By the Book (The Last Picks #7)

Chapter 15

The Breakwater was one of Hastings Rock’s fanciest restaurants—which meant, of course, that I’d never eaten there. It sat on the waterfront, and although it was too new to have ever been a warehouse or a factory, it had been built to suggest a glammed-up industrial aesthetic. It was the right size and shape to fit in with the older buildings, but instead of corrugated panels, it had new-looking vinyl siding and a fieldstone veneer. You know, because you were dining upscale.

Inside, it was all dark steel and lightly stained wood, with a wall of windows that looked out on the harbor. Pendant lights with caged bulbs hung overhead, just bright enough to push back the darkness and lay a golden patina over everything—the utensils, the glasses, the little touches of brass meant to ornament the space. At this time of year, with tourist season in full swing, every table was full, and voices blended with the sounds of people enjoying a nice meal. The air smelled like lemon and fried fish and the brine of the water. I had the feeling I was going to need wine—a lot of wine—to get through the evening.

My mom gave her name to the hostess, and a moment later, we were being ushered toward a table against the wall of windows. Bobby said hi to a few people he knew, and I nodded a smile and reveled in the fact that Bobby was holding my hand. He cleaned up good, in case you were wondering: a polo, a pair of black jeans, pristinely white sneakers. I’d been planning on wearing one of my old Sonic the Hedgehog tees and my Mexico 66s, mostly because I knew it would drive my mom crazy. Bobby must have known, because all he’d done was hand me a button- up, a pair of nice shorts, and my chukkas. I decided I was glad one of us could act like an adult. My parents had dressed up too, and they kept the conversation light and minimal on the drive over. But something was off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the vibe was somewhere between business-meeting - about-your-allowance and breaking-bad-news-in-public-so-you-don’t-make-a-scene , like they were about to tell me my goldfish had gone to the great toilet in the sky.

We sat. We ordered drinks. My dad got an old fashioned. My mom had water. Bobby got a Rock Top—their summer ale. I settled on a mojito. It seemed like a long time ago that I would have ordered a gimlet without really thinking about it. I caught a smile on Bobby’s face, and I knew, without him saying anything, he’d thought the same thing. Once the appetizers had been ordered, a lull came, and everyone took a drink. So far, so good, I thought. Now if we could just get through the next hour and change without anyone saying anything.

Of course, my mom immediately ruined it by saying, “You’re not from Hastings Rock originally, are you, Bobby?”

Bobby shook his head. “Portland. Well, a suburb.”

“What brought you here?” my dad asked.

“Work.” Then Bobby smiled. “And the water.”

“Bobby’s a fantastic surfer,” I said. “When the sheriff’s office had an opening, he saw his opportunity.”

“I used to love to surf,” my mom said.

I was pretty sure everyone in the restaurant heard my jaw hit the table.

“You know how to surf?” I asked.

My dad burst out laughing, and my mom said, “Dash.”

“I didn’t mean—” But then I couldn’t help myself: “When have you ever surfed?”

“I wasn’t always an old crone,” she said, but her laugh undercut the tone. “It drove my dad crazy. Everything I did drove him crazy.”

My dad leaned in. “Did you always want to work in law enforcement?”

“Pretty much,” Bobby said. “My dad loves Walker: Texas Ranger . I never had a chance.”

More laughter. My mom smiled at Bobby over her water. My dad asked something about the academy. Bobby bumped my knee under the table, and, like I was in a daze, I realized this was normal. Like nothing from the last few days had happened. Like we were ordinary people, and having an ordinary time as my ordinary parents met my ordinary boyfriend.

“Do you see yourself staying here long-term?” my dad asked.

Before Bobby could answer, my mom said, “He wants his grandchildren on the same side of the Mississippi as him.”

“Grandchildren?” I said. “We’ve been dating two months.”

“Pshaw,” my dad said.

I’m not even kidding. He actually said it.

“Yes,” my mom said, “but it’s serious, isn’t it? As soon as I saw you two, I knew this wasn’t just a fling.”

Bobby glanced over at me. His eyes crinkled with his smile, and he put his hand on mine.

“Okay,” I said, “yes, it’s serious. But can we please have some chill? I’m trying not to scare Bobby off.”

“He’s not going to scare,” my dad said. “Look at how he looks at you.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I said, “Keeping Bobby from realizing he can do so much better is a full-time job. Please don’t make it any harder.”

My dad made a scoffing noise. My mom shook her head, but she was smiling.

“You’re going to love the farm,” my dad told Bobby. “Are you a hunter?”

“Not really,” Bobby said. “But I enjoy being outdoors.”

“You’re going to love it,” my dad said again. “And the surfing in New Hampshire is some of the best on the East Coast. When are you going to come out?”

“Remember how I asked everyone to have some chill?” I said. “I need a solid year of entrapping Bobby so he can’t run away before I take him to the compound.”

Bobby squeezed my hand, but he spoke to my parents. “I’d love to visit. Thank you for inviting me.”

“He’s so polite,” my mom said. “You picked a good one.”

“You should hear him when he wants me to vacuum. You know he thinks people should vacuum under things. And it’s not like anyone can see down there.”

“Have you ever thought about doing some consulting?” my dad asked.

“Consulting?” Bobby said.

“You know, helping writers with the realities of law enforcement. I’m sure you help Dash all the time.”

“If Dash asks, I’m always happy to help.”

“Has he told you anything about his current project?” my mom asked drily. “Maybe you can give us the inside scoop.”

“Dash is private about his work,” Bobby said, and although he was smiling, his tone didn’t leave any room for misunderstanding. “It’s important to me to respect that.”

“I’d love to pick your brain sometime,” my dad said. “Things are always changing, you know? And nothing beats firsthand experience.”

“I’m not sure how much help I’d be,” Bobby said. “Hastings Rock is a small town, and we don’t get much excitement. But I’m always happy to chat.”

“Don’t get much excitement?” my mom said. “Just more murders per capita than St. Louis.”

“And I’d pay you, Bobby,” my dad said. “I believe people should be compensated for their expertise.”

“That’s not necessary—” Bobby tried.

“No, no, I insist.”

“Dad, he’d be happy to help,” I said.

“And there are some other writers I could put you in contact with. Friends, you know?” My dad took a drink of his old fashioned and said, “If you ever wanted to turn it into a business, it could be a nice side hustle. A website. Weekly articles. A podcast, speaking engagements, maybe even books—I’m talking nonfiction. Think about this: a week-long training conference for writers. Law enforcement boot camp. You don’t realize how valuable your experience is.”

“Thank you,” Bobby said. “Let me think about that.”

“That’s nice, Dad, but Bobby already works a lot as it is. The sheriff’s office is understaffed, you know? And the whole reason he moved here was to surf, so I want him to have time to take advantage of that.”

“I’m talking about down the road,” my dad said. “When you move home.”

Bobby paused, his beer halfway to his mouth.

I opened my mouth, closed it again, and then opened it and said, “I’m not moving home.”

“Not right now, I know.”

My mom sat back in her chair. Her eyes glittered as she watched me.

“No, Dad,” I said, trying to keep my voice easy. “I’m not moving back, well, ever. At least, I’m not planning on it. I’m happy here. I’ve got Hemlock House. Bobby’s career is here.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” my dad said. “He’ll have plenty of opportunities.” My dad waited a moment and added, as though I might not understand, “I’m talking about later. After you’re married, when you’re ready to start having kids.”

The only thing I could think to say was “What?”

Bobby set his bottle back on the table. The glass clinked against the wood.

“That’s down the road,” my mom said. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Bobby and I haven’t talked about kids,” I said. “We haven’t talked about getting married. You’re making this super weird.”

Straightening her flatware, my mom said, “Don’t be dramatic, Dashiell. We’re excited for you, that’s all. You’re on track. It’s good to have a plan.”

I looked over at Bobby. He was staring straight ahead, his expression painfully blank. I said, “I’m so sorry about this.”

He gave a tiny shake of his head.

“We’re just talking, kiddo,” my dad said. “These are just ideas.”

“No, they’re not. They’re super specific plans. This consulting business for Bobby. Surfing on the East Coast. Moving back to the farm.”

“We’re—”

“And what, I’m supposed to nod and pack my bags? I don’t get a say? Bobby doesn’t get a say? My God, if he wasn’t going to run before this crazy show, he’s definitely going to split now.”

“Dash,” Bobby said in a low voice.

“You always have to make such a production out of things,” my mom said.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“We’re trying to think big picture,” my dad said. “What’s best for everybody.”

“What’s best for everybody? You don’t know what’s best for me. You don’t know what I want.”

My mom took a pointed sip of her water before replying, “Not everything is about you.”

“Wow,” I said. “Just wow.”

“If you don’t want to move back,” my dad said, “nobody’s going to force you. Bobby, if you don’t want to move to New Hampshire, that’s all right. I want you to hear it from me. We want you boys to be happy.”

“Why don’t we talk about something else?” Bobby asked. “Are you going to spend any time in Portland while you’re here?”

“It was one thing,” my mom said, “when you were ungrateful with Hugo. But here we are, bending over backward to make things work with the new one, and all you can think about is yourself.”

The clink of flatware, the rise and fall of voices, a long toot from a ship clearing the harbor—they were all strangely lulling.

“Okay,” I said to Bobby. “We’re leaving.” To my mom, I said, “The new one? That’s really nice, Mom.”

“What?” my mom said. “He is the new one. I don’t see what’s so wrong about that.”

Bobby whispered, “Dash, it’s all right. She didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Of course she did,” I said. “She’s a writer—all she does all day is think about picking the right word.”

“Everybody calm down,” my dad said. “Dash, your mother didn’t mean anything by it. Can’t we enjoy a nice meal and celebrate?”

“I don’t know what we’re celebrating,” I said. “Colleen or Joan or whatever her name is, she’s going to get a slap on the wrist.”

Any argument about that, though, was forestalled by the arrival of appetizers—calamari (for Bobby), bruschetta (for my parents), and shrimp wrapped in bacon (for me). I mean, in theory, we were all supposed to share, but everybody seemed to understand that now was not the right time to get between me and my bacon-wrapped shrimp.

Then, out of the blue, my mom said, “Tell him.”

My dad shot her a look I wasn’t used to seeing on his face—frustration, almost annoyance. He said, “Let’s enjoy our meal.”

“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 Dane would be written in 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 air again, 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 a lot of 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.”

“Are you joking?” my mom said. “It’s a very good deal, Dashiell. And it’s only one book. You’ll write others.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I shook my head.

“Kiddo,” my dad said, “they’re looking for breakout authors—”

“The answer is no.”

“I can’t believe this,” my mom said. “We practically kill ourselves to make this happen for you—and you made it a lot harder than it needed to be—and it’s not good enough for you.”

“Let’s pause this discussion,” Bobby said.

“It’s not that it’s not good enough,” I said. “If you want me to say thank you, then thank you. But I’m not doing it. I won’t do it.”

“All right—” my dad began.

“We’re handing you a contract,” my mom said. She held out her napkin like it was a stand-in for the paperwork. “Not just a contract. A bestselling series. This is your entire life, Dash. Everything handed to you in one easy package. You want to sit out here in that cavernous old mansion and play at being a sleuth with your friends? Fine. You’ll have the money to do that. You want to try another character? Another series? Fine. You’ll have the leverage to do that too. People try their whole lives to get an offer like this, and all you can do is sit there and stare.”

“Patricia,” my dad said.

“The ingratitude. The sheer ingratitude.”

“Dash and I are going to step outside for some air—” Bobby tried.

“It’s not ingratitude,” I said. My voice was trembling. My face felt hot. I was aware, the way I always was, of every eye in the restaurant turning toward our table. Of the feeling like a spotlight had landed on me. My heart thrummed in my chest. “I appreciate that you’ve tried to help me. I really do. I’ve tried to tell you before, but you don’t listen, so I’ll say it again: I want to do this on my own. It’s my writing. It’s my life. I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me, but it’s important that I do this on my own.”

“If you were going to do it on your own,” my mom said, “you’d have done it already. My God, Dashiell, I was two years younger than you when I won an Edgar and a Macavity. Your father had six books out by the time he was thirty, and all of them hit the bestseller lists. You’re not even going to have a finished draft by the time you’re thirty. What do you do all day, Dashiell? You don’t work. You don’t write. For heaven’s sake, you don’t even solve murders full-time. You waste your days on stupid, childish things, because you’re too scared to take a risk.”

“Come on,” Bobby said to me, and he stood, tugging on my arm.

I stood too, but I didn’t let Bobby lead me away from the table. I stared at my parents. My mom’s eyes glinted with the warm, golden light that escaped the caged bulbs. My dad had turned his gaze down, and he had one hand wrapped around the edge of the table.

“I’m sorry I’m not who you want me to be,” I said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be that person. I spent a long time wishing I could be.”

“Dash,” my dad said softly, but he didn’t look up.

“But the fact that you don’t see how—how invalidating this is.” I swallowed. My throat felt thick. My head was a hive of noise and sound and broken light. “It’s like I’m not even a person to you.”

“Here we go,” my mom said.

A laugh worked its way out of me. “I’m sorry, Mom. I forgot how much you hate drama. How much you hate anything that doesn’t fit neatly into the little dollhouse world you’ve made for yourself.”

My mom’s face was white except where little red embers burned in her cheeks. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.”

“Of course. You’ve never had to do anything you didn’t want to do.”

“I don’t understand why we’re such bad parents—”

“Patricia,” my dad said, “let’s stop.”

“—for helping you to have a modicum of success in your life, Dashiell. I mean, my God, you want to be a writer. Why can’t you be grateful that your parents want you to be happy?”

“You don’t want me to be happy,” I said. “You want me to be whatever it is you want me to be, and this is one more way of trying to make it happen. If you wanted me to be happy, you’d care about what I thought, about what I wanted, about how I felt. But you’ve never cared about any of that. It was always about you. Always about what was best for you. It took me a long time to figure it out, but you know what I realized eventually? You didn’t want children. You wanted a photo on the back of a dust jacket.”