“We’re . . . in conversation about it,” I say. There have been a couple of emails from Noah, feeling out the particulars. Would we leak it to the press? Would he write an editorial? Would the two of us give interviews? Together? How close to publication should such a thing take place? And with what tone? What would be the rip cord if everything went to hell?

I’ve played it casual, optimistic, and slightly vague in my responses to him. The truth is, I need Meg to brainstorm a strategy with me. And then there’s Sue . . .

“What about Sue?” Meg asks.

I look away, do some thumb twiddling. “You know, I think she’s sort of interested in keeping things status quo. . . .”

Meg snorts. “You’d need to leverage her with a killer manuscript.”

I nod.

“And Noah needs to want this for himself. No equivocating. If that’s the case, and you’ve convinced Sue not to fire us all, I think we could spin a story to the press.” She raps her nails on her desk, thinking. “What we wouldn’t want is the Post scooping it first—the headline would kill us.”

“ ‘Dude Writes Like a Lady.’ ”

“New York mag would be good, or we could see about Jacqueline covering it for the Times. We’d have to get Patrisse involved for marketing.”

I give her a cross-desk hug. “Thank you, Meg.”

“It will be a giant effing headache,” she says, slurping her coffee with a shake of her head. “Let’s just pray this book is good enough to ride it out.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Aude: Guess what arrived? Attached is a picture of the metal Brinks briefcase sitting on my desk, with a mason jar of golden tulips atop it.

“I’ll do more than pray,” I say, and flash my phone at Meg before sprinting back to my desk.

My calls are held. My door is locked. My email set to OOO. The rain out my window is a bonus, as my noise-canceling headphones pipe in soothing river sounds.

I light a Diptyque candle, dim my overhead lights, and pour a cup of rooibos tea from the giant pot I brewed. Altogether, my first-read setup is something close to bliss. I’m ready to leave this world, with all its anxieties, and enter Edward and Elizabeth’s: