“What’s the status of the book?” Meg says. “Is she writing yet? Can my kids go to college or what?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “We’re still circling the right concept. That’s what today is about.” I find that I don’t have to inject optimism into my voice. I truly feel optimistic. I know Noah and I have next to nothing of an idea yet, but at the Cloisters, inspiration felt near.
“I can’t believe Noa Callaway has writer’s block!” Meg says, shaking her head while flipping pancakes. “Maybe she’s going through menopause and can’t be bothered with sex scenes? My sister’s libido during menopause just . . .” She whistles the sound of a plummeting bomb. “Oh, I need Noa Callaway’s sex scenes. The world needs Noa Callaway’s sex scenes!”
“You have to fix this, Lanie,” Rufus says. “Send over a gigolo!” His handsome-devil smile spreads across his face. “You know it’s been done. Back in the sixties, editors probably hired sex workers for all their authors who were blocked.”
“I’m working on it, believe me,” I say. “Not the gigolo, but the inspiration. And I’m late, so—”
“Hold on,” Rufus says, squinting into his phone. “Did you get laid last night? You look all flushed and happy.”
“OMG,” Meg says. “And you did say no to meeting the hottest Hot Dad in Hot Dad Land! You got laid! Who is he? Is he still in your apartment?”
I roll my eyes, but when I take a last look in the mirror, I have to admit they’re right. I do look flushed and happy.
“I’m just excited,” I say. That’s the right word, isn’t it? “I have this funny sense that Noa and I are close to getting somewhere great. I’m . . . flushed and happy that a new love story is about to be born.” I smile at them. “Gotta go!”
“Bullshit—” Meg is calling as I hang up the phone.
* * *
Noah’s instructions said to meet him in Red Hook at ten a.m., at a double-wide trailer behind the Ikea.
When I get there, in my sturdy jacket, full of questions, a woman is sitting in a lawn chair in front of the trailer. She waves like she’s been waiting for me.
“Lanie, I’m Bernadette,” she says, standing and sticking out her hand. She is sixty, buxom, with long, windblown, blond hair, a smoky eye, big smile, and a patch on her leather jacket that reads IRON BUTT ASSOCIATION. “You can call me B.”
“You’re Aunt B!” I say, remembering Noah’s story about the women who had raised him.
Her smile widens. “He told you about me?” she says, in a husky twang reminiscent of Dolly Parton. “I guess that’s only fair, because I’ve heard all about you.”
“You have?”
“You’re the editor. The Magic One, he calls you. Oh dang, Bernadette.” She slaps her tan cheek twice. “He’ll kill me if he knows I said that.”
I brighten. On my best days, editing does feel like channeling magic, and it feels good to know Noah said that.
“It’ll be our secret,” I tell Bernadette. “So, what are we doing today?” I glance around the Ikea loading dock at the eighteen-wheelers parked there. Does Noah want to write a book about star-crossed semi drivers?
“You don’t know?” Bernadette tilts her head. “Well, I’ll let him explain,” she says and points over my shoulder where Noah is walking toward us across the lot.
He wears torn jeans, a white T-shirt, black boots. I don’t know if it’s the time we spent together last weekend, or the natural course of moving on after my breakup with Ryan, but Noah looks different to me today.
Maybe it’s as simple as this: For the first time, I let myself fully enjoy the sight of him. The way he ambles. How his thin T-shirt ripples a bit in the wind, revealing an unexpectedly defined chest, lean and muscular. How his hair shines in the sun. When his eyes find mine, I don’t look away. By the time he reaches me, I’m a little out of breath.
“Morning,” he says, his green eyes bright. “Are you ready to ride?”
“Ride what?” I say, as Bernadette rumbles around from the back of the trailer on a vintage Moto Guzzi motorcycle.
“Are you serious?” I gasp.
Tears burn my eyes. I try and fail to fight them back.
Noah’s face falls. “Was this a mistake? I thought . . . after that story about your ex, I hoped you could reclaim the motorcycle for yourself. I never meant—”
“No,” I say, blinking maniacally, “this is a very cool idea. I’m in.”
His smile is wide, relieved.
“Do you ride?” I ask, getting an interesting mental picture. He does wear the boots well.
“Once upon a time I did,” he says, “but I could use a refresher. And B happens to teach a master class.”
“There could definitely be a book in this,” I say, remembering the reason we’re here. Making sure Noah remembers, too.
“Yeah, of course,” he says. “That’s the point.”
“Right.” Somehow the conversation got awkward. It got too close to me. We’re here for professional purposes, bonus points if I learn to do a thing I’ve long wanted to do.
Bernadette cuts the Moto Guzzi’s engine and climbs off the bike. “I hear you’ve got a trip to Italy coming up, Lanie,” she says.
“A possible trip to Italy,” I clarify.
“Well, just in case, Noah asked if I could get you ready to ride the Amalfi Drive. Better safe than sorry.”
We follow Bernadette inside the trailer, which is set up like a classroom, a few desks and a whiteboard at the front, posters of motorcycles on the walls. Bernadette hands us both a liability waiver and a thick packet titled Motorcycle Safety for Beginners.
“For our first couple of hours together,” she says, “I’m legally obligated to bore the pants off you. But after that, I’m going to light a fire under your ass.”
Our morning is fifty percent Bernadette plowing through the course material for the written exam—and fifty percent Noah and I locking eyes as she takes off on wild tangents and hilarious personal anecdotes.
“I learned the hard way,” she says, looking at me, “that it’s a bad idea to cry on a motorcycle. No free hands for tissues. So promise me, Lanie,” she says, wagging a finger, “that you’ll never board your bike in a sorrowful mood.”
In the afternoon, we suit up: hard-knuckled gloves, helmets, goggles. I barely recognize Noah inside all his gear, and it’s kind of a shame. We leave the trailer and walk to the far side of the lot where three customized motorcycles await.
I choose the red Honda because it’s smaller, easier to handle. Bernadette keeps her black Moto Guzzi. That leaves Noah with a sleek Suzuki street bike.
I mount the bike, grip the handlebars, and lean forward. A strange vibration passes through me. I’ve ridden hundreds of times with Ryan, but the joy of wielding a motorcycle by myself is new.
We do practice drills with the engines off. I learn how to walk the bike in neutral, how to let out the clutch smoothly, how to brake with my right hand and foot.
“Ready to fire ’em up?” Bernadette finally says.