BD links an arm through mine as we leave the restaurant. “I foresee success.”

We step back into the city for the pleasant stroll up to Lincoln Center, where she’ll meet her League of Widows.

“I’m glad you’re so confident,” I say as we wait for a crosstown bus to pass. “Should I remind you that in Fifty Ways, the plan backfired horribly? They were supposed to break up their parents. They ended up breaking up themselves, climactically—at their parents’ wedding.”

“Yes, but that was fictional kismet,” BD says and winks at me. “You are my real, live granddaughter, whom I’m proud of and believe in. You are going to rise to this occasion like a Tinder date with a pocket full of Viagra.”

“BD!” I groan. “I’m going to have to work so hard to erase that mental image.”

“I’m sorry, doll, but I couldn’t resist.”

Chapter Eight

On Tuesday, I work from home, ostensibly to edit the third draft of the paranormal ballet manuscript. But really, I am busting my ass to clean my apartment, from worn floorboards to art deco crown-molded ceiling. I may be a mess, but my apartment doesn’t have to be.

I’ve mopped and I’ve dusted. I’ve taken a toothbrush to my grout. I’ve fluffed every pillow and gone through two bottles of Windex. My toilet bowl is sparkling, and the inside of my refrigerator is now scrubbed of last week’s experiment in wilted arugula. I even bought one of those vacuum robots, which is presently chasing poor Alice around my living room and will probably give her tortoise nightmares.

All this because I had the superb idea of inviting Noah Ross over for an editorial powwow.

We can go ahead and blame Terry, who nixed five in a row of my perfectly good ideas for cafés, bistros, and teahouses around the city where the two of us might discreetly meet. Too busy, said Terry, or too loud, or too near the publishers’ lunch circuit (it was on Eleventh Avenue, please!). She rejected one place because they only serve two-percent milk.

Terry was pushing for Noa’s Fifth Avenue penthouse—less hassle for him, was the phrase actually employed—but after last weekend at the chess house, I learned my lesson about meeting Noah on his turf.

Thus I boldly threw my hat-sized apartment into the ring. And I guess Terry couldn’t come up with any objections that wouldn’t have sounded prohibitively rude, so she ended up agreeing. I’d felt vindicated hanging up the phone.

Ten seconds later, the cleaning panic set in.

My goal is to make my apartment a completely neutral site, where the water stains on my windowsill and the lopsided lampshade in the entry hall won’t distract us from focusing on Noa Callaway’s next book.