Page 34 of A Novel Summer
Somehow, she’d forgotten about it. After years and years of attending book readings, she had lost track of who she’d seen in person. Back in school, going to hear authors speak was something they did together all the time. Their other friends would be out drinking and the two of them would be in line to meet Alice Hoffman.
“You should come to the reading,” Shelby said. “We can all go out to dinner after.”
Hunter’s eyes lit up. “Sure! Okay. Sounds good.”
Shelby smiled. Between the baby shower, book events, and keeping Colleen company, maybe they’d spend enough quality time together that summer to get close to where they used to be.
Twenty-Five
After a fruitless weekend reading submissions for Seaport Press, Hunter decided she couldn’t spend all summer just waiting for a good manuscript to drop into her lap. And she had an idea: What if she took Anders Fleming’s creative writing class to scout for talent? If she discovered the next Jennifer Egan, Seaport Press would go from a somewhat obscure press to a major player. And she’d be its star editor.
It was a long shot. But she felt hopeful walking into the Fine Arts Work Center building on Pearl Street, where Anders stood in the front of a lecture room greeting people as they filed in. He seemed to nod in her direction, and she wondered if he recognized her from meeting on the street. She purposefully didn’t tell Shelby about running into Anders. There wasn’t anything really to tell, but for some reason she didn’t want to even mention it.
Planning the baby shower with Shelby gave her mixed feelings. It was the right thing to do for Colleen, but she was unnerved by how utterly natural it felt. It was like she’d never stopped spending time with Shelby in the first place, as if nothing had ever changed. She needed to remind herself not to let her guard down. It was just a détente, not a friendship renewal.
“Welcome, everyone, to the exquisite endeavor we call creative writing,” Anders announced. He wore khaki pants, a blue button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and brown loafers, and tortoiseshell glasses. His British accent seemed more pronounced than when she’d spoken to him on the street.
“I’m honored to embark on this literary journey with all of you. Over the course of this class, we’ll plunder the depths of our imaginations and harness the magic of words. In this class, there are no limits to your creativity. We’ll learn to evoke vivid landscapes, breathe life into unforgettable characters, and craft narratives that transport readers into worlds of our choosing. But remember: the essence of all good writing already lies within you: your life experience.”
As he went on to speak about story craft, she realized that studying creative writing would boost her editing skills, a benefit she hadn’t considered when she registered.
After class, she waited for everyone else to leave and walked up to him. He was shuffling papers into a worn leather briefcase.
“Ms. Dillworth,” he said, looking up. Hearing her name on his lips gave her a rush.
“I decided to take the class.”
“So I see,” he said with a kind smile.
“I can tell already it’s going to be amazing,” she said. “But I have some questions that are more related to publishing than the craft of writing itself.”
“Well, I hope whatever you’re looking to get out of it, that I have something to offer.”
“I’m sure you do. And actually, I wanted to ask you few questions that are sort of outside the realm of the curriculum here. Do you have time for coffee?”
“Now?”
She nodded. He consulted the steel watch around his wrist. “Sure. But I do have an early dinner so just a quick chat.”
“Very quick,” she said.
The nearest café was the Wired Puppy. They ordered at the counter and Anders paid for the lattes even when she tried to insist that she had invited him out. The tables were taken so they sat outside on a wooden bench painted red. It was a busy corner, and with all the foot traffic, she wondered if anyone would notice him. And then she realized people were, in fact, looking at him. But she couldn’t tell if it was because they recognized him, or if his rakish handsomeness simply caught their eye.
On the way over, he told her he was going to be teaching a semester at Harvard in the fall. “You’re not one of the Boston Dillworths, are you?”
“No,” she said, looking away. The lie could be quickly dispelled with one look at Wikipedia, but she doubted he’d give her that much thought.
One of the town librarians passed by on her bike and gave him a wave. Anders checked his watch again.
“Thanks for taking a minute to talk,” she said. “I’m in your class probably for a different reason than everyone else. I’m an editor, not a writer. I’m looking for manuscripts to publish—not trying to write one myself.”
“Oh. That’s interesting. Where do you work?”
“Seaport Press. My boss is hosting your reading with Land’s End.”
“Ah, Duke Nestley. Wonderful chap. How long have you worked there?”
“Just this summer. I’m hoping to get a job at a larger publisher in the fall. Actually, I used to work at your publisher, Malaprop. But I got laid off in the spring.”
