She was single-handedly responsible for solving the problem of many of West Palm Beach’s homeless mothers and children. She wasn’t just a total badass. She was my heroine. Since I was a little girl, all I had wanted to do was write and help people. I hoped the articles I published would do both. And getting this interview would be a huge step toward that goal.

I cried when I found out Greer was sick. I barely knew this woman, and here I was weeping to Thad. But I did know her, which was hard to explain. I had read her columns about her mother’s death, bought shoes that she’d recommended, made family recipes she’d shared. She didn’t know me from Adam’s house cat, but, as foolish as I knew it made me sound, I positively worshipped the woman.

I consoled myself with the thought that Greer Thaysden didn’t let anything stop her. She would beat cancer and be back to saving the world before I got this story to press.

In some ways, it seemed voyeuristic, but I knew with all my heart that I would protect Greer, that I would tell the story that needed to be told, the one that would portray her in all her glory. In Palm Beach and New York, Clematis’s biggest readerships, a sick Swan was big news. Somebody was going to break it. As Parker’s mom, Olivia—who had been the one to talk Greer into giving me the story—had said, “Might as well be someone with a little tact and Southern charm.”

Even still, I was nervous as I rang the doorbell that morning. One wrong word said, and I could irreparably offend a woman I idolized—and put myself out of a job.

Greer greeted me at the door in a hot pink sheath dress. She was so petite, even in sky-high nude pumps, that my five feet seven inches felt practically Amazonian. Her hair was freshly blown out, her nails smooth and rounded, her skin dewy, soft, and unlined. And she smelled like a pleasant breeze on a perfect spring day, like honeysuckle and gardenia but mixed with salt air. She didn’t look sick. The sight of her cracked me open with happiness. She was going to be okay. I knew it.

She hugged me, smiled warmly, and said, “How are your parents? Any Cape Carolina news?”

I thought it would be a little impolite to say that Greer was the Cape Carolina news, so I just said, “Oh, you know, same old, same old. Nothing ever changes in that town.”

We both laughed and she said, “I think that’s what makes it so special, right?” She paused. “Thank you for doing this, Amelia. I’m glad it’s you. Oh, and I’d really prefer no tape recorders,” she said, signaling that the small talk was over.

I nodded. “They’re so invasive.” I never used them. Nothing made a subject clam up quite like putting a black box in front of their face. Plus, listening to a bunch of tape wasn’t authentic to me. The feedback-riddled, staticky sound didn’t quite capture the heart of the story. The story was a living, breathing thing that would begin formulating in my mind the second I met the subject.