Mason finds me in the kitchen.

“Are you ready? We have to get going; it’s a long drive,” he says, sounding annoyed.

“We’re driving? That’s six hours one way, at least.”

He scoffs. “Tell me about it. You didn’t think she’d pay for plane tickets, did you?”

“This is going to be tight. We have to get there, do the interview and return right away.”

Mason starts laughing. “Why is that?”

“I’m going to San Francisco tonight.”

“Not if you want to keep your job. The interview isn’t scheduled until tomorrow afternoon. By the time we wrap up it’ll be evening. We’ll be back Sunday.”

My stomach drops. “Sunday? Oh, no.”

I’ve been planning this getaway for weeks, ever since I found out David was going to California for an interview, around my birthday. That’s when I got the idea of surprising him and showing up in San Francisco for a weekend together. Just the two of us. I even bought a fancy dress and shoes. Thought I’d make an effort.

He makes a dismissive gesture with his arm. “Are you coming or not?”

“I need to go home and get my backpack. It’s already packed.”

“Make it fast. Give me your address, and I’ll come to pick you up.”

My surprise is never going to happen! Our perfect weekend and my perfect birthday. The first one in a long time. Gone.

Three

The trip to Vermont is tedious and long. Still, we both survive, despite stopping somewhere in Massachusetts to grab fast food, which proves to be a bad idea, as I end up with a nasty stomachache. Also, I wish he’d let me drive. I forgot what an aggressive driver he is, and I end up spending most of the six hours there clutching my seat. The only positive thing of the whole drive is seeing a woman truck driver at the fast food stop and coming up with a cute little story about her.

In the morning, I’m sitting in the inn’s lobby, putting the finishing touches on the truck driver’s story in my notebook. I usually write longhand and then transcribe to my laptop.

Mason is out somewhere, undoubtedly charming a poor, unsuspecting woman. When my phone rings and it’s a local number, my immediate thought is that he got into trouble. Hope I don’t have to bail him out of jail or something. “Ms. Maas?” It’s Nakamura’s publicist. “Mr. Nakamura can’t do the interview this evening, but if you can get to his house at ten-thirty, I’ll try to get you in. I’ll call to confirm.”

This is perfect. I text Mason with the good news and twenty minutes later, we’re parked in front of the iron gate that protects the author’s massive property in Stowe.

“We’re early, so I’m going to make a call,” I say, getting out of the car.

“Alisa, I need your help,” I say the moment she picks up.

Alisa is my best friend. We met because we lived in adjacent rooms on the college campus, and we got close because we were both English majors who shared a passion for collecting old books. We got along well but didn’t become what we are today until after graduation when I ran into her in New York City one day.