The other odd thing he also remembered from their argument was the way she looked. She had delved into her bag to retrieve the diary, and he’d seen anger flash in her eyes. Her mouth stretched into a mocking, knowing smile. Back then, he’d imagined she was the one making a mistake.

The disagreement at first seemed nothing more than a simple conflict of ideas. Once he’d calmed down hours later, he didn’t give it another thought. In hindsight, he understood this was a crucial life moment, the beginning of the end for him.

He’d admit that he wore partial blame for the upset. In the middle of her unreasonableness, with emotions fanned and flaring, he couldn’t forgive her. But mulling over the events in the following hours after he’d calmed down, he saw it from her point of view. A writer’s forte was insight into others perspectives. She didn’t know how hard he’d worked on her behalf.

Of course, she couldn’t have known how he’d put his reputation on the line. Morris needed more than gentle persuasion to convince him to read the manuscript. His agent had been adamant he had no time, didn’t care, and wasn’t interested in representing another author.

She’d been excited the last time they had met too, telling him how, after many scrubbed attempts, she had decided to go with the pen-name Orelia Mason. He’d told her to keep her name because he found it unusual. She said she wanted to keep the one she’d used when she first introduced herself to him. Something about distancing herself from her past. Starting afresh.

He’d laughed, thinking why bother, but he hadn’t told her this. Okay, so the nom de plume had a certain sophisticated ring. Still, he cautioned her to walk before she ran. But hey, let her play the dream game. What writer didn’t hope for success?

“No, call me Orelia from now on,” she said, when he questioned her decision. “It’ll keep me in the right frame of mind.”

He should have realized then, with the resistance, that this meeting wasn’t going to go well. Everything went downhill from there, an out of control sled, skidding and sliding until it ended in a ditch shattered, the damage irreparable.

Prior to this day, Miss Wannabe Orelia had proved a worthy mentee. She had listened with great attention and took every suggestion with enthusiasm. He recalled more than once how he’d challenged her to disagree with his opinion, so he might teach her a valuable lesson.

“Authors must trust their instincts. Have confidence. Reject an editor’s corrections when you know you’re right. This is your work not theirs. Your story to tell.”

The finessing of her novel took months because William had been in the middle of promotional activity for his new book. This involved travel for several weeks to festivals and so many interviews he felt like a wind-up toy. Despite this, he made time to speak to her by email or Messenger.

How generous had he been? Yet, ingratitude was his reward.