"You sound as if you know who these people are," Shelley said when Jane rhapsodized about one of the additional speakers — a woman named Taylor Kensington, who wrote superb romantic suspense.

"Not to say 'know' for real. I admit I've been subscribing to a publishing magazine ever since I started this novel. I've kept track of names and reputations."

"How so?"

"There are columns about big sales of manuscripts every week or two. The magazine sometimes knows, and tells, the amount of advance paid. They always name the publisher, the author, and the agent who sold the work. Lots are nonfiction, of course."

"Advance? You mean they give a writer money before the book even comes out in the bookstores?"

"Of course. Sometimes they give advances without anything but a concept that hasn't even been written yet."

"You're kidding! I've got a lot to learn about this, I guess."

"The terms of the contracts are often interesting, too. I wouldn't let you see one, however. Nor would I show it to an ordinary attorney for fear he or she would have a stroke."

"Why is that?"

"It's something they'd know nothing about and think was indentured servitude, I understand. That's why writers need agents who are used to the weirdness of publishing contracts. I hope there will be some seminars on contracts."

"You will show me the contract!" Shelley exclaimed.

"Not until I understand the rules well enough to explain them. Oh, Shelley, I may not ever see one at all, you know."

The conference was to start on Thursday, and the Monday before, Jane set out for the grocery store early with a long list of things her two remaining children living at home could eat while she was gone. Shelley was just coming home from some errands.

"You're not letting your mother-in-law take care of them this time?" Shelley asked.