Page 7 of By the Book

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t look away either. That’s Bobby for you.

“They’ve been calling me nonstop,” I said. “They always have questions about my work, my career, when am I going to finish this manuscript. And here’s where it gets worse: now they want to read it. Give constructive feedback. Make sure I’m headed in the right direction.”

Bobby seemed to think about that before saying, “The novel?”

I nodded.

“And you don’t want to show them.”

“No. Because if I do, they’re going to dissect it. You don’t know what they’re like. They’re insane. I mean, they’re trying to help. They think they’re helping. And everything they say will be logical and reasonable and—andcorrect. And then that’s it. Theend. The next time I try to work on that story, their voices will be inside my head. No matter what I try, that’s all I’ll hear. It’ll be ruined—trust me, it’s happened before. The only way it works is if I give it to them after it’s done.”

“Okay.” Bobby seemed to think some more. “So, don’t show them. You’re an adult. You’re entitled to your privacy, including your writing.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the plan. It’s a little trickier since they showed up unannounced and are now living under the same roof.”

It was actually slightly more complicated than that, but I wasn’t ready to tell Bobby the, uh, full extent of the situation. My parents had been supporting me financially for the last few months. They’d gotten it in their heads that the money gave them leverage. And so, until I showed them I was making an active effort to complete my manuscript, no more money. Which was why the lights were off.

But telling Bobby that would have meant: a) exposing how completely incapable I was of taking care of myself, and b) sending Bobby into Mr. Fix-It mode.

I settled for saying, “So, um, about my parents? I’m sorry?”

“It’s fine, Dash. I’m glad I get to meet them. I’m more worried about getting the power back.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

He shook his head. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

“No, Bobby, I can—”

“I’m going to do it. We’re a couple. You need help, so let me help you.”

That was exactly the last thing I wanted, but his expression was so earnest that all I could do was nod.

“Good,” Bobby said.

A knock echoed up from downstairs—and it must have been a very heavy, very determined knock to make it through those thick old walls.

He chucked me under the chin and said, “Sounds like they’re ready to set up for the auction. Shake a leg, sweetheart.”

Chapter 4

All things considered, Hemlock House was probably the perfect place for a charity auction—even with the power off. For one thing, the place was massive, capable of holding lots of people. That was a good thing, since it looked like most of the town had turned out. For another, the floor plan was perfect. The main floor consisted of a long hall, and branching off from it were the den (currently being used as my unofficial workspace), a reception room, a living room, a dining room, and a sun parlor—all connected in a way that let guests flow from one room to the next, giving them an excellent opportunity to check out all the brass globes and taxidermy hedgehogs that someone, at some point, had decided belonged in a place where people lived. At the other end of the house, the billiard room would be the location for the auction itself—the doors were locked to keep anybody from seeing all the goods that were going to be offered, which I guess was supposed to build suspense? I mean, if you could feel suspense about having the chance to bid on coupons for a free round of laser tag.

I’d never quite gotten used to the fact that I owned Hemlock House. It still caught me by surprise sometimes—in part, because it was so beautiful, and in part, because it fulfilled my childhood dream of a haunted mansion full of secret passages. With its polished hardwood floors, thick rugs, damask wallpaper, and crystal-strewn chandeliers (not to mention all the period furniture), it set the right tone for tonight’s event: elegant, suitably serious, and of course, with an emphasis on money, money, money, which was always important when you were trying to get people to open their wallets. (The joke wason them, though, since I was currently—and for the foreseeable future—as poor as a church mouse.) Because the house predated electricity, it hadn’t been hard to dig up some old lamps, kindle some fires in the enormous fireplaces, and set the mood with warm, flickering light.

Oh, one other thing I loved about having a charity auction at Hemlock House? It had the added bonus of beingmyhouse, which meant I could—if I wanted to—wander downstairs in nothing but sweats and my vintage Nintendo Power hoodie. I was serious when I told peopledon’t leave my housewas always at the top of my list of weekend plans. (Bobby, by the way, wouldn’t let me wear sweats, so I ended up in a sweater polo that I didn’t remember buying, chinos, and boat shoes I was sure I’d never seen before. I was starting to suspect Bobby had begun a home improvement project of his own.)

Plus, tonight was the first time Bobby and I had hosted an event as a couple.

Even my parents unexpectedly being there couldn’t ruin it. They were doing their usual thing: ignoring me, circulating through the crowd, shaking hands, making small talk, somehow managing to generate that special gravity that made them the center of attention. Everyone seemed to know who they were, which wasn’t exactly a surprise—Hastings Rock was a town that loved its mystery writers, and my parents had very successful careers. More…bothersome, I guess, was how charmed everyone seemed to be. Cyd Wofford had given my mom not one, not two, but three different Marxist pamphlets, and he’d practically glowed when my mom dug out one of her own from her handbag and pushed it into his hands. Dr. Xu laughed at something my parents said, and I swear to God, I’d never heard her laugh before—not even when I showed her that GIF of the drunk camel. I even heard Princess McAdams, who wasn’t a realprincess, offering to take my dad chukar hunting (cue a new personal nightmare).

The only—slight—consolation was that Pippi was following my parents everywhere, and it was clearly driving them crazy. (That’s Pippi Parker, author ofDryer Vent Dangerand the rest of the Aunt Lulu’s Laundromat series, not to mention her recent smash hit,Murder in Manuscript: My Life as a Falsely Accused New York Times-Bestselling Writer: I Didn’t Do It: The Pippi Parker Story, which was also available as a podcast written, narrated, and produced by Pippi Parker, of Pippi Parker Productions.) As I watched, my mom tried to put a settee between herself and Pippi. Pippi slipped around it, still pitching what she was calling a co-written, shared-universe, cross-world project (I had no idea what that meant), and my mom not so subtly tried to wheel a drinks cart into Pippi’s path.

“Should I do something about that?” Bobby asked as he joined me.

He looked like a total snack, in case you’re wondering: some fancy sneakers (all I knew was that they were Adidas), chinos, and a denim shirt that was such a light blue that in the lamplight, it looked almost white. He had the sleeves cuffed to his elbows. I wondered if I could drag him into a convenient, uh—where did Victorian damsels drag their snacks? The scullery?

At that moment, my mom darted through a group of spectators who were currently bedazzled by Mr. Cheek (of Fog Belt Ladies Wear) and his top-to-tail sequin suit. She managed to lose Pippi, but several of Mr. Cheek’s audience looked none too happy at the interruption.

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