“You did a great job on the interview.”

Mac lifted her head at the sound of Grant’s voice. She hadn’t expected him to stop by the office on a Saturday. “Do you really think so?”

“Don’t you?” her editor countered.

The words on Mac’s computer monitor blurred. “It’s hard to be objective about your own work.”

“Fishing for compliments?”

Mac shook her head. “Just the truth.”

“Well, then, here it is.” Grant gripped the edge of her desk and hunkered down until they were almost nose to nose. “You’re a gifted writer, Mackenzie.”

Mac stared at him in disbelief. “Then why won’t you give me a real story? You want me to cover garden club meetings and fashion shows and community fund-raisers. It’s like you don’t trust me.”

“Not trust you?” Grant sputtered. “You’re the only one I do trust . . . because people trust you.”

“Because I’m Coach’s daughter.”

“Because you’re . . . you. You don’t just ask questions; you listen. Remember when I sent you over to Lakeland Terrace to take a picture of Sylvia Morris because she was about to celebrate her one hundredth birthday?”

“Of course I do.”

“You didn’t just take a picture of her, did you? You interviewed her for almost two hours.”

Mac wasn’t sure where Grant was going with this. She’d noticed a wicker basket filled with crocheted baby blankets in Sylvia’s room and found out the woman sent them to an orphanage in Uganda where her granddaughter served as a missionary.

On the way back to the newspaper, Mac had decided a photograph of Sylvia wasn’t enough.

“Sylvia’s an amazing woman, but she didn’t see herself that way.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Mac. The stories you write . . . they’re like a mirror. People see themselves and realize they matter.”

Mac jumped when Grant pounded his fist on the desk like a gavel.

“If that editor at the Heritage isn’t smart enough to hire you when he reads that interview with Blake, then I will. As my assistant editor. Now I have a wedding to attend.”

“You’re going to Hollis’s wedding?”

“Beverly bought a new dress. She can’t believe she’s actually going to one of Lilah Channing’s fancy shindigs.” Grant slid a business card across Mac’s desk. “And you have an interview with Senator Tipley in an hour.”

“But—”

“What?” Grant tossed the word over his shoulder as he stomped toward the door. “I’m still your boss and I promised you this story. This was what you wanted.”

Yes, it was.

So why wasn’t she jumping up and down at the chance to meet with the senator?

And why hadn’t she already hit Send?

The door snapped shut behind Grant and Mac closed her eyes.

What should I do?

As soon as the prayer slipped out, Mac realized it was the first time she’d asked God for direction. Asked him to direct her steps, the way Ethan had, instead of forging ahead on her own.

Mac had told Grant she wanted to write real stories. She hadn’t considered that was what she’d been doing all along. Writing real stories about real people.

People who’d known her for years. People who were frustrating and quirky and fascinating and amazing.

People she loved.

People who loved her.

Hollis was right. It did change things.

What do you want me to do, Lord? I promise I’ll listen this time.

Coach always said God had a sense of humor, but Mac still laughed when her cell phone rang.

“Where are you?” Hollis demanded.

“I’m at my desk.”

“I figured that out, but why aren’t you here?”

For some reason the imperious tone made Mac smile. “Because you’re getting married in . . .” She glanced at the clock on the wall and choked. “An hour.”

“I know what time the ceremony is. I’m the bride,” Hollis said. “I thought you were supposed to be covering the wedding for the Register.”

“You hired a photographer. And I can get the rest of the details from your mother.” The excuse sounded weak even to Mac’s ears. She was hiding, plain and simple.

In fact, she’d been hiding for the past few days.

From Ethan. From herself. From the future.

Hollis’s very unladylike snort told her that she knew it too.

“I’m not technically on the guest list.”

“You’re my friend.”

The Channing siblings didn’t fight fair. “All right.”

“I’ll see you in five minutes,” Hollis said.

Panic squeezed Mac’s chest, but it wasn’t because she was imagining what the ramifications would be if she postponed the interview with Senator Tipley. She’d just taken a silent inventory of her closet. “Fifteen.”

“Ten.” Hollis hung up.