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Hope ebbs as I read line after line without any mention of William. The farther I go down the list, the more space the people mentioned occupy in Green’s heart. I’m just about to give up entirely after the mention of Green’s Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, when my eyes fall on the name. I slow down. Read.

And to Will Pennington, my longsuffering listener, relentless encourager, the one without whom I could do none of this, thank you. You are not only the greatest editor I could ask for but the most selfless, generous human being I aspire to live up to. The next round’s on me, friend.

Will Pennington. Longsuffering listener.

Relentless . . . encourager.

Not just a, but the most generous, selfless human being. On the earth.

Wow. I was pretty pleased when one of my authors called me “smart,” and Will over here is basically getting the Nobel Peace Prize.

And how exactly would I define my mystery editor?

Hmm.

I swipe to my photos and tap on the latest picture I took today of a comment.

If you use “suddenly” one more time, I’m going to die from overexposure. Cut. The. Adverbs.

Yeah.

“Selfless, generous human being” isn’t the vibe coming to mind.

The machine beside me buzzes, and I look up.

“Well, lookee there, Sav,” Ferris says, pausing in his move to stand up, the newest blood-donor T-shirt in one hand. “You finished before Olivia.”

Dad—who has been preoccupied trying to decide whether to take a large or extra-large T-shirt declaring Keep Calm and Give Blood—turns as he sees the nurse coming up to my side and switching off the machine. Olivia, with her half-drunk Nalgene of water in one hand, frowns from her chair.

“How wonderful,” Mom exclaims. She and Dad are gazing at me as though I just declared I’d been made publisher of Pennington. I would roll my eyes but for the real sense of glowing pride hidden deep inside.

Ferris grins. Even he looks proud. “Well. I guess it looks like you were doing something right after all.”

Chapter 10

“And if Pennington is going to be the type of institution that throws out empty promises without actual performance, then my client and I will not be able to stand idly by . . .”

“Yes, Diann,” I say over my shoulder. “But if you recall, we were able to get Annabelle’s work included in both the Gardens and More and Ladies Tea Society magazines just last month.”

I’m listening as I stand at the window centered between my desk and Lyla’s, watching the scene below through faded, fringed lace curtains. The historic street is covered with equally old and beautiful Victorians, all with wide porches and gabled roofs, baby-blue porch ceilings and bay windows. But it’s not the beauty of the elaborate gingerbread trim on the whimsical yellow house across the street I’m distracted by at the moment. It’s Will. With his hand ever so gently resting on the back of Ms. Pennington’s coat as he walks her down the cracked sidewalk off the street and opens the door of her car for her to slip in.

I smile to myself as I watch the car turn on and him stand there silently, hands in his pockets, waiting as she drives off for some meeting or other.

Suddenly there’s a tug on my shirt and I swivel my head to look down, brought back to the present as my author’s literary agent continues her monologue on speakerphone.

Lyla, from her seat, mouths, “I need your opinion.”

“Let’s not be coy about it, Savannah,” Diann continues. “We both know Annabelle’s release was included in a mere roundup, and both of those publications have a tenth of the subscriber list of Landscape and Leisure. But Oswald Makers, on the other hand, was featured in . . .”

Oswald. Poor sweet Oswald never has a clue how much drama his success causes us. Our publicist, Marge, sends out all our titles to the same relevant magazines and publications. It’s not our fault that the editors always snatch up Oswald’s newest titles and only occasionally want to include anyone else’s. And if I had a dollar for every time my authors’ literary agents got on the phone bright and early the morning after whatever publication released . . .

“I would be happy to ask Marge to email you the list of magazines she is sending Annabelle’s latest out to,” I say, while across from me Lyla clicks between two graphics and points.

I shrug. From my vantage point, they look identical. “They’re the same,” I mouth back, which clearly, from her expression, was the absolute wrong thing to say. Her blue eyes get a bit of fire in them as she jabs one long pink fingernail at the text of one graphic, clicks over, then jabs her finger at the other.

“The point is when my client decided to make the move from Sutnam Press, we were under the impression Pennington believed strongly in the potential of Annabelle’s manuscripts. But instead of fulfilled promises, all we have seen the last few months has been favoritism for particular clients—”

“I don’t know,” I mouth as Lyla jabs her finger from one identical graphic to another faster.