“I will go to Mars if you get me a draft before I leave. But realistically, Noah, we don’t even have a premise yet.” I press the invitation back into his hands. “I’m honored that you asked me. And it’s really generous of your Italian publisher, but until both our careers aren’t teetering on the brink, I can’t in good conscience accept.”

Noah scratches his head. He looks stunned. “I didn’t even get to lay out my conditions.”

“You and your conditions,” I say. But I’m curious. “Well, let’s have them. Just in case.”

“It’s really only one condition,” he says. “Payback for your list. My List.”

“Your list of what?”

“I lived in Positano for two months to research Vows. I know the best place to buy the vintage designer souvenirs for your grandmother—and where you can get a great Piedirosso around the corner.”

“I never say no to a glass of Peidirosso,” I say, hoping I’ve guessed correctly that this is a type of wine. The idea of traveling around Italy with a list of Noa Callaway’s favorite local haunts in my pocket fills me with a secret glee. People would bid on eBay for such a thing.

Not that I’m going to Italy.

And then I realize: This is the first time I’ve reconciled Noah Ross and Noa Callaway as the same entity. It happened without my noticing. I wonder, if I can get comfortable with the man behind the books, could the readers? Could the press?

I want to explore this with Sue, and with Noah. Once we have a manuscript.

“I accept your condition,” I say, “on the condition that—”

“We have a book?”

“Exactly,” I say, “so in the meantime . . .” I motion at the museum around us.

Noah catches my drift, and we turn our attention back to the Cloisters. I mentally put on my Noa Callaway glasses and try to see the gardens through their lens.

Across the fountain, there’s an older woman in a wheelchair being pushed by a pretty young girl. Likely her granddaughter. I watch the girl excuse herself around a young gardener who’s toting a giant bag of sod. I point them out to Noah and lean in to whisper.

“So, what if . . .” I say, “he’s the caretaker of the garden. The horticulturist. And she’s the caretaker of the lady in the wheelchair. Who wants to be brought to the Cloisters each week. They see each other a dozen times. I’m talking lingering glances, a couple of ‘excuse me’s.’ Each is forming opinions—all wrong!—about who the other is. And then one day . . .” I trail off, thinking. “What happens? Who would break the ice? Maybe it’s the old lady. She wants to live to see her granddaughter find love, so she slips the gardener the girl’s number?”