But that wasn’t the message at all, and everyone in Fifty Ways made it down the fictional cliff in one piece. The message, as I understood it, was that some people can look into the abyss without losing sight of themselves or what they love. Without being too scared about what lies on the other side.

Maybe my mom’s last words to me were an act of bravery. She wasn’t worried that I was too young to handle them. She trusted me enough to make a leap.

Did she also trust that when the time came for me to make my own leap, I’d be able to feel her with me? Is that moment now?

“Are you saying Noah Ross is my abyss?” I ask BD.

“Maybe,” she says. “I’m also saying the man needs a taste of his own medicine. No one ‘uses up’ this city, and if he thinks he’s the lone ranger who’s done it, he’s got another think coming. You might have to be his tour guide on this adventure. It just might take you fifty ways.”

“What do you mean? We go hang gliding over the Hudson? No, thanks.”

“I mean take him to the places you take me,” she says. “This charming hole-in-the-wall, for example.”

“It’s the best Ethiopian food in the city.”

“And maybe Noa Callaway has never sampled its delicacies or thought about writing of them. He writes about the big tourist attractions. Show him your New York.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Remember when you took me to the Lithuanian consulate for Užgavėnės a couple years ago? That was fun!”

“I remember you went home with the consulate general’s phone number,” I say.

“Exactly. I’d even go so far as to call it inspiring.”

“I took you there because I love you. Because I wasn’t scared you’d mock it or think it was boring. I am not showing that man my New York.”

“You know it’s a good idea, though,” BD says, sipping the last of her coffee.

“He probably does need to get out from behind his desk more often,” I acknowledge. “At the park, he had the look of someone who hasn’t seen the sun in a month.”

“See?”

“I could ask Terry to take to him to some new places,” I say. “I wish I could get overtime approved for Aude to do it. She’d have him whipped into shape in a week. . . .”

“Lanie, you are Noa Callaway’s editor.” BD shoulders her Birkin and rises from the table. “If Noa doesn’t write this book, Terry and Aude will still have jobs. Will you?”

I worry a hole in the paper tablecloth, not liking where this conversation is headed. Not able to stop it, either.

“Fine,” I say, standing up. “I will consider proposing a visit to someplace in New York that Noah Ross has likely overlooked.”