“Some butterscotch is hard!” Regina insisted. “We are lucky to have you as a member of the GWGW community. In more ways than one! I understand from Eric that you are a talented novelist.”

Eric had said no such thing.

“Yeah,” said Davonte. “I’m working on a book.”

“That is wonderful,” said Regina. “Novels have the best sales potential.”

“That’s what I heard,” he said. “That’s what I was thinking when I decided to go with a novel. I always had a good imagination.”

“They don’t always reach their potential, of course,” said Regina. She looked at Eric, then looked away, as if embarrassed by his lack of success. He grabbed one of the last rolls before Davonte could mangle it, and stuffed it in his mouth. It was consolingly delicious—rich with butter and yeast, warm from the oven. He signaled the waiter for another basket.

“We think the inspirational market—that’s a little broader than Christian, though I know you have a Christian background, Davonte—is taking off. Is it Donald? Or Davonte? I want to use the name you prefer.”

“Davonte is fine,” he said. “I go by Donald in an academic setting.”

Regina nodded. “Donald is your Christian name.”

“It’s the name my mother gave me.”

“Though your book will probably sell better with the name Davonte Gold attached,” she said. He agreed. They talked about all the various ways Davonte’s unwritten book could sell and sell. On Oprah and Dr. Phil. On Amazon and the Today show. To teens and moms and old ladies. To blacks and whites and Latinos—there was a marketing angle for everyone. Eric would have loved to be on Dr. Phil or the Today show, but the most he’d done, in terms of TV, was a brief segment on a public-access program in Charlotte. There hadn’t even been hair and makeup.

Eric carefully swallowed the big gob of bread he’d been chewing—he didn’t want to necessitate the Heimlich himself—and leaned forward. “So how are you doing,” he said, “in terms of word length?”

“I’m keeping the long words to a minimum,” said Davonte. “Like Regina said, this is a book for everyone.”

Regina smiled warmly, forgivingly. Silly Eric, her smile said. Trying to trip up an international star. “And how long is the book? The word count?”

“Oh,” he said. The waiter arrived with their plates—pasta for Eric and Regina, poached fish for Davonte. He frowned at his food like it wasn’t what he ordered. “I haven’t counted them. But not that many, to be honest with you. It’s hard, writing a novel.”

“It is,” agreed Eric, the only bona fide novelist at the table. A novelist, and a teacher! Not a businessman, after all. “Has using the digital voice recorder helped?”

“A little.”

“What about what I said in class—writing to the heat?”

“What’s that?” Regina asked.