I was in bed reading when Andie called. We hadn’t seen each other since the sentencing hearing last month, the week after the book launch. The sentencing had gone off with much less fanfare than when she pleaded guilty. She stood bravely between us as the judge delivered the sentence, grabbing my hand tightly at the very last minute. In what felt like a storybook ending to the first case of my legal career, the judge sentenced her to one thousand hours of community service. Eddie let out an uncharacteristic whoop. She wasn’t going to prison.
“They. Green-lit. The. Movie,” she punctuated breathlessly through the phone the second I picked up.
I sat up straighter, propping the pillows behind me. “You’re kidding. He finished the script?”
“Yes. And it’s brilliant. The dialogue he wrote for Eddie’s character is pure magic. I couldn’t put it down.”
I smiled into the phone. “What happens now?”
“We’re making a movie!” I could hear her jumping up and down.
“Holy shit. You wrote the book that’s becoming George Brenner’s next movie.”
“Wedid it. I’m able to be in New York this weekend to celebrate because of you and Eddie. You better be free tomorrow night.”
“You’re here this weekend?”
“I’m at the Soho House. Leah got me a room.”
“Wow. Where’s dinner?”
“Right here. I’m afraid if I leave, they won’t let me back in.”
“Ha. That’s like ten minutes from my apartment, so that works for me. I don’t travel well these days.”
“Dinner tomorrow at seven then,” she said and hung up.
I sank back down under the covers, uneasy at the idea of being out in the world.
But by morning, something had shifted. For the first time since the investigation began, I woke up feeling a spark of energy. I had plans.
Before heading downstairs to meet Caroline, I flipped through my closet, hunting for something that seemed appropriate for dinner at the Soho House.
I was searching for my keys under a pile of unread mail when Caroline texted to say she’d gone on a “pretty good” date the night before and wasn’t going to be back in time for our farmers market run.
I sighed. I was out of coffee, and while I was finally giving my liver a break, my caffeine addiction had me in a death grip.
I walked to the coffee shop on Jane Street and ordered my usual latte to go, unbuttoning the top few buttons of my coat and loosening my scarf. When had it started to feel like spring?
While waiting for my latte, I checked my emails and was surprised to see an email from Frank Trustman, asking if we could have lunch that week to discuss a thought he had.
“Dinner and a lunch,who are you,” I muttered to myself.
I walked down to Sandro on Bleecker and found a simple black jumpsuit with lightly ruffled sleeves and lace across the front.
I emailed Frank back as I waited to check out.Are you free Wednesday?
Later that night, I walked up Ninth Avenue, passing the door to the Soho House twice before my eye finally caught the covert placard.
“Name,” a woman with a blond bob said flatly.
“Samantha DeFiore. I’m a guest of Andie Reese,” I added, my neck immediately taxed from trying to make eye contact. She barely glanced at the list as she waved me into the tiny elevator behind her.
The doors opened to a dimly lit restaurant. I spotted Andie right away, reading something on her phone. She looked relaxed, as if we were two old friends just meeting up for dinner.
“I know you,” she said, pitching her readers onto the table and giving me a tight hug. “You’re the woman from thatNew York Postheadline.”
“Most cringeworthy headline ever. Even for thePost.”
