And tonight she and Wesley would celebrate her book and maybe finally figure out what they were going to do about each other. But first she had an errand to run. And then she had a book to throw in someone’s face.

* * *

Zach sipped his tea and strolled around the conference room making pleasant small talk with his coworkers at his going-away party. J.P. had hired a very good caterer, but still Zach was taking a lot of ribbing for his refusal to allow J.P. to spring for lunch at The Four Seasons, especially from Mary.

“Recession,” Zach reminded her.

“Tangerine cheesecake,” she countered.

“The lady has a point,” J.P. said. “It’s quite good cheesecake.”

Zach set his tea down. He leaned over the buffet spread, took a plate and filled it with some gourmet cheese and a piece of the cake.

“Here,” he said, handing the plate to J.P. “You two make your own damn cheesecake.”

Zach was secretly touched by how many of his colleagues had bothered to come to the luncheon. He knew free food and a break from the desk and the phone would get almost anyone to an office party, but everyone was talking to him and wishing him well in L.A. He almost regretted how his own grief over Grace had kept him from getting to know some of the other editors better. Americans were a fairly charming group of people. Even New Yorkers, not known for their friendliness, were more immediately affable than most Europeans. He’d decided Americans were quick to like people because they couldn’t conceive of anyone not liking them. Even Nora, who made her money being vicious to people, was without a doubt the most engaging person he’d ever met. He recalled how priggish, at moments outright churlish, he’d been to her at their first meeting, and how she’d responded only with humor and a promise to try harder for him. Looking around the party he felt her absence keenly. Had they not fought, she would be here with him right now, toasting her book’s completion in public, toasting their attraction to each other in private. Last week in anticipation of their first night together, he’d already bought the wine. He’d even bought a candle. He felt a fool for what had happened between them—even worse than losing her book, he’d lost her friendship.

The congenial atmosphere of the little party dampened considerably as Thomas Finley entered and started talking over his coworkers. Zach ignored him, huddling in the corner and chatting with J.P. and Mary about upcoming projects in L.A.

“I’ve only handled a few screenplays,” Zach said. “And the U.K. film scene is quite small. Hollywood might prove to be rather daunting.”

“Faulkner thought so, as well,” J.P. said. “He was working with a director, Howard Hawks, out in California. He told Hawks he thought he’d work better from home. Hawks told him that was fine not realizing Faulkner meant his real home, Mississippi. The man just packed up and went back to Mississippi to work from home.”