Page 29 of The Love Interest
I’ll call him after my coffee.
I need to arm myself with caffeine before conversing with Graham Ford. Beloved chronicler of the secret emotional turmoil of Protestant upper middle–class Connecticut suburbanites. Winner of multiple literary awards including two Pulitzers and a National Book Award for fiction, regular contributor toThe New Yorker, esteemed literary critic, Professor Emeritus of the University of New York Creative Writing Department, husband of renowned sculptor Gwen Ford, proud grandfather of Bettina Bixby, father of former attorney Celeste Ford-Bixby, and politely disappointed father of brokenhearted bachelor Emmett Ford.
I love my father. He’s a good man. But it’s hard to be the son of a great man, especially when you’re in the same field as he is. The last time I had dinner with my parents—one month ago—I still hadn’t started my manuscript, hadn’t written a word in two months, hadn’t dated anyone I’d actually liked even a little bit in years. So, he had my mother text me the number of a therapist. When I replied that I had started writing again, my mother asked if I wanted her to beta read for me. Which meant did I want my dad to beta read for me, because my mother is too busy creating pieces for her next gallery exhibit. When I declined, she sent me a link to the Facebook profile of the daughter of my dad’s tennis partner. That’s how it goes in my family.
So, if Graham Ford is calling me directly, it’s important. I’ll need two cups of coffee first.
Three cups of coffee later, I call my dad back, and he picks up on the first ring.
“Emmett?”
“Yes. Hello.”
“Are you free to talk now?”
“Yes. That’s why I called you. What’s up?”
“You remember my old friend Tom Delancey? He used to come over to the house a lot when you were little.”
The guy who won the PEN/Faulkner Award two years ago—yeah, I know who he is.“I remember him, of course.”
“He’s the chair of the Creative Writing Department at UNY now, and he called me yesterday afternoon, in a bit of a jam. I would have called you yesterday, but we had to attend a banquet at Yale and I figured you were writing when we got home… How’s the new book coming along?”
“It’s coming along just fine, thanks.”
“Good. Your mother would be happy to read it if you ever need a second pair of eyes.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Anyway, Tom called me for advice, and I thought of you. One of his visiting professors suddenly had to drop out due to a high-risk pregnancy. He needs someone to replace her for the upcoming year. It’s two graduate-level fiction classes. A workshop and a craft course. Same classes I used to teach. I think it would inspire you to be around aspiring writers, as it did me, and you’d be among illustrious writers on the faculty… I think it would be very good for you.”
Translation: If you do this, I can finally brag about you to my colleagues.
“Well, I’m honored that you thought of me.”
“Both classes are at three in the afternoon, so it shouldn’t alter your schedule too much. I know you’re up against a deadline, but so is everyone else on the faculty. You wouldn’t have to do any advising. It’s just the two courses, two semesters.”
“Uh-huh. Starting when?”
“Next week. There’s nothing you’d need to do to prepare other than attend the new-faculty orientation. Tom’s available to have dinner with you tonight at eight. He can answer any other questions you might have. I really think it would be very good for you, son.”
Jesus. He means business when he repeats himselfandcalls me “son.”
“The job’s as good as yours. Obviously, you’d be doing my old friend a favor, but it’s an honor. You were the first and only author I thought of when he called.”
I don’t know if it’s pathetic or not, how good it feels to hear this. I’ve already made as much money as he has in his entire career, but all I ever wanted was for Graham Ford to be proud of me. That and to somehow keep Sophie alive. I can’t fail atbothof those things.
The only downside I can think of right now is that I’ll have to cancel dinner with Fiona tonight. But there’s always tomorrow. Or later tonight.
“I really appreciate this, Dad. I’d love to meet Tom for dinner.”
“Great. I’ll have his secretary call you. He lives uptown, I think.” I hear my mother’s voice in the background. “Oh right. Your mother read another article about the health risks of sitting all day, so she wants you to get a Fitbit.”
“I’m not doing that, but at least I can walk to UNY.”
“Good point. Well, I have to get back to this book review forVogue.”
“I’ll let you go, then.”
