This is where you normally thank your family, your writer friends, your agent and editors, and I do owe a huge debt to all of the usual suspects—you know who you are. However, there is another group of people who, in my case, deserve priority.
On May 8, 2014, I was diagnosed with Stage IIIC ovarian cancer. This book and I are literally in existence due to the efforts of an amazing group of medical professionals—Dr. Melanie Bergman and the staff of Cancer Care Northwest; the surgical and nursing staff at Sacred Heart Medical Center in Spokane, WA; Dr. Grant Harrer, David Brost, P.A., Tosha, Nanette, Sharnai, and the rest of the exceptional staff of Sletten Cancer Institute. I wish I had time and space to list you all by name because you have earned my everlasting gratitude. With luck, we will to continue to see as little of each other as possible.
To my stylist, LeeAnn Burke, who smoothed an emotionally rocky road by keeping me looking as close to normal as I ever get. I may be the only person in history who had better hair when I was bald.
To June Yearwood and Janet Yearwood (I had to flip a coin for who got to be listed first), my eagle-eyed beta readers, whose unflinching critiques finally brought this story into focus, along with everything I’ve written since. Plus Megan Coakley, who hooked us up, and is my hero just for surviving every day with humor and class.
And finally, to Janet Reid, who back in 2012 dragged me and this book-that-was-not-working into her conference room and spent two days of her precious time helping me deconstruct it, chapter by chapter, to root out the flaws. We may not have fixed it, but knowing someone of her caliber would devote that much time and effort to us kept me from giving up on this baby.
And to Ryan the Intern, who was trapped in that room with us, I’m sorry if you were scarred for life. Consider it a favor. You’re probably making more money and drinking a lot less in whatever profession you chose that was not publishing.