“It would be a nightmare,” Tony from finance calls at the back of the room.
“You’ll have it,” I vow. My heart is racing. I sit back down.
As Patrisse moves forward to the next slide, I pull out my phone under the conference table, and compose the email I’ve been reluctant to send.
From: [email protected]
Date: April 13, 11:51 a.m.
Subject: Edward and Elizabeth
Are they finding their way?
From: [email protected]
Date: April 13, 11:57 a.m.
Subject: re: Edward and Elizabeth
I was just about to write to you!
They’re coming to life.
Could we talk through the character arcs? I’d love your thoughts before I get too deep.
I pore over the twenty-seven words of Noah’s email. Exclamation point after the first sentence—always a good sign! And he doesn’t seem bothered that I breached our agreement and made contact. But “before I get too deep,” suggests that he’s not yet deep in the writing. Just how un-deep is he? Ten thousand words? Two fifty? And the use of the word love . . .
After sales conference adjourns, I race back to my desk, pick up the phone, and dial Terry, telling myself I will not take any of her guff today.
“Hey . . .”
It’s Noah’s voice. It sounds softer. Or is this just the way he speaks on the phone? It’s our first time.
“Oh,” I say. “Hi. I thought I’d have to go through Terry. You’ve never answered this phone before.”
Is he in his office? At that desk? Looking out at that view of Central Park? What’s he wearing? What’s he drinking? Does he have writing snacks?
“Terry’s at the dentist.”
“Well, that’s lucky. I mean, not for her dentist. I mean . . .” Is this what happens to me when I don’t talk to Noah for three weeks? I turn into a nervous wreck? “You wanted to talk?”
“I do. I want your opinion. I was hoping we could meet, but then . . .” He pauses. “I got a call from my mom’s doctor, and I need to go see her. I’m catching a train this afternoon. I’ll be back Sunday, if that works for you—”
“Do you want company?”
There’s a pause. “On the train?” Noah says.
He sounds surprised but not necessarily intruded upon, so I persevere.
“A train’s as good a place as any for us to talk about your characters,” I say. “Right?”
“You’d ride the train down to D.C. with me, just to talk about the book?”
Now I’m fairly certain that Noah Ross sounds a little bit touched.
“Well, you know,” I say, “interesting things happened the last time we were on a train together.” I smile at the memory of Noah pulling out that Swiss Army knife, breaking into Ryan’s brownstone. “I could even throw in a tuna sandwich with onions, or something equally pungent?”
“If you meet me at Penn Station in two hours,” Noah says, “I’ll bring you the best egg drop wonton soup you’ve ever had.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell my friend Meg’s mother that you said that, but I will meet you at Penn Station.”
I’m grinning as I hang up the phone.
* * *
“Say goodbye to editing,” Noah says as I open the soup. “Because these wontons are about to blow your mind.”
We’re pulling out of Penn Station with our laptops open on the table between us and way too much Chinese takeout for two people. Not surprisingly, the other passengers have given us a wide berth—empty seats abound. They’re probably jealous.
I swirl the Styrofoam container, give it a deep sniff, and then a long, delicious slurp.
“I pronounce this soup . . . the second best in the land,” I say solemnly.
Noah clutches his heart. “My world is shattered.”
“Speaking of your world,” I say, “what’s your character conundrum?” I want to make sure we cover everything during the three hours we’ve got together before Noah gets off the train to see his mom. Then I’ll turn around and take the three p.m. Acela back to New York. It’s a little absurd, and that’s what I like about it.
He sits up straighter, brings his fingers to rest on his keyboard. His dark hair falls over his eyes, and I bank the image of Noah Ross in work mode.
“Usually,” he says, “I start by asking what my characters want, and then what stands in their way of getting it. That how I get to know them.”
“Sure. Writing 101.”
“But the structure of this book is so different,” he says, “I can’t rely on a single guiding desire to propel the characters for five decades. I know Elizabeth is a doctor. I know Edward is a poet. I know what they look like, and how they walk, and what they eat for breakfast—”
“Ooh, what’s on the menu?”
“Cornflakes and a quartered orange,” Noah says. “At least, until Edward turns fifty. Then he learns to cook.”
“Took him long enough.”
“My problem is,” Noah says, “since they already have each other, what else do they want?”
I think about his question. In life and in fiction, most people come to be defined by their obstacles. What they overcome and what they don’t. Summiting the mountain often reveals an unexpected world. It makes me think about my own obstacles recently—with Ryan, and with Noah—and how they’re changing what I thought I wanted.
“Maybe you need to ask yourself how they imagine the rest of their life,” I say. “Then you could explore the scenes where they get close to that life. And the scenes where they fall short. Their love story might be the opposite of what they planned,” I say. “That would be the fun of it, proving themselves wrong. Finding beauty in their missteps.”
“I like that,” Noah says. “And it works, because I think he’s mercurial. Someone who can still surprise his wife, even decades into their marriage.”
“Learning to cook at fifty would surprise me, too,” I say. “And if she’s a doctor . . .” I trail off. I find myself thinking of my mother. “She’s meticulous, ambitious, generous, and stubborn.”