By Any Other Name(51)

Rufus: And I’m on this text thread because . . . ? It is a known fact that I do Pilates Saturday a.m.

Meg: Because if you vote that Lanie should go, and I vote that Lanie should go, then we out-vote her ass two-to-one. Ruf, you can meet us after Pilates for cake.

Rufus: Lanie, your resistance is preemptively overruled. See you ladies 12:15ish. That cake better not be gluten-free.

I see my friends’ messages as I’m getting out of the shower. I’m running late to meet Noah in Brooklyn in an hour, so I dash off an apologetic response.

Me: Sorry, y’all. Plans today. Maybe I can catch Hot Dad at the next party.

Meg: That is not how Hot Dad–physics work. If you don’t move on him at this party, a wiser woman will. Come on, Lanie! Blow off your plans so you can blow Hot Dad. Someone needs to confirm our class’s suspicions of his well-endowment. I’ll throw in a ceramic unicorn. . . .

Me: I can’t blow off my plans. They’re with Noa Callaway. Remember—the book that’s five months late . . . and that all our jobs depend on?

My phone rings with a FaceTime from Meg. When I pick up, Rufus is already on the call.

“You’re wearing that to Noa Callaway?” Rufus says, taking in my jean jacket with the fleece lining through the screen. “I mean, you look fresh, but . . . it’s Noa Callaway. I would have thought BD’s Fendi suit?”

I laugh to myself because, great minds, but also—I can’t tell Rufus that Noah has given me something of a dress code for today’s mystery adventure in Red Hook. Jeans and a “sturdy jacket.”

I know my friends assume that I’m having a regular, business style meeting with Noa Callaway. One where we sit in an office with two laptops between us, a gallon of coffee, and pencils behind our ears.

“What’s the status of the book?” Meg says. “Is she writing yet? Can my kids go to college or what?”

“Not exactly,” I say. “We’re still circling the right concept. That’s what today is about.” I find that I don’t have to inject optimism into my voice. I truly feel optimistic. I know Noah and I have next to nothing of an idea yet, but at the Cloisters, inspiration felt near.

“I can’t believe Noa Callaway has writer’s block!” Meg says, shaking her head while flipping pancakes. “Maybe she’s going through menopause and can’t be bothered with sex scenes? My sister’s libido during menopause just . . .” She whistles the sound of a plummeting bomb. “Oh, I need Noa Callaway’s sex scenes. The world needs Noa Callaway’s sex scenes!”

“You have to fix this, Lanie,” Rufus says. “Send over a gigolo!” His handsome-devil smile spreads across his face. “You know it’s been done. Back in the sixties, editors probably hired sex workers for all their authors who were blocked.”

“I’m working on it, believe me,” I say. “Not the gigolo, but the inspiration. And I’m late, so—”

“Hold on,” Rufus says, squinting into his phone. “Did you get laid last night? You look all flushed and happy.”

“OMG,” Meg says. “And you did say no to meeting the hottest Hot Dad in Hot Dad Land! You got laid! Who is he? Is he still in your apartment?”

I roll my eyes, but when I take a last look in the mirror, I have to admit they’re right. I do look flushed and happy.

“I’m just excited,” I say. That’s the right word, isn’t it? “I have this funny sense that Noa and I are close to getting somewhere great. I’m . . . flushed and happy that a new love story is about to be born.” I smile at them. “Gotta go!”

“Bullshit—” Meg is calling as I hang up the phone.



* * *





Noah’s instructions said to meet him in Red Hook at ten a.m., at a double-wide trailer behind the Ikea.

When I get there, in my sturdy jacket, full of questions, a woman is sitting in a lawn chair in front of the trailer. She waves like she’s been waiting for me.

“Lanie, I’m Bernadette,” she says, standing and sticking out her hand. She is sixty, buxom, with long, windblown, blond hair, a smoky eye, big smile, and a patch on her leather jacket that reads IRON BUTT ASSOCIATION. “You can call me B.”

“You’re Aunt B!” I say, remembering Noah’s story about the women who had raised him.

Her smile widens. “He told you about me?” she says, in a husky twang reminiscent of Dolly Parton. “I guess that’s only fair, because I’ve heard all about you.”

“You have?”

“You’re the editor. The Magic One, he calls you. Oh dang, Bernadette.” She slaps her tan cheek twice. “He’ll kill me if he knows I said that.”

I brighten. On my best days, editing does feel like channeling magic, and it feels good to know Noah said that.

“It’ll be our secret,” I tell Bernadette. “So, what are we doing today?” I glance around the Ikea loading dock at the eighteen-wheelers parked there. Does Noah want to write a book about star-crossed semi drivers?

“You don’t know?” Bernadette tilts her head. “Well, I’ll let him explain,” she says and points over my shoulder where Noah is walking toward us across the lot.

He wears torn jeans, a white T-shirt, black boots. I don’t know if it’s the time we spent together last weekend, or the natural course of moving on after my breakup with Ryan, but Noah looks different to me today.