion looked strange on someone of his stature, but Nella was certain that yes, it was in the look he was giving her. “Yes. I mean, she’s not—she’s still—”

“I didn’t mean—sorry, I—” Nella closed her mouth, opening it only when she knew it was useless trying to convince him she hadn’t meant to imply that she believed Kendra Rae Phillips was dead. “Just the fact that she’s been keeping to herself for so long…”

Richard lifted his tea to his lips and blew a small puff of air across the top. “Maybe for the best. The spotlight, you know. Some people can’t handle it, and she… it was clear she was starting to snap. Even Diana, her longtime friend, vouched for that.”

Nella didn’t know what else to do but agree, although what Richard meant by “snap,” she wasn’t entirely sure. She remembered reading something about Diana saying Kendra Rae had had some kind of “break,” but hadn’t been able to verify it.

“Now, enough of that. We’re here to talk about you. Tell me about you.”

Nella smiled. “I’m not sure there’s too much to say,” she said. “I’m from Connecticut, and I lived there for about eighteen years, until…”

She petered off, fully aware that Richard had grimaced when she’d said “Connecticut.” The state often evoked strong reactions from people, but his weird, just-bit-down-on-a-lemon-seed look seemed a bit too dramatic—even for a man in navy-blue-and-kelly-green striped pants. “Is everything okay?” Nella asked.

Richard sprang up. “Yes. Yes. I’m—I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone, “but my phone started ringing a moment ago. I was trying to ignore it, but I think I should really take this. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“Oh! Of course.” Nella put down her cup and started to stand. “I’ll just wait out in—”

“Oh, no, no. Please, you stay. I’ll be back in a minute, no more than three. So sorry.”

She waved him off. “It’s no problem at all. Take as much time as you need.” Richard bowed before ducking out of his office. A moment later, a clear and flustered “Hi, yes” floated from down the hall, but the remainder of his words were swallowed by the distance he’d put between them.

Nella exhaled. She was relieved and glad to be alone for a few moments; it meant she could finally take a good look around. She’d been able to process the furniture, but the walls had too many items peppered across them—a few dozen, at least—for her to sneak more than just a flyover glance.

But now, Richard was gone. And she was feeling emboldened. Not emboldened enough not to cast a glance toward the door, but emboldened enough to sidestep the coffee table and walk a few paces over to the left wall. She let her eye fall on a framed piece of paper that, judging by its typewritten text, was as old as she was. Maybe older. A closer assessment told her she was right. The letter, only two paragraphs long, was dated November 1, 1979, and was addressed To my editor, my friend, and my brother, without whom I would be nothing.

Nella skipped over the rest of it—with a salutation like that, what else did she need to see?—and read the signature. It belonged to a Nobel Peace Prize winner whose obituary she recalled reading only a few months ago. Alright, Richard, she thought, impressed. So you really are a big deal. Noted.