By Any Other Name(55)

And I get it. The Gapstow Bridge, the Pond, Edward and Elizabeth—each is a piece of Noah’s penthouse view.

“Would you like to see my office?” he asks.



* * *





The elevator door opens onto the most beautiful library I have ever seen. The smell of books is musty sweet. Three walls are made entirely of mahogany bookshelves, displaying a dazzling array of books. The other wall is a giant, single-paned window that looks out on Central Park at night. It’s the view I’ve always imagined for Noa Callaway. It’s perfect.

“This is a little different from your studio,” I say.

“I bought it after Ninety-Nine Things was published,” he says. “Terry got it in her mind that I needed to invest in something, but I didn’t want to move out of Pomander Walk. Buying this office was our compromise.”

My eye is drawn to the massive wooden desk, upon which sits the only photograph in the room. In it, Noah’s barely twenty, grinning as he sits on a floral-print couch surrounded by three middle-aged women. One is kissing his cheek, and I recognize her as a younger Bernadette. Another appears to be giving him a noogie. I’m amazed to realize it’s Terry. I didn’t recognize her at first, because she’s actually smiling. A third woman sits next to him, holding his hand. She and Noah have the same eyes.

“Is that your mom?”

He nods, sadness coming into his expression. “That’s Calla.” Then he nods for me to follow him to the window.

We stand side by side before a telescope. I can see the Gapstow Bridge. The city sparkles with lights coming on across the park. The moon is rising over midtown. For as much time as I’ve spent down there on the ground, it’s a completely different view up here.

“What do you think?” Noah says.

“It takes my breath away.”

“I meant the book idea,” he says with a smile.

I turn to him, my heart racing. “I meant the book idea, too.”

It’s true, but it’s not the only thing leaving me breathless at the moment.

“I want to write something you’re excited about,” Noah says. “Something you’d want to read, even if it wasn’t your job.”

“I’ll read anything you write,” I tell him, putting my editor’s voice back on. “But, if you can write this book in the next eight weeks, I’ll have the added bonus of it still being my job to read it, too.”

“I can,” Noah says with such easy confidence, I let myself believe him. “And now you can say yes.”

“Say yes?” I ask.

“To Italy. The launch. I’ll get the manuscript to you before you leave. You can edit it in time to celebrate with a glass of champagne on the plane.” He turns to me. We’re standing very close.

“How will you celebrate?” I ask.

“I have my ways.”

“But what if—”

“If the book falls apart,” he says, “and you need to cancel, I’ll take the blame for it with the Italians.”

I know that should have been what I was thinking. But in the space of two seconds, I imagined planning this trip then canceling it, and it was my heart, not the Italians’, that felt broken.

Don’t break my heart, I want to tell him, but that would be weird, right?

“Can I ask why it matters to you that I go on this trip?” I say.

“Because Positano is part of your story,” he says. “You should go see what it means. If this were a novel, Positano would change your life.”

“If this were a novel, I’d edit that last line out,” I say, our faces just inches apart. “The foreshadowing’s too on the nose.”

Noah smiles his slow, luxurious smile.

“And I would beg you to keep it in,” he says, “at least until you read the last chapter.”

“And I’d say, then you’d better get writing.”





Chapter Fifteen


“Next up is our summer Noa Callaway title,” Patrisse, our marketing director, says into the microphone at Peony’s April sales conference.

It’s been three weeks since Noah and I took our fateful walk in Central Park, three weeks since we landed on the brilliant idea for his eleventh love story. Three weeks of intensely productive writing time—I hope. And three weeks since I started planning my trip to Positano.

My plane tickets are booked. I’m flying into Naples in just over a month. Noa’s Italian publisher is treating me to a suite at Il Bacio hotel, and Bernadette has agreed to give me a few more riding lessons to prepare me for the Amalfi Coast highway.

Noah and I haven’t talked or emailed or played online chess since I left his office that Saturday night, and the silence between us has felt big. But every time I’ve wanted to reach out to him, I’ve reminded myself of one simple fact: My livelihood relies on him turning in this book. We both need him to focus every ounce of his energy on writing fast and strong.

I also didn’t tell him about today’s sales conference. For years, I watched Alix tear her hair out over Noa Callaway’s strong opinions on her presentations, the edits Terry would send—sometimes up until the moment the meeting began. Noa had dogmatic thoughts about everything, from the cover direction to the tagline on the ad campaign, from the distribution of advance reader copies to the phrasing of catalog copy. But until that manuscript is delivered, Noah needs to tunnel his vision on Edward and Elizabeth’s love story.