Page 59 of By the Book

“Tell me what?” I asked.

“It’s more of a business conversation,” my dad said. “Bobby, do you have siblings?”

Bobby opened his mouth, but I said, “I’m not showing you my manuscript. If that’s what this is about, we don’t need to have a ‘business conversation.’” (And yes, for the record, I was petty enough to make the air quotes with my fingers.) “Bobby and I have already talked about our finances, and we’ve got everything figured out.”

“Tell him,” my mom said again. It was impossible to read the note in her voice.

My dad didn’t look at her, but he drew a breath, his fork and knife hovering about his plate of bruschetta. He set down the flatware and said, “Phil got an offer today from an editor at Black Hat—that’s a new imprint at Simon & Schuster.” He moved his napkin in his lap and said, “For your book.”

Bobby tensed next to me.

I said, “What?”

“They made an offer on your book,” my mom said. “And it’s good, Dashiell. It’s very generous. Great terms.”

“They can’t make an offer on my book. I haven’t finished writing it. It doesn’t even have a title.” I could hear the wandering train of my thoughts and tried to bring myself back on track. “How could they make an offer on it?” And then a thought occurred to me. “Did you get into my files?”

“This is what I’m talking about,” my mom said to my dad. “The neuroticism. The paranoia.”

“Of course not,” my dad said in answer to my question. “But Phil talked you up. He knows how talented you are. He showed them the short stories you’ve gotten published, and they were excited to add you to their list.”

I shook my head. It didn’t make sense, but at the same time, it didn’t seem to be a joke. My mom was beaming. My dad wore a kind of rueful excitement. Next to me, Bobby was so still he was carved from stone.

“And your father doesn’t even have to be involved,” my mom said. “There’s no royalty share, no copyright issues. It’s only for the marketing.”

“What?”

“We should have champagne,” my mom said. She raised her hand, trying to catch our waiter’s attention. “Bobby, please tell me you drink champagne.”

“Wait, what about Dad?” I asked. I turned my attention to my dad. “What’s going on?”

“They want to slap my name on the cover,” my dad said. “It’s no big deal.”

It took several seconds for the words to sink in. Bobby put his hand on my thigh. My mom was still trying to flag down a server.

“They want your name to be on the cover,” I said.

“Both our names. Things are really tight for new authors, kiddo. They want to be sure they’re making a good investment, and they think people are more likely to buy a book from a new author if they see a familiar name on the cover. That’s what your mom was saying: it’s still going to be your book.”

“Doesn’t anybody work in this restaurant?” my mom asked. She lowered her hand and turned her attention back to the rest of us. “It’s the perfect first step. Tell him, Jonny.”

I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that they wanted to put my dad’s name on the cover of my book. I could see it. See what it would look like.Jonny Danewould be writtenin huge letters—bigger even than the title. And then, in a tiny addition,Writing with Dashiell Dane.

Some mechanical part of me tried to work through the logic of the decision. Big-name authors were known to do this—they used their own platform to launch writing careers for their spouses or their children. Sometimes it worked, and the spouse or child went on to independent success. A lot of the time, though, it didn’t. I thought about one of my dad’s readers seeing his name on the book and picking it up, expecting to get three hundred pages of Talon Maverick-style butt-kicking. And instead, they’d get Will Gower, the cozy noir detective who struggled to make the right decision when faced with the complex realities of justice and mercy, innocence and guilt, good and evil. Talon Maverick had once used his gun to shoot the outline of a door in the drywall and then kick it down. Will Gower made tea for a man who had killed his tenants by accident. There was a chance that, lurking among my dad’s bloodthirsty readership, some percentage of them would also enjoy Will Gower’s philosophical tenterhooks. But it would be the minority. A small minority.

I was still trying to make sense of the decision, of the fact that they’d done all of this without even talking to me, when my dad’s words penetrated my fog.

“—take over the Talon Maverick series,” my dad was saying, and the words were matter of fact, as though this were a reminder rather than new information. “That’s why we were talking about you moving back. I know everyone collaborates online these days, but your mom and I still prefer paper.” He smiled. “But we can figure it out if you want to stay here. These old dogs can still learn a trick or two.”

Bobby was looking at me, the earthy bronze of his eyes so intent it felt like a question. My mom had her hand in the airagain, trying to snag another server. My dad was finishing his old fashioned.

There were so many things going through my head that I said the first one that popped out. “I don’t want to write the Talon Maverick series.”

“Why not?” my mom asked. “It’s perfect, Dashiell. You’re an excellent storyteller—you just get bogged down in all the decisions. This way, you won’t have to make any decisions. The character is set. You know how the plots work. If you wanted to, you could introduce a spinoff character after a few books. But Talon Maverick is Talon Maverick—with your dad helping you, the books would practically write themselves.”

A few tables over, they were singing happy birthday to an elderly woman wearing alotof bangles. Candles flickered on a cake, and it made my vision feel swimmy. I blinked, but it didn’t help. On the other side of the glass, the sun had almost set. The last light of day puddled at the horizon like an oil spill, and everywhere else, lights twinkled in the dark. They had the same blurry quality as the candles. I rubbed my eyes, but that didn’t help either.

I was proud of myself for managing to keep my voice even as I said, “I’m not going to write the Talon Maverick books. And I’m not going to sign a contract that puts Dad’s name on my book.”

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