And now my
days are full. As soon as the last visitor leaves the Ognissanti, Sister Josephine places me upon The Master’s grave. I spend my nights with Botticelli, basking in the last shred of light peeking in through the vaulted windows of the Ognissanti.
I also make time to appear in the dreams of my loved ones from the blue-green waters of Havasupai. I am more content in death than
many are in life. It was time.
This book, like any other
, was an extremely collaborative effort. First of all, I want to give thanks to Teresa Zazueta-Garcia for spending countless nights reading and rereading my early drafts and for providing insight into the Native American world—preventing Stacia from being a “dumb Indian.”
Thank you to my husband James, for letting me read my book aloud at inappropriate times and for being there for me every step of the way.
Thank you to my father for being a good sport about his namesake character and giving me “constructive criticism.”
Thank you
to my story editor, Peter Hunziker, and to my copy editor, Avery Auer for such hard work and dedication and for putting up with the fact that I am not always a great listener.
Thank you to Melissa Hess for always listening to me ramble endlessly about this and everything else for the last 30 years.