“But celebrities do live here?”

“Not really,” Leslie says. “Which is fine by us. The last thing we want are paparazzi waiting outside. Or, God forbid, something as awful as what happened at the Dakota. Our residents tend to be quietly wealthy. They like their privacy. A good many of them use dummy corporations to buy their apartments so their purchase doesn’t become public record.”

The elevator comes to a rattling stop at the top of the stairs, and Leslie says, “Here we are. Twelfth floor.”

She yanks open the grate and steps out, her heels clicking on the floor’s black-and-white subway tile.

The hallway walls are burgundy, with sconces placed at regular intervals. We pass two unmarked doors before the hall dead-ends at a wide wall that contains two more doors. Unlike the others, these are marked.

12A and 12B.

“I thought there were four units on each floor,” I say.

“There are,” Leslie says. “Except this one. The twelfth floor is special.”

I glance back at the unmarked doors behind us. “Then what are those?”

“Storage areas. Access to the roof. Nothing exciting.” She reaches into her attaché to retrieve a set of keys, which she uses to unlock 12A. “Here’s where the real excitement is.”

The door swings open, and Leslie steps aside, revealing a tiny and tasteful foyer. There’s a coatrack, a gilded mirror, and a table containing a lamp, a vase, and a small bowl to hold keys. My gaze moves past the foyer, into the apartment proper, and to a window directly opposite the door. Outside is one of the most stunning views I’ve ever seen.

Central Park.

Late fall.

Amber sun slanting across orange-gold leaves.

All of it from a bird’s-eye view of one hundred fifty feet.

The window providing the view stretches from floor to ceiling in a formal sitting room on the other side of a hallway. I cross the hall on legs made wobbly by vertigo and head to the window, stopping when my nose is an inch from the glass. Straight ahead are Central Park Lake and the graceful span of Bow Bridge. Beyond them, in the distance, are snippets of Bethesda Terrace and the Loeb Boathouse. To the right is the Sheep Meadow, its expanse of green speckled with the forms of people basking in the autumn sun. Belvedere Castle sits to the left, backdropped by the stately gray stone of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I take in the view, slightly breathless.

I’ve seen it before in my mind’s eye as I read Heart of a Dreamer. This is the exact view Ginny had from her apartment in the book. Meadow to the south. Castle to the north. Bow Bridge dead center—a bull’s-eye for all her wildest dreams.

For a brief moment, it’s my reality. In spite of all the shit I’ve gone through. Maybe even because of it. Being here has the feel of fate somehow intervening, even as I’m again struck by that all-consuming thought—I do not belong here.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I pry myself away from the window. “I think there’s been a huge misunderstanding.”

There are many ways Leslie Evelyn and I could have gotten our wires crossed. The ad on Craigslist could have contained the wrong number. Or I might have made a mistake in dialing. When Leslie answered, the call was so brief that confusion was inevitable. I thought she was looking for an apartment sitter. She thought I was looking for an apartment. Now here we are, Leslie tilting her head to give me a confused look and me in awe of a view that, let’s face it, was never intended to be seen by someone like me.

“You don’t like the apartment?” Leslie says.

“I love it.” I indulge in another quick peek out the window. I can’t help myself. “But I’m not looking for an apartment. I mean, I am, but I could save every penny until I’m a hundred and I still wouldn’t be able to afford this place.”

“The apartment isn’t available yet,” Leslie says. “It just needs someone to occupy it for the next three months.”

“There’s no way someone would willingly pay me to live here. Even for three months.”

“You’re wrong there. That’s exactly what we want.”

Leslie gestures to a sofa in the center of the room. Upholstered in crimson velvet, it looks more expensive than my first car. I sit tentatively, afraid one careless motion could ruin the whole thing. Leslie takes a seat in a matching easy chair opposite the sofa. Between us is a mahogany coffee table on which rests a potted orchid, its petals white and pristine.

Now that I’m no longer distracted by the view, I see how the entire sitting room is done up in reds and wood tones. It’s comfortable, if a bit stuffy. Grandfather clock ticking away in the corner. Velvet curtains and wooden shutters at the windows. Brass telescope on a wooden tripod, aimed not at the heavens but at Central Park.

The wallpaper is a red floral pattern—an ornate expanse of petals spread open like fans and overlapping in elaborate combinations. At the ceiling are matching strips of crown molding, the plaster blossoming into curlicues at the corners.

“Here’s the situation,” Leslie says. “Another rule at the Bartholomew is that no unit can stay empty for more than a month. It’s an old rule and, some would say, a strange one. But those of us who live here agree that an occupied building is a happy one. Some of the places around here? They’re half-empty most of the time. Sure, people might own the apartments, but they’re rarely in them. And it shows. Walk into some of them and you feel like you’re in a museum. Or, worse, a church. Then there’s security to think about. If word gets out that a place in the Bartholomew is going to be empty for a few months, there’s no telling who might try to break in.”