“She lived across the street, which is why it costs about ten grand more a month to live over there. I went to look at her brownstone once, when it was listed. A friend got me into a pocket open house. It was really nice. You could picture her there, having toast and tea and giving Spencer Tracy the business.”
“You like Katharine Hepburn?” he says.
“She’s Katharine Hepburn.” What more is there to say?
“What’s your favorite of her movies?”
“Adam’s Rib,” I say, hoping that film’s battle-of-the-sexes theme isn’t lost on him. “Bringing Up Baby is great, too. What’s your favorite?”
He’s looking at me funny, just refusing to hold up his end of the conversation.
“Wait.” My heart lifts. “Are you getting a book idea?”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “No, Lanie, you did not just solve everything by reciting a tour bus speech.”
“You say that like it would be a bad thing. . . .”
“This may come as a surprise to you,” he says, “but I would like to write another book. I’m here, aren’t I? I am even entertaining this absurd proposal of yours.” He shakes my list at me.
“Oh, you are entertaining it? Because I thought you were just crossing shit out.”
“I’ve narrowed it down to five . . . experiences I am open to having with you.”
“Five out of fifty?” I say. “My houseplants have better odds of survival, and my houseplants live a dismal life.”
“Five items have made the cut,” Noah says, “if you can agree to my conditions.”
I feel my brows knit together. “Conditions?”
“Why don’t you sit back down and I’ll explain?”
“Thanks for the invitation,” I say, sitting back down in my own pink tweed recliner. He is so irritating. “Talk.”
“I can agree to the following,” Noah says, consulting the page. “The medieval gardens at the Cloisters; the Minetta Brook in the West Village; Seven Thousand Oaks in Chelsea; Breezy Point in Queens; and Poe Cottage in the Bronx.”
These are fine selections. I signal my approval with a slight nod. “And your conditions?”
“We’re going to alternate,” he says. “We visit one site from your list. And then one site of my choosing.”
No, no, no. My list was carefully selected. Intentional. Productive. I feel confident that if I agree to this condition, Noah Ross is going to make a joke of the endeavor. And I’ll end up wasting my time at some depressing outer-borough diner.
“I’ll take it seriously,” he says. “I promise.”
I swallow. I don’t really have a choice. “Then I agree.”
“Good. Condition number two,” he says, “we don’t meet here again.”
I glance around. “Here, meaning my apartment? What is your problem with my apartment?”
“It’s distracting. Can we just agree to meet at the sites from now on?”
“Fine,” I say. “Anything else, Highness?”
“One more,” he says. “Once we agree on an idea . . . assuming we can agree on an idea, you leave me alone to write it. No babysitting. No Fifty Ways to get Noah to Chapter Two lists, et cetera.”
I think about my trial promotion, how so many things will have to go right in order for it to become permanent. How hard it will be to trust this man to make them go right. Part of me would love a good long respite from interacting with him. The other part of me is scared he’ll fuck it up.
I take a breath and meet his eyes. “We will agree on an idea, because we have to. And once we do, if you can assure me I’ll have a draft in my hands by May fifteenth, you won’t hear so much as a peep out of me.”
“What about a squeak? Like the brakes of the M50 bus?” he teases. It’s the world’s driest tease, like a Vegas showgirl hairstyle from the eighties.
I give him a closed-mouth smile. “Let’s just say it’ll be like we’ve never met.”
Noah puts out his hand. “Then I think we have a deal.”
Chapter Nine
The following Saturday night, Ryan and I have managed to snag two barstools at Grand Army in Boerum Hill right after a sold-out Jenny Lewis concert. We’re clinking two flutes of rosé champagne as the waiter sets down a dozen oysters on the half shell. The circular bar is cozy and candlelit, the oysters briny and ice-cold. The restaurant is packed, which I find romantic. There’s nothing that makes me feel more a part of my city than being holed up at a bar filled with interesting people having sparkling conversations.
To Ryan, on the other hand, crowds equal “trendy,” read: overhyped and overpriced. If he walks into a place and there’s a mural painted on exposed brick, with a hashtag inviting guests to Instagram their visit, he’s basically out. But he did grow up on his dad’s boat on the Eastern Shore, which translates to a weakness for fresh oysters.
He takes his with Tabasco and a squeeze of lemon. I’m a mignonette and horseradish girl. Most nights, this simple tableau would be enough to make me very happy, but I’ve been a mess ever since meeting Noa Callaway, and I don’t see my streak ending anytime soon.
I know I told BD I’d tell Ryan, but the truth is, even if I weren’t bound by this NDA, Noa Callaway’s identity—his maleness—would be a hard topic to broach with Ryan. Either he wouldn’t see why Noah’s gender is a betrayal of our readers, or it would become leverage in Ryan’s case that this may not be my dream job, that moving to D.C. holds the answer. And/or his jealousy radar might go up once I told him about the Fifty Ways plans.
Which would be absurd, of course. Noah and I can barely stand each other in person.
Also nagging at me: BD’s brunch comment about no marriage getting everything right, but how important it is to find the person you can turn to no matter what. I know she meant it gently, lovingly, but it bothers me to consider that she thinks something might be wrong with my relationship.
Was it just a simpler time back in my grandmother’s day? No, I know I’m selling BD short by even wondering that. She was married to my grandfather for fifty years. Like everything else in her life, she worked hard for it. Ryan and I should be so lucky to have a marriage as solid all our lives.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, fixing himself a Kumamoto. “You’ve been acting funny all weekend.”
“I’m just stressed,” I say.
And lying. Also lying. Not a great look on me.