Mitch ignored the invitation to sit—he’d had enough of that flying from Seattle to New York—and paced the length of Ivan’s sumptuous office, pausing at the window to look down on Fifth Avenue. He thought of Shay, back home in Skyler Beach and probably up to her eyes in cheeseballs, and smiled. “I flew three thousand miles, Ivan, to tell you face-to-face that you’re going to have to get yourself another Indiana Jones.”

“You’re older now, more settled. I can see why you wouldn’t want to do the kind of research your earlier books required, but your career has taken a different course anyway, between the Rosamond Dallas biography and the Roget case. What’s the real problem, Mitch?”

“A woman.”

Ivan sighed. “I should have known. Don’t tell me the rest of the story, let me guess. She’s laid down the law. No husband of hers is going to fly all over the country chasing down leads and interviewing murderers. Am I right?”

Mitch was standing at the window, still absorbed in Fifth Avenue’s pre-Christmas splendor. “You couldn’t be further off base, Ivan. If it hadn’t been for Shay, I wouldn’t have had the stomach to write about Alan Roget.”

“So she’s supportive. Three cheers for her. I still don’t understand why a writer would turn his back on his craft, his readers, his publishers, his—”

“I never do anything halfway, Ivan,” Mitch broke in patiently. “And right now holding that relationship together takes everything I’ve got.”

“If it’s that shaky, maybe it isn’t worth the trouble.”

“It’s worth it, Ivan.”

Ivan sat back in his swivel chair, his eyes on the manuscript box in front of him. “I almost dread reading this,” he observed after several moments of reflective silence. “I suppose it’s just as good as your other stuff?”

“Better,” Mitch said with resignation rather than pride.

Ivan was, for all his professional tenacity, a good sport. And a good friend. “This lady of yours must be something. Once the dust settles and you want to write again, you give me a call.”

Mitch grinned, already at the door of Ivan’s office, ready to leave. “I expect her to propose any time now,” he said, enjoying the look of surprise on his agent’s face. “Goodbye, Ivan, and merry Christmas.”

“Bah humbug,” Ivan replied as Mitch closed the door behind him.

“Doesn’t anybody cook their own Christmas turkey anymore?” Shay grumbled as she read over the work schedule Barbara had just brought into her office.

Barbara was wearing a bright red apron trimmed in white lace and there was a sprig of holly in her hair. Everybody seemed to have the Christmas spirit this year. Everybody, that is, except for Shay. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Ms. Kendall, most people would be glad to have so much business.”

Shay sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You don’t care much for all this, do you?”

The directness of Barbara’s question set Shay back on her emotional heels. “I’ve dreamed of owning this catering business for years!”