“Can I show you my favorite place in New York?” I say, pretending la-di-da, that no part of me wants to jump his bones.
“Is it the Austrian Cultural Forum?” he asks, then ducks before I can smack him.
I lead him to the Gapstow Bridge. It’s cold but not windy, a rare evening where I’m wearing the exact right amount of layers. It’s dusk. The light is glowy pink and enchanting. I’ve walked this path hundreds of times, but it’s never looked as pretty to me as it does tonight. We pause at the center of the bridge and gaze across the pond.
“This is your spot?” he says.
“I started coming here when I was twenty-two, before I got the job at Peony. I’d stop here and look out at the city, and entertain my wildest dreams.”
“And when you stand here now,” he says, “what do you dream of?”
“You getting a book idea,” I say, half joking.
“Is that—” Noah says, leaning forward, his hand shielding his eyes from the last of the sun. I follow his gaze, and I see them. The couple walking toward the pond. They’re bundled up. They’re holding hands. They have their picnic basket and travel table in tow.
“Edward and Elizabeth,” I whisper.
He turns to me, wide-eyed. “You know them?”
“After a fashion,” I say, and then—
“They do this every week.” We say the words at the same time. We stare at each other, astonishment in our eyes.
“I’ve been watching them for years!” I say.
“Me, too.” Noah sounds bewildered. “They’ve probably had two thousand picnics in Central Park.”
We turn our attention to the couple. They’ve set up their picnic, put the lantern on the table. They’re holding hands, just talking, as they always do before they eat.
“This is the book,” Noah whispers.
I’m so hung up on the coincidence that it takes me a moment to register his words.
“The book,” I finally say. “Wait. This is the book? They are the book?”
He looks at me. He nods. I clap my hand over my mouth.
“This is the book!” I shout out gleefully, my head flung back and arms spread wide.
“When I look at them,” he says, eagerly, pacing the bridge as he thinks, “I see nineteen-year-olds on their first date.”
“Keep going,” I say.
He speaks quickly, excited. “I see the proposal a year later, and then a breakup, and then a second proposal. A wedding one parent can’t attend. Children underfoot. I see the kids grown up and moved away. I see betrayals, hailstorms, poems scrawled in birthday cards. Pets. Cold chicken. Trips to the in-laws’, lean years, and Saturday matinees.”
“In other words,” I say, “the full rhapsodic spectacle of life.”
He looks at me, his eyes a potent green. “Exactly.”
A shiver passes through me.
“How do they meet?”
Noah tilts his head. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Our eyes lock again and I smile because I love this idea, because he can write it, because it will be beautiful. And worth the wait.
We did it. Against all odds, we found an idea. We should be celebrating—and yet . . . I feel an unexpected pang in my heart. Noah’s words at my apartment come back to me—his final condition that, once we agreed on a concept, I’d leave him alone to write it.
Which means it’s the end of our Fifty Ways adventures. The end of our newly enjoyable in-person hangs. Noah has eight weeks to write a book . . . and I have eight weeks to wait for it.
This is fine. This is good. This is what I wanted. Then why does it feel bittersweet?
“Isn’t it funny?” I say. “We’ve both been watching them all these years. . . . Do you think we ever passed each other in the park? Maybe on this very bridge, without knowing it?”
“Well,” he says, glancing over his shoulder toward the towering high-rise on Fifth Avenue.
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.”