Chapter 31Ruth nervously pressed the extension number on the handset. A few faint rings and clicks threw her into a no-man’s-land of saxophone tootling.
Another click and Mable Shand came on the line. “Are you sitting down, dearie?” The sixty-something literary agent with the lilac, hairspray-cemented granny perm spoke with secretive urgency.
Ruth pulled up the blinds to let the misty noontime in and leaned out the window for some air—however exhaust-fume laden it was. She wouldn’t dare when Noah was in the room, sleeping or otherwise, but Nili had taken the baby with her to the greengrocer this morning after seeing the children off to school.
“I’m at my desk,” Ruth lied. “And at your beck and call. Not quite fresh as a daisy, but done with the editing.”
“You finished A Last Foreword?”
