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“Can I ask you something unrelated?” I say.

“Please,” he says.

“How’s your mom?”

He takes a moment to answer. “The disease is progressing faster than we hoped. The doctor and I need to revise our plans, to prepare. We could have done it over the phone, but I’m her only family. I need to do everything I can.”

“I was ten when my mom died,” I say. “I can’t imagine being responsible for decisions about her care.”

“Would you...” Noah’s eyes meet mine and hold them. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“I was going to ask if you’d like to meet my mother. I think she’d like you, and, to be honest, I could use a friend there with me. If not, I understand, you’ve already taken so much time today—”

“I’d love to,” I say. I’m flattered that he thinks his mother would like me, and that he wants me there.

“Really?” He smiles. “It wouldn’t take long. I’d get you back to Union Station for a later train. I don’t know how she’ll be today, of course. Some days are better than others.”

“Yes,” I tell Noah. “I’d be honored.”

Calla Ross’s apartment at the Chevy Chase House is small and neat, roughly the size of Noah’s studio in Pomander Walk. It smells like lemons and clean sheets. I wait there alone while Noah and his mother meet with the doctor in the care center down the hall.

There’s a La-Z-Boy, a double bed, a TV tuned to reruns ofJeopardy!, and several half-completed knitting projects strewn across the couch. The most prominent feature in the room is a large white bookcase near the window. It is filled exclusively with Noa Callaway books. His mother hasallthe foreign editions—the TurkishNinety-Nine Things;Twenty-One Games with a Strangerin Hebrew; even the brand-new Brazilian edition ofTwo Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows. I take it off the shelf and study the cover, so different from Peony’s punchy graphic design. There aren’t this many Noa Callaway titles in my office, or in Noah’s library on Fifth Avenue.

A queasy feeling comes over me, and when I face it, I know it’s envy. I’m envious of this simple presentation of a mother’s pride. Of all the things I miss about my mother, a sense that she’d approve of me is what I crave the most.

There’s a knock at the door. When I turn around, I see Noah pushing his mother in a wheelchair through the threshold. Calla is thin and frail, but the similarities between mother and son astonish me. She has Noah’s eyes—not just the bright green color, but the same shape and twinkle and intensity. Her hair is curly like his, though long and a silvery gray. He got his nose from her, too, and the same slow, cautious smile, which she is giving me right now.

I put my hand in hers. “Mrs. Ross.”

“Call me Calla, honey.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Calla.”

Noah sits on the couch facing his mom. I put the Brazilian edition back on her shelf and join him.

Calla nods at the books. “My son loved these stories growing up.”

I glance at Noah, unsure how to respond. His face gives away nothing, and my heart goes out to him. As much as I’ve lamented not getting an adult relationship with my mother, I can’t imagine her forgetting me.

“I love them, too,” I say.

Calla smiles at me more broadly now. “Which one is your favorite?”

I lean in closer, drop my voice. “I hear Noa Callaway is writing a new book. It’s supposed to be the best one yet.”

“Did you know that?” Calla asks Noah. “A new book from Noa Callaway!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Noah says, his eyes on me.

“My tender boy,” Calla says. “I worry for you. Love is never so easy as it is on the pages of a book.”

“Mom,” Noah says, his tone half tease, half earnest plea for her to stop. “Bernadette embarrassed me enough in front of Lanie last month. Let me keep a little dignity, if you can.”

I look at Calla, but when I see the blankness in her expression, I understand she doesn’t remember who Bernadette is. I think back to the picture in Noah’s office, when they’d all been young and smiling and well. I look to Noah, wondering what he’s thinking, but he’s looking away.

“That’s nice, dear,” his mother finally says, her tone more distant now. “Have you had breakfast yet? I put the cornflakes on the table.”