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I step toward her. Tap her on the shoulder.

She jolts. Lifts her head. Pulls the earbud out of her ear.

“Time for the meeting,” I say.

“Can’t,” she chirps. “I’m still on probation.”

Evidently after Lyla had it out with Dr. Shaw, Will put her on “probation” for the foreseeable future from all meetings, all phone calls, and all emails with any human being at all. She’s basically in work jail, spending her nine-to-five time designing with zero communication with human beings (aside from myself and Will, who is evidently acting as her email liaison), and I’ve never seen her happier.

“Oh, right. Okay . . . then. I’m off,” I say and move for the door.

“Have fun,” she replies vaguely, her eyes back on her computer.

I move down the stairs. This isn’t an ordinary meeting. Ms. Pennington’s assistant, Brittney, sent out the memo just yesterday, informing everyone of an all-staff meeting the following morning. All appointments were expected to be canceled. Any traveling plans for the day to be put on hold. Whatever announcement to come must be important, and everyone (barring probation-Lyla happily sketching away upstairs) is expected to be there.

I walk into the Magnolia Room and faintly recall, as I take my place in the back, how I stood here the day Will was first introduced to the company. How I tripped on this very carpet, and Will picked up my manuscript page. Handed it back without a word.

I thought he was terribly intimidating that day, the first time I stood up and discovered myself staring into the chest of the man who was to be my boss. Daunting with his intense, icicle-blue eyes. His perfectly tailored suit.

But now . . .

Will Pennington takes the podium, looking exactly as he did that first day. Tailored suit. Intense expression. All hints of cheerfulness far, far away.

The room stills as he looks around at the staff members gathered within.

“Thank you, everyone, for meeting on such short notice. My mother”—he gives the briefest nod to Ms. Pennington, who sits upright in the front row, her legs tightly crossed at the ankles and a begrudgingly approving smile on her lips—“and I have called you here today to discuss the situation with Pennington Publishing and its future.”

A ripple of murmurs passes through the room, no doubt led by fear.

“It is no secret that the publishing industry everywhere has been impacted by the recent economic struggle, and smaller houses like ours have been hit even more so. But while Pennington has tightened its budget and even its staff over the course of the last year, it still hasn’t been enough.” Will looks down at his paper and continues reading. “By my forecasts, along with those of both our in-house accountants and legal expertise on the outside, Pennington Publishing, if continuing in the manner it has been this past year, will go under within three months.”

This time the murmuring grows into a wave of worried conversation, so much so that Will puts his hands out to try to calm everybody down. “Please.”

He looks around the room, waiting until it’s so quiet a single droplet of rain could land on the roof and still be heard.

“When I left Sterling a few months ago, I didn’t come on a fool’s errand. I came because I believe in this company. I believe in its goals. I believe in its people. And I came with a plan.”

Will left?

Will wasn’t let go?

“A plan, and a new venture for the company, that will not only allow Pennington to keep its roots as the place to look to for quality literary fiction and nonfiction but allow every single employee here today to not only stay but hopefully thrive. As of April 1, Pennington Publishing will be sold to Archer.”

“Archer?” Even I can’t help muttering in shock. But Archer is . . .

“Yes,” he says, nodding as the volume in the room goes up once again. “Archer is a company specializing in commercial fiction. And there will certainly be some adjustments. Some of you will be afforded the opportunity to turn your specialties to more commercial works, like westerns, cozy mysteries, and romance. Others—particularly those of you who are passionate about your chosen fields and possess the greatest experience—will stick to your current expertise. For many of you, though, this will mean a genre shift.”

He lets that settle in, and a bit to my surprise, not too many people are scowling at the idea. In fact . . . quite a few faces are brightening up. There’s even some elbow rubbing with neighbors. Is even Yossi grinning?

“So . . . we’ll have to build a whole new directory of places to push our press releases?” Marge raises her voice and asks.

Will nods. “For those of you in publicity who are switching fields, yes. You’ll have to build a whole new set of relationships.”

“And if we move over,” Tawnya chimes in, “we’ll be editing completely new fiction. Works from people like Debbie Macomber. Francine Rivers.”

“Yes. If you are called to move over, yes.”

And to my surprise, Tawnya breaks out into a huge grin, almost as if she’s won the lottery.