Free Looking for a Love Story by Louise Shaffer Page B

emails to strangers hoping to convince them that I alone could edit/write/ghostwrite their blog/brochure/Great American Novel. I wrote emails that were breezy and light. Nada. I tried to make my pitch more businesslike. Zilch. I pimped myself shamelessly, sending out copies of my best reviews. Nothing. No one responded to my emails. I didn’t get a nibble.
    Unfortunately, I understood why. Even I didn’t think I was equipped to write an online magazine article about the advantages of eating algae or a daily post about the sexiest hot spots in Brooklyn.I was wondering how much longer I could pay my cable bill when the phone rang.
    “Hi,” said a masculine voice. “Are you the Francesca Sewell who wrote that book about the dog? Because I’d like to talk to you about a job.”
    After I scraped myself off the ceiling, I learned that his name was Brandon Bourne. But he wasn’t going to be my new boss. Her name was Eleanor Masters. She was in her eighties, and Brandon was an orderly in the assisted-living facility where she resided. “But don’t worry,” he reassured me. “Ms. Masters is as sharp as a tack. And she’s very motivated about this biography she’s hiring you to write.”
    “Terrific,” I said, while I racked my brain for the name Masters and drew a blank. “That is so … absolutely … terrific.” Not only was Ms. Masters herself not ringing any bells, this biography had blended into the mass of jobs I’d tried to snag. But now, clearly, I had to identify it. Quickly.
    “Um … remind me again. Which website did Ms. Masters advertise on?” I ventured. “Was it Ghosts Are Us dot-com?”
    “Actually, we responded to the post on your website.” The voice on the other end was starting to sound a little perturbed.
    “Right, right!” I said enthusiastically, even more in the dark than before. I could have sworn that there weren’t any responses. “Of course! And I’m so glad you did. Because I’m sure Ms.—um—Masters and I will have a … very productive … fun … experience, working together.”
    There was a pause. “I have to tell you, Ms. Masters decided to hire you for this memoir because, when you answered her emails, she felt you had already made a strong emotional investment in the story,” Brandon said—a bit severely, I thought.
    I struggled to recall whatever College Bullshit 101 I’d slung.“Well, she sounds like a charmer,” I said. Then I could have kicked myself—with my luck, the woman was half gaga.
    To my relief, Brandon laughed heartily. “I don’t know about that, but she sure is a character,” he said.
    “Absolutely. That’s what I meant,” I said, with a hearty laugh of my own. “So remind me, Brandon, how much is she paying again? In all the … excitement about her project, I’m afraid I forgot to write down the fee.”
    “It’s fifteen thousand.”
    It wasn’t anywhere near my advance for Love, Max , but I’d been trolling for jobs long enough to know that it was generous for a freelance gig. Still, I had to swallow hard. Then I remembered how much I wanted to keep my cable. I’d gotten addicted to the CSI shows.
    “When do I start?” I asked.

CHAPTER 8
    Yorkville House for Senior Living was on the Upper East Side. From the street it looked like one of those inexpensive small hotels that Europeans used to book themselves into when they visited the city—before the global economy did its kamikaze dive.
    The Yorkville House lobby was furnished with cushy chairs upholstered in shades of blue and gold; there were brass sconces on the walls and a matching chandelier hanging overhead; and full-length gold drapes hung in the bay windows. You could imagine you really were in an old-world hotel until you saw the wheelchair ramp and the rubber runners laid out on the carpet.
    There was a huge desk in the front of the lobby, where a young woman was answering phones, sorting mail, and chatting with an elderly lady with a cane. Somewhere in the background