“You know,” BD says with a wink, “sex with a stranger is a double mitzvah on Shabbat!”

  “I’m not sure the ‘stranger’ part is actually in the Torah,” I say. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

  “You can always ask me about sex toys—”

  “No, BD . . . my middle name—I know it’s a city in Holland, but we’re not Dutch. You and Grandpa were both born in Poland.”

  “Before the war,” she says, “your grandfather lived in the Netherlands. He was born in Drenthe. Your mother must have told you that?”

  “Maybe,” I say, but when it comes to conversations with my mother, too much predates my memory. And I remember as a child that BD seemed so pained, so un-BD when she talked about what she’d left in Europe, that eventually, I stopped asking. I’m glad my grandfather lives on in my middle name. “So, Mom’s tulip garden . . .”

  “An homage,” BD says, with a flourish of her hand. “She grew up gardening with your grandfather.” BD looks away from the camera. She’s in her kitchen, making popcorn, which she burns at each attempt. Her voice changes, and I wish I were there with her instead of having this conversation on the phone. “He lost all his family in the war. He never went back to Drenthe, but he wrote about it.”

  “In his poetry? Do you still have it? Can I read it?”

  “Elaine,” she says, “I’m going to ship you the biggest sack of poems you’ve ever seen.”

  “Thanks, BD. I’d love that.”

  “What about our other project?” She drops her voice to a whisper. “The Noa Callaway situation. Any breakthroughs?”

  BD quirks her brow and I realize that I’m smiling. I try to wipe my expression clean, but it’s BD, and she knows my feelings anyway.

  “Check back with me tomorrow,” I say. “I’m taking him to the Cloisters for inspiration. I probably shouldn’t tempt fate by saying this, but I have a good feeling about it.”

  I glance out the window as my Lyft driver slows to a stop. We’ve arrived in front of a crowded bar at the corner of Houston and Suffolk. Through the windows, I see high ceilings, dim chandelier light . . . and Meg on top of the bar, taking a shot with one fist in the air.

  “BD,” I say, “I’ve got to go walk in to a real hot mess now.”

  “Have a wonderful time, dear.” She air-kisses the camera. “And don’t be afraid to lead with your bosom!”

  As soon as I step into Subject, Rufus spots me through the crowd. He waves me over and gives me a hug. “You just missed Meg’s Coyote Ugly moment.”

  “I think I caught the finale through the window.” I squeeze Meg’s shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, it was amazing,” she says, sipping the new drink the bartender has placed before her. “You know I took Irish dancing in college. And, well, people wanted to see.”

  “People.” Rufus air-quotes.

  “I didn’t realize this was a dancing-on-top-of-the-bar kind of place,” I tease Meg, as Rufus shakes his head. “You are aware that your cocktail has an actual shiso leaf in it.”

  “I suppose most people stay off the bar until approximately midnight here,” Meg acknowledges, her face falling a little. “But I can’t stay up that late anymore!” Her voice cracks and I give her a hug.

  “Well, your eyebrows are one hundred percent,” I say, admiring her threading job.

  Rufus plants a martini glass full of something pink and salt-rimmed in my hand.

  “And your overalls are straight fire, Ruf,” I say.

  “Not as much as your hint of bosom,” he says, laughing wickedly and clinking his glass to mine.

  “Have you been texting with my grandmother?”

  “I’ll never tell!”

  “All right,” Meg says, drawing the two of us into a corner from which we can see most of the bar. “Let’s get to work.”

  I let her scan the room on my behalf. That’s what friends are for, and it gives me time to focus on my cocktail.

  Meg lifts her chin in the direction of a guy down the bar. “He’s gorgeous.”

  “He looks like Ryan,” Rufus says.

  “Pass!” I shout into my drink.

  “Okay, what about the brawny blondie coming this way, oooh,” Rufus says, nodding at an approaching man who is trying to get the bartender’s attention.

  He is good-looking, the kind of good-looking that never comes without a chin cleft. Meg and Rufus make a choreographed retreat from the bar, leaving an open space for him to sidle up next to me.

  He signals the bartender for another beer, then looks at me and smiles.

  “Hi!” I shout over the noise of the bar, feeling rusty as fuck at flirting.

  “What?” he shouts back, leaning in, hand on the small of my back.

  I step away. His eyes are so blue that it sort of hurts to look at him. “I just said . . . never mind . . .”

  He shouts something I can’t hear, and I realize how pointless this is. I’m not interested in this guy. Even on Shabbat. I start to back away, but he follows, fresh beer in hand.

  “It’s quieter away from the bar,” he shouts, nodding toward a window. I glance at Meg whose wide eyes and frantic hand motions let me know that I’m not welcome back in their corner just yet.

  And so, a moment later, I find myself pressed against a window, staring deep into this stranger’s chin cleft, and wondering what the hell to say.

  “So what do you do?” he asks, after we’ve been through the thrilling topics of our names and whether we’ve been to this bar before.

  (His is Phil, and the answer is yes.)

  “I’m a book editor,” I shout.

  “That’s AMAZING!” he shouts back with so much enthusiasm I wonder whether I’ve written Phil off too quickly. Then the other shoe drops. “I read a book last year!”

  “Was it . . . good?” It’s the best I can do.

  “So good.” He winks at me. “You wanna get out of here? My hotel is just around the corner. Minibar . . . balcony . . .”

  I just can’t double mitzvah with this guy. “You know what, Phil? I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. . . .”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “Also, I just don’t see it happening—you . . . me. . . .”

  Phil nods and doesn’t take it too hard. His eyes are already scanning the bar for another lady who’d love to hit that hotel balcony. I make my goodbyes and hurry back to my friends. But on the way, I catch eyes with a tall man nursing a Guinness at the bar.

  He’s cute and clean-cut, wearing tailored pin-striped suit-pants with a white French-cuffed oxford shirt. His vibe is grown-up yet playful—both of which I like—especially when combined with the wry look in his eyes.

  “Not a winner?” Pinstripes says in a British accent.

  “In Phil’s defense,” I say, drawing closer, “he did read a book last year.”

  Pinstripes laughs. I put my drink down on the bar and see Meg and Rufus chest bump in celebration out of the corner of my eye.

  “Are those ampersand cuff links?” I ask, admiring the flash of gold at his wrists.

  He nods. “The ampersand has a fascinating history. I wrote my PhD thesis on their use in Shakespearean paratext.” He pauses, stares at me.

  “What?”

  “It’s just that you’re still awake. Usually those words are verbal Ambien.”

  “Just don’t slip your thesis topic in my drink.”

  We both laugh, then both drink, and I’m thinking: handsome, brilliant, witty in a British way. Operation Get Lanie Laid has entered the theater of engagement.

  “Have you met my fiancé?” a woman’s voice says behind me, and then I watch as arms slink around Pinstripes’ shoulders. One hand at the end of those arms bears a simple, gorgeous diamond ring. I wince as Pinstripes is swiveled into a conversation with a cluster of fashionable, attractive Brits. He meets my eyes before he commits and mouths the words good luck.

  I turn away and down the rest of my cocktail, then make a beeline for Rufus, who’s got a second drink waiting for me. Or should I say, second drinks.

  “Clearly, it’s time to move on to Kate Mosses,” he says.

  I take the drinks from his hands and we all down our Kate Mosses. My eyes water. “I’ve got about one more teeth-puller in me before I turn into a pumpkin.”

  “We could mosey down the street,” he says. “Go dancing?”

  “Dancing, yes,” Meg says, bouncing on her heels, arms stiff at her sides. “Preferably Irish.”

  “I like it here,” I say. “It’s just . . . would it be okay if we put Operation Get Lanie Laid to rest for the night? I’m more in a sip-my-drink-and-try-to-keep-Meg-off-the-bar kind of mood.”

  “Say no more,” Meg says, and loops an arm around me. “We’ll just pretend we’re the only ones here—”

  “Wait a minute,” I say. “Is that . . .”

  I rise on my toes, because a dead ringer for Noah Ross has just walked into the bar. Which would be three times the man has stumbled into my life in a single week. Surely some sort of world record.

  But then, when he turns, I see it isn’t him. Not by a long shot. Just some dark, curly-headed stranger in a pea coat. I’m surprised to feel disappointed.

  Meg is studying me, following my gaze. “You like that guy over there because he looks like your Man of the Year. What is your deal with him?”

  “What do you mean? I have no deal.”

  “Lanie. You hid from him at brunch.”

  “You don’t think he’s attractive?”

  I did not mean to ask that. I’m not sure why it would matter to me whether Meg thinks Noah is cute. Still . . . does she?

  “His attractiveness is not in question,” Meg says. “Your awkwardness is. You like him. You should go for it—”

  “It’s a nonstarter!” I say, more forcefully than intended. But it is true, even if I can’t explain in more detail to Meg. Even if I can’t explain to myself why a tiny part of me feels disappointed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Did you know,” I say to Noah as we enter the castle-like museum the next morning, “that this place was built out of the reassembled pieces of five legitimately medieval French cloisters?”

  He stops walking and turns to me, a smile held in his eyes. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do.” He presses his palms together. “We’re going to stand right here, and you’re going to unleash all your museum docent facts. Every single one. Just nail me with them. Purge your system, Lanie. After that? We’re going to walk around like regular people and enjoy our time at this place.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll shut up. I can take a hint. Even a very overt one.”

  We start walking again, our footsteps echoing through the gray stone arches of the abbey. “You know, two weeks ago you would have reamed me for ribbing you like that,” he says.

  “Two weeks ago, you hadn’t broken into my ex-fiancé’s brownstone,” I tell him as we pause before a series of elaborate unicorn tapestries. I read that they were dyed with the same plants cultivated in the garden outside, but I am keeping that fascinating tidbit to myself.

  He smiles. “It’s rare that I get to put those skills to use.”

  We stop before an apse, whose recessed walls are all stained glass. Noah studies a panel of a Madonna and child. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture. “This place is really special.”

  I’m tempted to take a stab at pronouncing the Austrian city where I read these windows came from, but I can tell Noah is absorbing the atmosphere, and so, I leave a tender moment alone.

  I can’t help sneaking glances at him. Things I’ve noticed about Noah without realizing I was noticing: His curly hair is always wet when he shows up someplace. His eyes are this dark, mysterious green, which matches the cool ivy print on his button-down today. His smile is slow—like it really wants to be sure about things before committing—but once it’s there, it holds you close.

  He’s nothing like Ryan, who was inarguably handsome in a People’s-Sexiest-Man-Alive kind of way. There’s nothing inarguably anything about Noah, and I’m beginning to realize that’s the root of his appeal. For starters, he’s a fashion chameleon. He dresses one day like an indie rocker, one day like an Italian film producer, one day like a hipster on vacation. Even his physique—long and lean—is a body type that defies classification into a single sporty build—does he do triathlons to stay fit? A combination of basketball and yoga?

  The man is an enigma—one minute reserved, the next, totally game to commit a felony in the spirit of doing someone a favor. You’d never know how successful he is from a glance or a casual conversation. But when he opens up, his spark is bright. He is full of complexities one wants to know more about.

  That is, if one weren’t wagering their entire future on getting a book out of him.

  “Let’s see the gardens,” he suggests, and I’m down.

  We step outside, walking along a colonnaded loggia that opens to a garden so charming it borders on the miraculous. Neat stone paths divide it into quadrants. A fountain burbles at the center. The air is fragrant with herbs and small red flowers, swaying on the boughs of pomegranate trees. It’s transporting. Standing in this oasis, I feel as if we haven’t only left Manhattan, but have journeyed back in time to medieval Europe. I want to linger, to make the most of this respite from my everyday concerns.

  “Is that wanderlust in your eyes?” Noah asks, surprising me. I hadn’t felt him looking at me, didn’t know he could read my thoughts.

  “Guilty,” I say, adding lightly, “Wanderlust, tranquility-lust, go-back-in-time-and-make-different-choices-lust. Sort of a mixed-bag-lust.”

  Stop saying lust.

  “If you know of any great destinations for people whose lives are imploding,” I say, wrapping up my rambling, “let me know.”

  I’m not sure why Noah’s grinning at me.

  “What?” I say as we stop at the garden’s center.

  “As a matter of fact,” he says, “I do.”

  “You do what?”

  “Know of a great destination for you.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a thick, cream colored envelope. It’s addressed to Noa Callaway, but he hands it to me.

  I slide the card out. It’s written in Italian. “What is this?”

  “An invitation to the Italian launch party of Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows,” he says. “Apparently, a video of you making that speech at the New York launch was posted online. Did you know it went viral in Italy?”

  “You’re kidding.” This is news to me.

  “My publisher in Milan asked if you’d consider going and making a speech. It’s in May. They’re having the party at the Bacio hotel, which is . . .”

  He meets my eyes, and we both say it at the same time: “In Positano.”

  “Seriously?” I say. “That’s the hotel where Vows is set.”

  “And,” he says, a smile hiding in the corners of his mouth, “if memory serves, the city where your mother was conceived?”

  “I would say I wish I’d never told you that . . . except . . .” I look at him. “Are you offering me a trip to Italy?”

  “Technically, my Italian publisher is offering it. I won’t be there, of course. But I’d be cheering you on from here.”

  The way he says this, a hint of bittersweetness in his voice, makes me wonder. Any other author would accept this invitation themselves. Noah can’t. Does he ever wish things were different, that he could go to Italy himself and celebrate his work with his readers in the open?

  I stare at the invitation, still trying to wrap my mind around it. What are the odds that an invitation to my dream destination would come—all expenses paid—at the moment I can’t say yes?

  “This party is on May eighteenth,” I say. “Three days after your deadline for the book we have no concept for.”

  Noah looks unfazed. “If I promise to get you the draft before you leave,” he says, “will you go?”

  “I will go to Mars if you get me a draft before I leave. But realistically, Noah, we don’t even have a premise yet.” I press the invitation back into his hands. “I’m honored that you asked me. And it’s really generous of your Italian publisher, but until both our careers aren’t teetering on the brink, I can’t in good conscience accept.”

  Noah scratches his head. He looks stunned. “I didn’t even get to lay out my conditions.”

  “You and your conditions,” I say. But I’m curious. “Well, let’s have them. Just in case.”

  “It’s really only one condition,” he says. “Payback for your list. My List.”

  “Your list of what?”

  “I lived in Positano for two months to research Vows. I know the best place to buy the vintage designer souvenirs for your grandmother—and where you can get a great Piedirosso around the corner.”

  “I never say no to a glass of Peidirosso,” I say, hoping I’ve guessed correctly that this is a type of wine. The idea of traveling around Italy with a list of Noa Callaway’s favorite local haunts in my pocket fills me with a secret glee. People would bid on eBay for such a thing.

  Not that I’m going to Italy.

  And then I realize: This is the first time I’ve reconciled Noah Ross and Noa Callaway as the same entity. It happened without my noticing. I wonder, if I can get comfortable with the man behind the books, could the readers? Could the press?

  I want to explore this with Sue, and with Noah. Once we have a manuscript.

  “I accept your condition,” I say, “on the condition that—”

  “We have a book?”

  “Exactly,” I say, “so in the meantime . . .” I motion at the museum around us.

  Noah catches my drift, and we turn our attention back to the Cloisters. I mentally put on my Noa Callaway glasses and try to see the gardens through their lens.

  Across the fountain, there’s an older woman in a wheelchair being pushed by a pretty young girl. Likely her granddaughter. I watch the girl excuse herself around a young gardener who’s toting a giant bag of sod. I point them out to Noah and lean in to whisper.