It won’t be fun, necessarily. But it will be good. It’s like going to a party when you’ve had a bad day. You don’t want to go, but you know you should. You know that even if you don’t enjoy it, it will do you good to get out of the house. “Did you get the package I sent?” she says. “The package?” “With your dad’s photos?” “Oh, no,” I say. “I didn’t.” We are quiet for a moment, and then my mom gets exasperated by my silence. “For heaven’s sake, I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up, but I can’t wait any longer. How’s it going with Evelyn Hugo?” she says. “I’m dying to know, and you’re not offering anything!” I pour my Pellegrino and tell her that Evelyn is somehow both forthright and hard to read. And then I tell her that she isn’t giving me the story for Vivant. That she wants me to write a book. “Tm confused,” my mom says. “She wants you to write her biography?” “Yeah,” I say. “And as exciting as it is, there’s something weird about it. I mean, I don’t think she ever considered doing a piece with Vivant at all. I think she was...” I trail off, because I haven’t figured out exactly what it is I’m trying to say. “What?” I think about it more. “Using Vivant to get to me. I don’t quite know. But Evelyn is very calculating. She’s up to something.” “Well, ’'m not surprised she wants you. You’re talented. You're bright...” I find myself rolling my eyes at my mother’s predictability, but I do still appreciate it. “No, I know, Mom. But there’s another layer here. I’m convinced of it.” “That sounds ominous.” “T guess so.” “Should I be worried?” my mom asks. “I mean, are you worried?”