Page 29 of By the Book

My momdidsmile then—hard, unamused—but all she said was “Tell me about your current project.”

“I already said I’m not going to—”

“I’m not asking about the plot.” When I didn’t respond, she asked, “Is it a Will Gower story?”

Several seconds passed.

I said, “Yes.”

“Did you decide who he is? Or is that too close to telling me the plot?”

I had to wrestle with the strangely childlike desire to refuse to answer. A part of me thought that this was a trick—that slowly but surely, asking a million questions, she’d get everything out of me. But I’d heard my mom and dad have this type of conversation with fellow writers hundreds of times. And in spite of my annoyance, I was also, well, thrilled that she was talking to me like a colleague. Talking to me at all, actually, instead of holed up in her writing garret, lost in her own world, or off to New York to meet with her agent, or taking a trip with Dad, just the two of them, because it was a writers’ conference.

“He’s a private investigator,” I said.

“How long is it going to be?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t finished it.”

The slight blip of her silence was the only indication of her surprise.

“How did your release go?” I asked. The question was only a formality;Is My Son Real?had made it to number two on theNew York Timesbestseller list, and the publisher had sent Mom on tour for a month to promote it. “Congratulations on the starred reviews.”

My mom waved my words away. “The tour was a disaster.”

“What? Why?”

“What genre is it?”

“Noir.” Honesty compelled me to add, “Ish. Wait, why was your tour a disaster?”

“I collapsed backstage on theTodayshow,” my mom said, like she was telling me she had a headache. “Al Roker tried to give me mouth to mouth, not that I needed it. If only I wrote horror. What do you mean ‘ish’? Is this a cross-genre story? Are you doing that fantasy angle we talked about? When cross-genre hits, it hits big.”

“You collapsed? Oh my God, are you okay?”

“What’s your timeline on this project?”

“Mom.”

“I’m fine. You’re still in the drafting stage, right? So, you might have something for Phil to look at by…December? Hold on, let me text him.”

“Did you see a doctor? What did they say?”

She tapped and swiped at her phone’s screen.

“Mom!”

But she didn’t respond until her phone buzzed. “He thinks he could read it the week between Christmas and New Year’s.” The phone buzzed again. “Oh, right. I forgot—Phil’s coming to the farm for a few days after Christmas. I assume you and Bobby will be there, so you can give him the manuscript in person.”

Would Bobby and I be there? I had no idea. I mean, Bobby and I hadn’t talked about holidays yet. Would Bobby want me to spend the holidays with him? We’d only been dating for a couple of months—was it too soon?

The phone buzzed again. “Phil wants to know if it’s under ninety thousand words. I’ll tell him yes, shall I? We can always cut it down. I assume it’s the beginning of a series, correct? You’ll want a three-book deal to start, minimum.” The phonebuzzed again, and she gave a little laugh. “Phil said the exact same thing.”

“Will you stop talking about the book? I don’t want to talk about the book. I want to talk about what’s going on with you. Did you see a doctor?”

My mom looked at me, and I had a disorienting moment when I realized I recognized the expression on her face—because it was the same expression I got on my face when I dug my heels in. (Fox had once, memorably, described it asa badger trying not to do-do, and let me tell you, Keme had laughed for a week.)

“Yes,” my mom said. “I saw a doctor. He was useless. Are you up for a quick chat with Phil? He wants to make sure the project is commercially viable, and I realize now you never answered my question about the genre.”

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