The more I wrote, the more I became Greer, the stronger I felt, the more I realized that this was the most important writing project I had ever had, the piece that I’d waited my entire life to write. It didn’t matter that my name wasn’t on the book. That was irrelevant.

Her publisher and her editor knew, obviously. But we had all agreed that this was our secret. They even issued a press release on her death about how she had managed, against all odds, in true Greer fashion, to complete her final memoir.

It debuted at number six on the New York Times Best Sellers list when it released, a shockingly fast five months after her death. A book I’d written hit number six. It would never be on my résumé, would never be a tale to spin to my friends. It bugged me the tiniest bit, but really, it also made me proud. I had done it. I had pulled it off. I had talked and researched and become Greer so thoroughly that no one ever knew the difference. Not even her husband.

I took the absurdly large advance check she had signed over to me and donated it to her foundation. I weighed that decision for a long time. It was money that I could have saved for a rainy day, money that would have elevated the paycheck-to-paycheck life I had lived since graduation. It was money that my parents could really use. But, ultimately, it was Greer’s story, Greer’s voice. Her money should return to her, even indirectly. I’ll admit that I wasn’t as generous with the royalty checks that came every six months afterward. They weren’t huge, but on more than one occasion, they saved me. I was being reimbursed for my work in a reasonable way, in a way that helped me move forward, especially after I left Thad.

And so no, I would never be able to take credit for Greer’s book, the book I wrote. But she would never be able to take credit for my babies, the babies she made, which I was carrying right now, inside of me.

“Are we doing this?” I asked Parker for roughly the five hundredth time.

“Oh, we’re doing it, all right,” he said, taking his hand off the steering wheel, reaching over and patting my belly.

“You know I’ve never been an editor in chief,” I said stupidly, like that should have been my largest concern. I had actually argued with Parker when he told me his plan about Southern Coast. I told him I wasn’t ready. But he (rightly) argued back, “Amelia, you have worked in magazines since you were eighteen years old. You were the managing editor for one of the country’s premier publications, and you know this market and its needs better than anyone. A better candidate for this position literally does not exist. If I had never met you, I would have hired you on your résumé alone.”

We had tabled the discussion, but once I had hired the staff, set up the office, approved new layouts with the head designer, and brainstormed the content for the first issue with the skeleton crew that would be reporting, writing, copyediting, and fact-checking, Parker had insisted. He was right. I was ready. This was my dream job. With Parker as publisher and me as editor, we were creating a real-life family business. I had always thought that I would have to move far away to do the job I wanted. I had been wrong. I would miss Martin. I already missed Philip and Sheree. But they would all visit often. Sometimes, especially when one was on the verge of becoming a mother of twins, there was no place like home.