Occasionally, and usually when I least expected it, I’d observe a girl with her dad on the street or in a restaurant or store and wonder how different my life would have been if my dad hadn’t died—how different I would be. And I would cry. Through the years, when a boy rejected me, I would weep, not over the guy himself, but out of yearning for the unconditional love of my daddy.

Story rejections and the like had resulted in frustration, anger, even self-loathing, but never tears. Until now. I’d allowed myself to believe a full-time writing position was imminent. I wouldn’t have to spend my nights combing through the freelance boards just to keep a toe in the writing game while holding down two other jobs. Those independent gigs were hard-won, and they served to add a few dollars to my bank account and amp up my portfolio while preventing my writing muscles from atrophying. But the content meant nothing to me personally and brought no joy to my life.

A position with Tea was the beer at the end of a marathon, a binge-watch after a long study session, a good night’s sleep after a grueling day. It was everything. I’d be able to help my mother financially, or at least better support myself to lessen her burden. From the moment the idea sprang to life the morning after watching Million Dollar Listing, I had been so certain this was it. Then Derek’s enthusiasm and the resulting contract boosted my confidence even more.

I was wrong and back to square one, only with far less money in my savings account. I failed to deliver the story I pitched, then sent Derek a piece he rejected. I had one more chance, but if I wasted his time again, I’d burn a bridge with the only true connection I had in the business.

When I entered the B&B, I averted eye contact with Lorraine, who was in the open kitchen. For the first time since I’d arrived in Pleasant Hollow, I prayed she would ignore me. To think, less than twelve hours earlier, it would have made my day if she offered me a cupcake and asked if I wanted to chat with her in the common room. Right now, her cold shoulder was exactly what I craved. Oh, how the tides have turned. I would laugh if I wasn’t still crying. With a cursory wave, I bounded up the stairs and into my room, letting the door close behind me. My eyes were immediately drawn to my suitcase. It was by the window, open, with clothes spilling out. The room came with a closet and a five-drawer dresser, but I hadn’t used either. At least it would save me time packing to go home.