And I love taking Bea and Tala to explore the city too, watching what mesmerizes a four-and-a-half-year-old and a newly three-year-old and which trappings of the city they walk right past, accepting as commonplace.
Mom came to New York hoping for the set of a Nora Ephron movie (my namesake), but the real New York is so much better. Because every kind of person is there, coexisting, sharing space and life.
Still, my love for New York doesn’t preclude me from being charmed by Sunshine falls.
In fact, I’m buzzing with excitement as I near the lending library. When I peer into the dark windows, the buzzing cuts out. The white stone facade of the building is exactly how Dusty described it, but inside, there’s nothing but flickering TVs and neon beer signs.
It’s not like I expected the widowed Mrs. Wilder to be an actual person, but Dusty made the lending library so vivid I was sure it was a real place.
The excitement sours, and when I think of Libby, it curdles entirely. This is not what she’s expecting, and I’m already trying to figure out how to manage her expectations, or at least present her with a fun consolation prize.
I pass a few empty storefronts before I reach the awning of the general store. One glance at the windows tells me there are no racks of fresh bread or barrels of old-fashioned candy waiting inside.
The glass panes are grimy with dust, and beyond them, what I see can only be described as random shit. Shelves and shelves of junk. Old computers, vacuum cleaners, box fans, dolls with ratty hair. It’s a pawnshop. And not a well-kept one.
Before I can make eye contact with the bespectacled man hunched at the desk, I push on until I come even with the yellow-umbrellaed patio on the far side of the street.
At least there are signs of life there, people milling in and out, a couple chatting with cups of coffee at one of the tables. That’s promising. Ish.
I check both ways for traffic (none) before running across the street. The gold-embossed sign over the doors reads MUG + SHOT, and there are people waiting inside at a counter.
I cup my hands around my eyes, trying to see through the glare on the glass door, just as the man on the far side of it starts to swing it open.
3
THE MAN’S EMERALD green eyes go wide. “Sorry!” he cries as I swiftly sidestep the door without any damage.
It’s not often that I’m stunned into silence.
Now, though, I’m staring, silent and agog, at the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.
Golden-blond hair, a square jaw, and a beard that manages to be rugged without looking unruly. He’s brawny — the word pops into my head, supplied by a lifetime of picking over Mom’s old Harlequin paperbacks — his (flannel) shirt snug, the sleeves rolled up his tan forearms.
With a sheepish smile, he steps aside, holding the door for me.
I should say something.
Anything.
Oh, no, my fault! I was in the way.
I’d even settle for a strangled Hello, good sir.
Unfortunately, it’s not happening, so I cut my losses, force a smile, and slip past him through the door, hoping I look like I know where I am and have definitely come here on purpose.
I never loved Mom’s small-town romance novels the way Libby does, but I’ve enjoyed enough that it shouldn’t surprise me that my next thought is, He smells like evergreens and impending rain.
Except it does, because men don’t smell like that.
They smell like sweat, bar soap, or a little too much cologne.
But this man is mythic, the too-shiny lead in a rom-com that has you shouting, NO DAIRY FARMER HAS THOSE ABS.
And he’s smiling at me.
Is this how it happens? Pick a small town, take a walk, meet an impossibly good-looking stranger? Were my exes onto something?
His smile deepens (matching dimples; of course) as he nods and releases the door.
And then I’m watching him through the window as he walks away, my heart whirring like an overheated laptop.
When the stars in my eyes fade, I find myself not atop Mount Olympus but in a coffee shop with exposed brick walls and old wooden floors, the smell of espresso thick in the air. At the back of the shop, a door opens onto a patio. The light streaming in hits a glass display case of pastries and plastic-wrapped sandwiches, and I basically hear angels singing.
I get into line and scope out the crowd, a mix of hip, outdoorsy types in strappy hiking sandals and people in worn-out jeans and mesh-backed hats. Toward the front of the line, though, there’s yet another good-looking man.
Two in my first hour here. An exceptional ratio.
He’s not as striking as the door-holding Adonis, but good-looking in the way of a mere mortal, with coarse, dark hair and a lean elegance. He’s around my height, maybe a hair taller or shorter, dressed in a black sweatshirt whose sleeves are pushed up and olive trousers with black shoes I have no choice but to describe as sexy. I can only see his face in profile, but it’s a nice profile. Full lips, slightly jutted chin, sharp nose, eyebrows halfway between Cary Grant and Groucho Marx.
Actually, he kind of looks like Charlie Lastra.
Like, a lot like him.
The man glances sidelong at the display case, and the thought pops across my brain like a series of bottle rockets: It’s him. It’s him. It’s him.
My stomach feels like someone tied it to a brick and threw it over a bridge.
There’s no way. It’s weird enough that I’m here — there’s no way he is too.
And yet.
The longer I study him, the more unsure I am. Like when you think you spot a celebrity in person but the longer you gawk, the more sure you become that you’ve never actually looked at Matthew Broderick’s nose before, and for all you can remember, he might not have one at all.
Or when you try to draw a car during a game of Pictionary and find out you have no idea what cars look like.
The person at the front of the line pays, and the queue shifts forward, but I duck out, tucking myself on the far side of a bookshelf filled with board games.
If it really is Charlie, it would be mortifying for him to see me hiding here — like seeing your stodgiest teacher outside a teens-only club while wearing a crop top and fake belly button ring (not that I had that experience [I did]) — but if it’s not, I can put this to rest easily. Maybe.
I get out my phone and open my email app, searching his name. Aside from our first heated email exchange, there’s only one more recent message from him, the mass email he sent with his new contact information when he moved from Wharton House to become an editor-at-large at Loggia six months back. I tap out a quick email to the new address.
Charlie,
New MS in the works. Trying to recalclass="underline" how do you feel about talking animals?
Nora
It’s not like I expect an out-of-office reply to detail where he’s traveling, or what precise coffee shop he’s likely to be in, but at least I’ll know if he’s away from work.
But my phone doesn’t beep with an auto-reply.
I peer around the shelf. The man who may or may not be my professional nemesis slides his phone from his pocket, head bowing and lips thinning into an unimpressed line. Only they’re still too full, so basically he’s pouting. He types for a minute, then puts his phone away.
An honest-to-god chill slithers down my spine when my phone buzzes in my hand.
It’s a coincidence. It has to be.