I’m about to say “scattered,” because how does one place confetti, when Meg says: “Placed so that it appears to be scattered.”
I take out my phone to snap a picture of the space. I can’t get it all in the frame but I find a sparkly angle. I’m about to send it to my boss when I remember her baby’s ear infection. Alix has been in and out of urgent care the past few nights, and I don’t want to wake her if she’s napping.
Meg leads me to the back of the room, where she gestures grandly at a white stack of Noa’s new books, hot off the press and arranged in the shape of a wedding cake.
“Ta-da!”
“You did all this in thirty minutes?” I high-five Meg. “Looks like those hours of Magna-Tiles with the Boss paid off.” The Boss is what I call Meg’s three-year-old, Harrison, though her one-year-old, Stella, is gunning for the title, too.
She nods. “Master taught me well.”
Gingerly I lift a book off the top of the tower and run my fingers over the embossed type. I’ve had a hand in every aspect of Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows, and it’s a rush to hold a finished copy before it’s officially out in the world. I open to the title page and see Noa Callaway’s florid signature scrawled in fountain pen. It makes me smile to picture Noa signing these from her fancy Fifth Avenue penthouse.
“Sorry I missed the book drop-off,” I say. “Was the Terrier rabid?”
“Actually, she was in a good mood,” Meg says. “She even wondered whether there was anything else we needed.”
“No way.”
“I asked if she’d give Tommy his monthly hand job.”
“God bless Terry,” I say, side-glancing Meg. “It’s not really that bad with Tommy?”
“Talk to me when you’ve been married for eight years.”
“Sounds like y’all need a date night. Any interesting Valentine’s plans?”
Meg sighs. “My mom is taking the kids to some Chinese New Year thing.”
“There you go.”
“Tommy and I will probably spend the day at home, wearing charcoal masks and scrolling on our phones from different rooms. I’m honestly looking forward to it. Sometimes we’ll forward each other a funny tweet. And that’s what passes for romance in the Wang household.”
“Meg, you need to get laid. Not Twitter-laid. Same room, actual-sex-laid. Promise me.”
She rolls her eyes. “What about you? Please say a quickie with Ryan on the subway so I’ll have something to fantasize about.”
I’m grinning, and I know it’s annoying, but I can’t help it. “We have no plans. Maybe a walk in the park, a wander into some antiques stores, brunch somewhere we’ve never been—”
Meg waves me off. “If it’s not pornographic, I don’t really need to know. I’m going to remind you of this when you’re married and trying to pretend Valentine’s Day doesn’t exist. Speaking of marriage,” she says, more cheerily, giving me a nudge. “Did ya pick a date yet?”
She knows we haven’t, and she knows I find it maddening that Every Single Person asks this question.
“No, but I did choose your bridesmaid dress. Get ready to look smashing in mauve.”
Meg blinks at me. She’s thirty-four and was born way over weddings. “Good thing I love you.”
“I’m joking. You fell hard for that.”
“It’s this room! Heart-shaped confetti is seeping into my brain.” Meg rubs her temples. “I’ll wear whatever you want, whenever you decide you want it.” She leans against me and together we survey the room. “I bet for an extra grand, we could keep these tables another day and throw your wedding right here. Save you a lot of hassle.”
I laugh, but it comes out forced. Meg doesn’t notice. She’s asking for my phone and trying to flag down Aude to copy my playlist. I hand the phone to her and she disappears, leaving me alone at the altar.
I try to picture Ryan waiting for me beneath these ranunculus and twinkle lights—or even at a real oceanfront destination, like we’ve discussed a couple times. I can’t see it. And after a moment of trying, tears sting my eyes.
I move to the window, where no one can see me wipe them away. Every time I think of our wedding—I get stuck.
For some reason the idea of getting married, of taking the big next step in my life, sends my heart back to the child I was when I lost my mom. When I think of a wedding without her in the pictures, I find that I can’t pick a date—or a venue, or a dress, or a cake, or a first song to dance to with my dad. Because she won’t be there to experience it.
Aude finds me at the window. She’s holding out my buzzing phone.
It’s probably Ryan. When he gets to Penn Station, he always checks in about dinner, which is always Italian takeout from Vito’s on nights I’m working late. I’m trying to push away thoughts of my mother, to focus on whether baked ziti or eggplant parm will hit the spot around ten, but when I glance at my phone, it’s not his name on the screen.
It’s Frank, executive assistant to our president and publisher, Sue Reese.
Can you meet with Sue at 4:30?
I blink at the message. It’s four-fifteen right now.
My chest tightens. In all the years I’ve worked at Peony, Sue’s calendar has been meticulously organized weeks in advance. She doesn’t do impromptu.
Something’s up. Something big.
Chapter Three
Sue’s assistant, Frank, is the kind of man who always offers you hot tea with a great big smile when you arrive for a meeting, then frowns when you take him up on it. Generally, I make a habit of trying not to annoy Frank, but today I’m so nervous that I accidentally blurt out “yes.”
“Hmph,” Frank says, rising from his desk with the kettle.
“Do you know what this meeting is about?” I ask, following him to the kitchen.
Frank has been Sue’s assistant for over twenty years, ever since she founded Peony in the late nineties. I’ve seen him rattle off a thousand facts about Sue into the phone, right off the top of his head—her passport number, her mother-in-law’s favorite flowers, the date of her last gynecological exam.
“I don’t think you’re getting fired,” he calls over his shoulder, “but I’ve been wrong before.”
“Thanks.”
“You don’t take milk or sugar or anything, right?” he asks, his tone directing me toward the right answer.
I shake my head.
“The toughest people take it straight.” He hands me the mug, then says more brightly, “Go on in. She’ll be right with you.”
I open the door to our publisher’s corner office and step tentatively inside. Sue’s spa—as Meg and I call it—is the only office at Peony that doesn’t look like a romance publishing office. Every other employee has some variation of wall-to-wall bookshelves crammed with loudly colored spines, but Sue’s office is entirely white. The white desk is devoid of papers, the white leather chairs are smooth as cream, and the white modernist coat rack harbors three white cardigans, each one with some expensive flourish, like pale pink leather elbow patches.
The only pops of color come from three large hanging ferns and three framed photographs of sons who look like mini-Sues but with braces. I’ve never met Sue’s kids before, but I have seen her water her plants, and her surprising devotion to them lets me know she’s a really good mom.