“I don’t want to look like Georgia O’Keeffe’s grandfather on the book.”

“You won’t.” It was quite an image. She had looked him up on the Internet, and knew that he was forty-six years old, and now she remembered what he looked like. He was a good-looking man. And his voice sounded young and energetic, even if he was sick.

“Are you okay at the hotel?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him again.

“I really appreciate your coming over here on such short notice. I don’t know what my publisher was thinking, they forgot we needed a photo for the book, and they just reminded me this week. It’s a little crazy, with Christmas and everything. I asked them to contact you, but I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I had no other plans. I was going to Cape Cod, and it’s actually more fun to be here.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “I live in Ireland, but it’s pretty depressing there this time of year too. I have a house here that I use whenever I’m not writing. Have you ever been to Ireland?” he asked with sudden interest, and then succumbed to another fit of coughing.

“Not in a long time,” she admitted. “It’s very pretty, but I haven’t had any reason to go there in years. I like it better in the summer.”

“Me too, but the wet, brooding winters are good for my writing,” he laughed then, “and Ireland is good for my taxes. Writers don’t pay income tax in Ireland, which is pretty cool. I took Irish citizenship two years ago. It works well for me,” he said, sounding pleased, and she laughed.

“That sounds like a great deal. Was your family Irish?” Given his name, she assumed they were, and enjoyed chatting with him. It was a good opportunity to get to know him a little better, even if on the phone. The more they talked, the more at ease with her he would be when they finally met and worked together.

“My parents were Irish, born in Ireland, but I was born in New York.