“You make me sound like a troublemaker.”

“Oh, you are a troublemaker,” said Nora. “It’s no good looking innocent and pretending you have no idea what you’re doing. I know exactly what you’re doing.”

Perhaps you’d like to tell me, then, thought Todd.

“I just want to protect the integrity of the book,” he said.

“Oh, surely,” said Nora. “And we appreciate that. But we also appreciate a little power game too. Most of our authors are so simple. They come here, they eat the lunch and drink the cocktails and they don’t say a damn thing when we mention editors, or rewrites. They just nod their heads because they’re not listening. You know why?”

“Because they’re drunk?” said Todd, and wished he hadn’t. Nora’s gaze was beyond steely now.

“Because they’re waiting for us to mention the money. The advance. The royalty. They just want to know about their cut. But with you—we didn’t even get that far.”

She reduced the steeliness of her look by about fifty percent.

“Which is refreshing, Mr. Milstead. Because it means we can work together.”

“It does?” said Todd, confused now.

“I called my grandfather,” said Nora. “He’s retired but he’s also kind of a… a resource. And he said, and I quote, if the guy doesn’t care about the money, he’s an idiot.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t care about the money,” Todd said hurriedly.

“But if he doesn’t care about the book, he’s more of an idiot,” finished Nora. “He advised me to offer you a pathetic advance, Mr. Milstead, as a tribute to your mulish tenacity, in return for which we will present your book to the world just as you wrote it.”

Todd took a moment to realize what Nora had just said.

“Thanks,” he said, then, “Thank you very much.”

“It really will be a risible advance,” said Nora.

“But advances are loans anyway,” Carrie pointed out.

“You know what?” said Todd, suddenly elated. “I don’t care.”

And he didn’t. For the first time in his life, Todd Milstead had followed his dream and his dream hadn’t told him to go home.

“How about another Manhattan?” he said.

*  *  *

That night, Todd called Sara. She was, if anything, more elated than he was.

“So what happens now?” she said.

“I sign the contract tomorrow morning in their office and fly home,” said Todd. “And then I guess I’m a published author.”

“Published author.” Sara savored the phrase. “That sounds sexy. Which reminds me, you going to hit the strip joints tonight?”

“No,” said Todd.

“What? A night in New York and you’re not going to Forty-second Street?”

“I am not.”

“No titty bars for Todd? Not even a porno theater? I hear those places are bad.”