Grand Passion

Cleo said weakly. She retreated another step.
    Tom followed. “He's a computer nerd on earth, so when he's caught in this weird world run by magic, he's really confused for a while.”
    It dawned on Cleo that Tom the stock boy had no interest at all in The Mirror . Convinced he had found a soul mate, he was going to regale her with the plot of his entire book right there in front of the dairy case.
    “And then he meets this character who's like a sorcerer, y'know…”
    “Interesting,” Cleo said. She inched back down the aisle, aware of Max's silent amusement. Tom followed her every step of the way.
    “Then there's this other sorcerer who's like crazy, y'know? He's discovered some new law of magic. I haven't quite decided what that's going to be yet, but whatever it is, it threatens the whole alternate world…”
    “That's absolutely fascinating,” Cleo said. She glanced at her watch. “I'd love to hear the rest, but I've really got to run.”
    “Huh?” Engrossed in his tale, Tom frowned, puzzled. “Oh, sure. Look, maybe I could stop by the inn sometime and tell you the rest?”
    “We'll see.” Cleo turned and fled toward the checkout counter. She did not look back to see if Max was following.
    The gray-haired woman at the checkout counter smiled broadly. “Oh, hello, Cleo. Heard someone's been making a nuisance of himself because you wrote a book. I didn't know you were a writer.”
    “I've only had one book published so far,” Cleo muttered. She set the milk down on the counter.
    “That's all right, dear, I'm sure you'll write some more. You know, I haven't read a book in years. Just never had the time, what with TV and all. Milk?”
    “Yes, please, Ernestine.”
    “Thought you got dairy deliveries out there at the inn.”
    Cleo groped for an explanation as Max arrived at the counter. “Ran short.”
    “Oh.” Ernestine whisked the milk through the checkout routine. “You know you and I should get together one of these days.”
    “We should?”
    Ernestine beamed. “I could tell you all about my family history. You could write a book about it. I'm sure people would want to read it. Some real fascinating stuff in my family's history. Did I ever tell you that one of my relatives came out West on a wagon train?”
    “I don't believe you ever mentioned it, Ernestine.”
    “That was Sarah Hill Montrose, I believe.” Ernestine assumed a contemplative look. “Her story would make a terrific book. Then there was my great-grandfather, Morton Montrose. He used to farm over in Eastern Washington. Raised turkeys, too. Used to tell the funniest stories about those birds. Dumb as bricks, they are.”
    “Is that right?” Cleo looked at her milk, which was standing forgotten on the counter.
    “Eugene Montrose, that's my grandfather, was probably the most interesting of the lot. He fished.”
    “You don't say. Could I please have my milk, Ernestine?”
    “What's that?” Ernestine glanced down at the milk. “Oh, yes. The milk. Here, I'll put it in a bag for you.” She stuffed the milk into a sack.
    “Thanks.” Cleo snatched up the milk, aware that Max's eyes were brilliant with laughter. “See you around, Ernestine.”
    “Just let me know when you've got time to write that book about my family,” Ernestine said cheerfully. “I've got lots of old newspaper clippings and photos and such.”
    “I'll let you know if I ever get a free minute,” Cleo promised. “But I'm pretty busy these days.”
    She was halfway out the door, with Max still following faithfully behind her, when another familiar figure loomed in her path. Cleo was forced to come to a halt. She clutched the milk close and smiled weakly.
    “Hello, Adrian.”
    Adrian Forrester glowered at her from beneath dark brows. He had a large manila envelope in his hand. “Heard you had a book published.”
    “Yes, I did.” Cleo glanced uneasily at the envelope he was holding. She was afraid she knew what was inside. She'd received her share of rejections before she'd sold The Mirror .
    “I suppose you had an agent?” Adrian demanded.
    “Well, no, I didn't although I'm thinking of getting one for the next book.”
    “Know someone in publishing?”
    “Uh, no. I didn't know anyone, Adrian. I just sent the manuscript off to a lot of different publishers, and someone finally bought it.”
    “So you just got lucky.”
    “Right,” Cleo said. “I just got lucky.”
    “It's because you're writing women's stuff,” Adrian said in an