Amelia 
WRITTEN IN THE STARS
I STILL CAN’T SAY WHY I did it, why I agreed to Greer’s crazy proposal when she came to me a mere three months before her death. Maybe because it was Greer, and I knew this was one of the last favors she would ever ask. Maybe some sort of delusional type of hero worship. My instinct, when she showed up in my Palm Beach apartment, was a hard, fast no. But, for some reason, it just wouldn’t come out of my mouth.
“Why me?” I asked. “Why not your sister?”
I could feel the energy in the room starting to shift. It was like the more panicked I became, the calmer she got, like I could almost see the energy leaving her and transferring into me.
“Why not one of your friends?” I asked.
“Because I don’t trust them,” she snapped.
Now things were starting to come back into focus for me; I was starting to see things more clearly, more rationally. I mean, I could do this. Every article I’d ever written, every interview I’d done, it had all been leading up to this moment. Because, with every profile piece, every emotional article, wasn’t I becoming the person I was writing about?
Every Greer selfie and vacation Instagram post and witty column was merging in my head, forming a vision of her, but also making me wonder if my vision of her was correct. Could I capture her complexity in a meaningful way?
“The only person I trust is Parker,” she said. “And Parker trusts you.”
Parker Thaysden trusts me.
It seemed foreign at the time. But when she said it, it all—nights chasing lightning bugs, the family cookouts, the neighborhood picnics, his face over mine the day I nearly drowned—came flooding back to me. Parker was my family. It was as simple as that.
“What did he say about this?”
She laughed. “Oh no, no, Amelia,” she said. “You’ve misunderstood. Parker can never know about this.”
“I could never pull this off,” I said firmly, realizing that was my insecurity talking. Of course I could pull it off.
This was not a typical business deal, a ghostwriting job set up and carried out by a publisher. I would be impersonating a person who the world loved, who women everywhere relied on. She already had one book out. Could I write a second so seamlessly that no one would be able to tell? I was messed up, I was fragile, I was terribly imperfect. There was no way I could even attempt to sound like Greer, the embodiment of perfection itself.
In retrospect, that’s when Greer started to win this argument. As soon as I started making empty excuses, that was proof positive I was pretty much on board with this crazy plan.
“I’m too weak, Amelia. I’m too sick. I sit down to start writing this book, to leave the world with what I want to say, and there’s just… there’s nothing.” Tears started to form in her eyes.
“So how does this work? Do I interview you?”
She nodded. “And I have some notes,” she said, as though she were too tired to even discuss this. “But, to be honest, not many of them.”
That was when I knew I was going to say yes.
“I can’t even write things for you to polish,” she continued. “It doesn’t come for me anymore. I just can’t do it.”
A cold chill ran through me, because that was one of the worst things I could imagine. We were writers, Greer and I. Being able to see something and tell a story about it, interpret emotions and feelings and facts in a way that moved someone to action, was what we did. For that to be taken away was unthinkable. I would do what she couldn’t.
“What I was hoping is that you could write chapters and then call and read them to me. I can help you edit them over the phone. But we have to pick times when Parker won’t be around.”
Or Thad, I thought.
It was crazy. But I was going to do this. I sighed. “Want to get started?”
Two. That’s how many chapters of Greer’s book I actually ever read to her. After that, she was too sick, too tired, her attention span too short. The cancer was in her brain by the time I got to chapter five. Then it was over. I was on my own. But, by then, my doubts were over, too.
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.
Parker laid on his horn for no reason I could discern, and I was grateful for the thousandth time that I wasn’t the one navigating Manhattan traffic in a U-Haul truck that smelled vaguely of old sub sandwiches.
“I’ve never been a father.” He grinned at me. “Wouldn’t it be boring if we just stuck with what we knew?”
When Parker and I had gone, together, to tell George that we were pregnant, that his grandchildren were going to come into the world after all, when we had pitched him the idea of us relocating Southern Coast—and ourselves—to Cape Carolina, he had fallen as to pieces as I’ve ever seen a man. He had to leave the room to compose himself.
But once he returned, it didn’t take him long to spring into action. He had planned to give Parker a big bonus. He would relocate us, buy us a home. But he wanted a huge house, one big enough for him to have his own wing, somewhere that he could come visit his grandchildren for weeks at a time without disturbing us. And, well, we knew just the place.
“Well, at least the house is familiar,” I said now. I had pushed Parker on Dogwood, made him express his opinions, voice his concerns. I had insisted that he take the small third floor with the peerless view and make it into a space for himself. His house in Palm Beach had been all Greer. Dogwood was, by default, all me. But I wanted him to stake his claim there, to make it his own. Some days I knew the details drove him nuts, but I thought he would be glad when he walked into the kitchen and saw the dishwasher that he had researched in Consumer Reports, when he sat at the dining room table and remembered that he had helped choose the art hanging over it, when his bedroom was a mix of soft blues and creams that he had chosen.
“I can’t wait to see the new master bath,” Parker said. Parker had dreamed of having a master bathroom with a steam room and sauna right inside—especially since there wasn’t a gym in Cape Carolina that had them.
I nodded, happy and proud that we had created this home together for our life together. “I think I’m most excited about the kitchen. No, no! I’m most excited about the nursery.”
After Parker and I had told George the news that day, I had to visit one more place in Palm Beach. Walking up the three flights of stairs to that apartment I used to share with Thad didn’t hurt like I’d thought it would. I hadn’t told him I was coming. And if he hadn’t been there, that might have been that. I would have just left that day. I’m so glad he was home. So was Nita, a sprightly, bright-eyed eight-year-old who Thad and Chase were fostering and hoping to adopt.
“She’s so special,” Thad said. “But she has so much to overcome, so many scars.”
Sitting in this living room where I’d had some of the best and worst moments of my entire life, I felt at peace, and I knew for certain that everything had worked out for the best. When Nita went to the kitchen to get a snack, I said, “Thad, I’m pregnant. The second pair of embryos took.”
He smiled. “That’s such a nice thing for you to do for Parker. You have always been so selfless.”
I shook my head. “We’re having them together.”
It took a moment for the news to register, but when tears gathered in his eyes, I knew he understood. He took my hand. Neither of us said a word, and that made the moment so perfect. We had already said everything there was to say. We had moved on. We had healed.
As we said goodbye, I was struck by the most overwhelming need to know that I would see Thad again. “When we get settled in Dogwood, when the babies come, will you, Chase, and Nita please come visit us? Maybe spend Thanksgiving or Christmas?”
Thad wiped his eyes and nodded. “I’ll be counting down the days.”
Parker and I had flown home that night to tell our parents the news about the babies. We had originally thought we were flying home for our last family Thanksgiving at Dogwood. I had been devastated, of course, but my joy at this pregnancy had blocked my sadness. I had Parker. I had the babies. I had a new life and a new lease on it, too. After our conversation with George, I realized I didn’t have to be sad anymore. Dogwood was going to be a part of our family for another generation.
I’ll never forget walking into Dogwood last November, the smell of pine absolutely everywhere, giant Frasier firs flanking the staircase in the entrance hall. Mom always decorated for Christmas the day before Thanksgiving, to make the season last. I could imagine that she wanted this one to last even longer. Christmas Songs by Sinatra was playing soft and low, and this old house shone. Its presumed last Thanksgiving in our family might very well have been its most glorious. I paused for a moment to try to picture being the one in charge, the one who had the final say on the Christmas decorations.
I had snuck up on Aunt Tilley in the kitchen, kissing her cheek from behind. She turned and laughed and hugged me full-on. “My girl is home,” she said, wiping her hands on her black slacks. I wondered how it felt on days like today, when she was okay, to sit across the table and know that Robby was hers, that she had spent a lifetime playing his aunt when really she was his mother. In my current twins-induced hormonal firestorm, I couldn’t control my sobs. Aunt Tilley smiled at me knowingly and squeezed my hand. Mom and Olivia’s voices drifted toward us as Olivia said, “I just think the Lismore crystal is more classic for the last Christmas.”
Parker was getting my luggage out of the car. So as not to be caught unaware like we had been the last time we had made a large family announcement at the dinner table, we had carefully scripted how we would break our latest—and best—news.
But then I saw them. Those meddling little women in ballet flats with matching bobs. And as they hugged me and asked in soothing tones what was wrong, I couldn’t help but blurt out, “I’m pregnant.” I sobbed, and added, “With twins.”
The shrieks could have been heard ’round the world. As I began to recover from the deafening noise, I realized Parker was standing in the kitchen doorway. “Babe, you’re not great at sticking to a plan, are you?”
But he couldn’t say anything more because three women were covering him with kisses.
That night at dinner we told them all about the plan, about moving to Cape Carolina, about buying Dogwood, about taking over the magazine. I am quite certain there have never been that many cheers, tears, or toasts at a Dogwood dinner table. When everyone was somewhat settled down, Daddy said, “Amelia, Dogwood is yours for the taking. That was always the plan. We don’t want to sell it to you. We simply want to pass along the nightmare of its upkeep.” He laughed heartily.
“I insist,” Parker said. “We can’t take the house…”
But Mom put her hand up. When Mom puts her hand up, no one argues. “It is a family home, meant to be passed down through the generations. As of this moment, the house is yours,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. It was all there was to say.
“Then we insist on renovating the back house for you when we renovate this one. It’s the least we can do,” Parker added.
No one argued.
“As homeowners, you are now in charge of washing all these dishes,” Aunt Tilley added.
Robby put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder.
“I am so excited that I will help you!” Trina squealed. “Oh, to have babies in the family again!”
She was currently nursing her four-month-old—a fourth boy—at the table, so I wouldn’t exactly say there weren’t babies in the family, but if she was happy, I was happy.
But Parker looked perturbed. “It isn’t right,” he said. I gave him my best What do you want me to do? look. “It isn’t right,” he continued, “for us to be living here at Dogwood, in Cape Carolina, with these babies, without making it official.”
I was ninety percent sure I knew what was coming next, but I didn’t quite have time to protest. Parker was on his knee and reaching his hand out to his mother, who slipped a ring out of her pocket so fast I barely saw it happen. “I never dreamed that I would get lucky enough to fall in love with the girl next door. I really never dreamed that I would get lucky enough to have the girl next door be the mother of my children. But I think what would really make me the luckiest of all would be to marry the girl next door.” He took a deep breath, and I could tell he was nervous. “So, Amelia Saxton, will you marry me?”
I had been a wife before, and it hadn’t ended well for me. But, this time, I was determined to do it differently, to do it better. This time was different anyway because, without any thought, without any action, without so much as a good therapy session, I had fallen into Parker. I trusted him so fully that my old worry of never being able to commit to another person had vanished. It never even crossed my mind. And maybe it was because I had committed to four people—to Parker, to these two babies of ours, and to Greer, the woman that, though I once feared she would always be between us, had somehow become the glue that held us together.
I wondered what he had said to Greer in this very same moment. I wondered how she had felt. All those years ago, Parker had walked into marriage wide-eyed, naïve, and fresh. Tonight, he knew what could happen, knew the risks. He was a soldier choosing to go back to war.
To walk back into the line of fire was a big love, a love so big maybe I couldn’t even comprehend it.
“Everyone is looking,” I whispered.
“Sorry,” he whispered back. “I was going to do this later on the dock, but I couldn’t wait any longer.”
I smiled at him and took the ring out of his hand. “I love you, Parker.” I took his hands in mine and said, “Let’s do this.” I kissed him to applause around the table and then turned back to the moms. “But not until after the babies. They don’t need the stress of wedding planning with Elizabeth Saxton and Olivia Thaysden while they’re forming neurons.”
Mom looked at me with mock seriousness and said, “Whatever the new mistress of Dogwood wishes.”
Now, bouncing down the highway in the U-Haul, thirty-five weeks pregnant, that night felt like a faraway dream, like something so wonderful it couldn’t have been true. Tying up the loose ends and coming home felt right.
Maybe it hadn’t all happened in the usual way, but it had happened. I had grown two human beings that, even if they were born right now on the sidewalk, would be healthy, viable little people. It is the most ordinary thing in the world until it happens to you. And then it is extraordinary beyond belief.
Twenty-seven bathroom breaks and an overnight stay in DC later, my little map dot, our beautiful home, came into view. And, roughly every ten feet, another red and white SAXTON FOR MAYOR sign appeared.
Parker groaned. “He’s going to make us work polls, isn’t he?”
I patted his arm. “Well, before that, he’s going to make us put out signs. I told him you would do it, because I couldn’t, with my swollen ankles and everything.”
“And he let you off the hook that easily?”
I smirked. “Nope. He sent me compression socks.”
Parker burst out laughing as we pulled into the driveway of Dogwood. “When are you going to run for mayor?” he asked. The babies kicked sharply, voicing their disapproval. Or maybe they just knew that they were home.
I never thought I’d be a mother. I never thought I’d be a fiancée again. I certainly never thought I’d move to Cape Carolina or give up investigative journalism for lifestyle editing. While I had always believed that I was the master of my own destiny, perhaps this was written in the stars after all. And while driving away from a city I had come to love had been a little sad, I had to admit that, in Cape Carolina, the stars shone a whole lot brighter.