The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [3]
Finally, Norton turned and said, “How are your folks? Still farming?”
“Still farming.” Simon smiled. “Still doing hand-to-hand combat with those northern Iowa winters.”
“Any thoughts of going back someday?”
“Only for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Mother’s Day. The family farm is in the capable hands of my father and my brother. Steven never wanted to do anything but farm. I knew by the time I was eight that I didn’t have a feel for it.”
“Then your family is lucky to have Steven to carry on the family business.” Norton folded his arms, one over the other, and leaned forward slightly. “So. Tell me how that book of yours is coming along.”
“Still working on it.”
“Have you been able to find an agent?”
“Still working on that, too.” Simon shrugged.
“It’s a difficult business, publishing.”
“Are you speaking as an author or as a publisher?”
“Both, actually.” Norton smiled.
“Who’s your agent?” Simon asked, one side of his mouth edging into a half grin.
Norton laughed. “Actually, I do have an agent. I’ve only published a few, very select works of my own through Brookes Press.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “What would be the point of owning a publishing company if you’re not going to publish your own books?”
“Brookes has the reputation—well earned, I am proud to say—of publishing only top-rate nonfiction. Last year’s bestseller of former U.S. Supreme Court Justice Howard Rensel, for example.” Norton stirred his tea. “Several years ago, I wrote a novel. I felt at the time that, had I published the book myself, it would have been viewed as unnecessarily self-indulgent. Which, in truth, it would have been. I was afraid of undermining the reputation that I’d worked for over the years as publisher of a small independent press. The last thing I wanted was for Brookes to be thought of as a vanity press. So I took my novel elsewhere.”
“Was it published?”
“No, it was not. Actually, I have the distinction of having been rejected by every major publishing house in New York.” Norton looked momentarily amused, then sobered. “We did, however, publish a small volume of poems my wife had written shortly before her death. They were damned good poems, and I forgave myself that bit of indulgence because they were so damned good. Elisa deserved to have those poems published.”
The death of Philip Norton’s wife, the junior senator from New Jersey, several years earlier had been ruled a suicide. Simon knew that Norton never believed it. He could not accept that his beloved Elisa had put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger, regardless of the assurances of law enforcement officers that no evidence had been found to the contrary.
Norton’s eyes drifted, then focused on the waiter who approached with a smile on his face and a salad plate in each hand.
“It’s tough to sell a first book, especially one such as yours, that deals with a controversial topic,” Norton continued after he and Simon had been served and the waiter turned his attention to the next table. “Especially one without corroboration. Some publishers might be afraid of being sued, should the story be challenged.”
“You mean, should the story be challenged and should the author refuse to reveal his confidential sources.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.” Norton met Simon’s eyes from across the table. “And I am assuming that you are still unwilling to reveal yours.”
“You assume correctly.” Simon leaned back in his chair. “I quit my job at the Washington Press rather than reveal my sources on that story. I will always do everything I can to protect them.”
“It must have been very difficult to have walked away from the newspaper,” Norton noted.
“I could not work for a paper that demanded disclosure—even to their legal department—of the identity of some poor sucker who was putting his life on the line by talking to me.” Simon’s eyes reflected the same dark pewter as the bay. “Or an editor who failed to back me up.”
“I admire your