Completely (New York 3)

“Well, my big plan, I suppose. After I divorced Winston, I decided to do all the things I’d wanted to do before we married—mainly, to climb the Seven Summits, and also to become a published writer. So I pitched this book idea to an agent, that I would climb my way to the summits, and I’d write about my journey—you know, as a woman, spiritually, what it meant to be reclaiming myself through these climbs. That was the logline, at any rate.”

“What’s a logline?”

She tossed her hair off her shoulders, down her back. “Oh, like the first line of a movie trailer, or the description on the back of the novel. One woman’s inspiring journey, et cetera.”

“But you’ve gone off track?”

“The avalanche wasn’t a big help, but even before that, I’ve been having trouble finding the inspiring bits. Feeling inspired. It’s gotten rather plodding.”

“The writing, or the book?”

“Both, I think.”

She met his eyes, and he thought for a moment there was a question there, a hesitation, but he didn’t know what it meant. Something she wasn’t telling him?

Or something she didn’t want him to know?

He couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t in the mood to chase the impression. “We’re going in there.” He pointed at the door, which featured the name of the restaurant on a laminated piece of printer paper. “Down the hall, past the cellphone place.”

“Really.” She drew out the word with surprise and a hint of distaste.

“Some big food writer profiled Lhasa Diner a few months ago, so it’s popular with hip New York.”

“I see.”

She retrieved her phone and poked the screen. “It’s already half an hour since he phoned. Why don’t you join us for lunch?”

“Will that be weird, me crashing lunch with your editor?”

“He’s not my editor, I don’t think, only someone my editor wants me to speak with. And meetings are meetings. They’re only weird if you let them be.”

She said it like a woman who’d managed a lot of meetings with a lot of people and never met one yet that could intimidate her, which made him smile. He was curious about her book, and more curious how she would manage him and this editor she’d never met in the utterly unfamiliar environment of Jackson Heights, Queens, U.S.A.

“All right.” He held the door open for her. “After you, princess.”

She swept through, trim and regal in her fancy suit, and amusement in her eyes that was just for him.

—

Rosemary’s appointment showed up twenty minutes late, a dark-skinned man in a gold blazer wearing round tortoiseshell frames. “You must be Rosemary.” He beamed. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. “I’m Nikil.”

“Lovely to meet you.” She rose to shake his hand. “This is my friend Kal Beckett. I invited him to join us.”

“Of course. Did you guys order? I love this place. I come here all the time for the momos—best momos in New York. You guys like momos?”

He glanced at Rosemary, then at Kal, who said, “Sure.”

“I’ll go ahead and order. You’re not vegetarian?” Again he looked at Rosemary, with a brief flick of his eyes toward Kal. Back to Rosemary.

“No.”

“Great. Hey!” He snapped his fingers in the direction of the counter. When the woman behind it looked up, he said, “Can we get some beef momos, some chive and beef, um, an order of chicken, and that soup you have with the thick noodles?” The woman said a word that sounded like ten-took. “Yeah, three of those. And drinks?” He turned to Rosemary. “You want a beer?”

“We don’t have beer,” the woman said.

“Right, you guys don’t do alcohol. Some water, then. Thanks.”

Nikil pulled out a chair and settled himself beside Rosemary. Only two of the other tables were occupied, one with a younger white couple, the other with an older Asian man.