conversation pause before she laughed again.
I lowered my hand from the door and turned away.
“Why don’t you come over right now, Pierce,” said my mother. “I can’t wait to see you.”
There was a sleeping bag tucked in our downstairs hall closet. I took that and my pillow and left the house. No need for a
flashlight; the fog had cleared.
I crossed the night-blue driveway, silent and barefoot, then slipped away down trails I’d blazed as a child, on into the moonlit
woods.
I am blessed to have Amy Rennert as my agent, and doubly blessed to have Les Pockell and Celia Johnson as my editors at Grand
Central Publishing. Thank you all so much for having my back, and for making sure this book became the best I could make it.
A fond farewell to the inimitable Susan Richman—you will be greatly missed.
I owe many lifetimes of gratitude to the members of Mysterious Writ, my writing group: Charles King and Marilyn MacGregor
(emeriti), Karen Catalona (New Karen), Karen Murphy (Karen Classic), Daisy James (“We’re gonna need a bigger moat…”), and
Sharon Johnson.
Sharon and Julianne, thank you for the Diet Pepsi with Lime, the
Big Love
on demand, and the most excellent hours of procrastination.
To dearest Rae, Janine, and Maggie—you guys are fabulous!
Andi, Ariel, Muffy, and MBH—death to our enemies, O excellent ladies.