He yawned and gestured for me to come in, saying nothing.
As I followed him inside, I said, “Well, this is rich. By now, I’ve usually already been at the magazine for an hour preparing for the day, making lists, putting finishing edits on articles. You haven’t even gotten out of bed yet, andI’mthe one who’s fired?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Coffee.”
“I get laid off from the company I have dedicated my entire adult life to, the company thatyourun, and all you can say is ‘Coffee’?” I was doing something uncomfortably close to shouting. Proper Southern ladies do not shout.
He put his hand up, and I didn’t want to notice his abs, but really, you couldn’t help it. On the flip side, this was the same kid who had hidden a lizard in my backpack my first day of fourth grade. I shuddered. What was wrong with me?
His Nespresso spit as I looked around. Everything was thesame. Not one single knickknack or design book had moved an inch since I was in this house four years ago, though now the book covers had faded. Four years ago, I had just gotten engaged, and I had just found out Greer was dying. Four years ago, I’d found out that my dumb kid neighbor was capable of loving a woman beyond anything I could imagine. I softened toward him.
I took in my surroundings. Greer’s house. Greer’s husband. I was thrust violently back into the past. Four years ago, I’d felt a little foolish admitting how entirely obsessed I was with Greer Thaysden. But, really, who wasn’t? She’d beentheaccount to follow on Instagram, had hosted one of the most successful podcasts on iTunes when podcasts were in their infancy. I had read her first book, like, five times, was on the waiting list for a goal-setting notebook she had collaborated with Moleskine on. Let’s just say, she was one of my idols. The one thing that I couldn’t wrap my head around was why beautiful, perfect, together Greer had married boy-next-door, little-brother-annoying Parker Thaysden. Thank goodness, though. Without that lapse in judgment, I never would have met my heroine.
Word was starting to get out that Greer, Palm Beach royalty and all-around maven, had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer—just like her mother had been. Every publication wanted to do a story on her. She declined absolutely everyone, as she always had. Everyone, that is, until me.
I hadn’t been able to attend Parker and Greer’s wedding—a fact that Parker’s mother and my mother might not everlet me live down—because I had been at a bachelorette party in Mykonos. The very pricey plane ticket was nonrefundable. I wasn’t canceling it, no matter who was getting married.
But my path had certainly crossed with Greer’s more than a few times in Palm Beach and at home in Cape Carolina. We hadn’t been friends, per se, but I blamed myself for that. Sure, we ran in slightly different circles, but I felt now that we could have been close if it weren’t for my being so intimidated by her. In my defense, Greer was a woman on the rise, on every Thirty Under Thirty list and, most notably, one ofTown & Country’s Modern Swans that year, which was quite a coveted position to say the least. She was a woman with taste and fame, brains and power, and a good heart at the center of it all. The Goodness Greer column she had started, which not only talked about what she was wearing, reading, and watching, and where she was traveling, but also maintained this incredible thread of positivity and empowerment, had been so successful that she’d used its tidy proceeds to start one of the city’s most influential new nonprofits.
She was single-handedly responsible for solving the problem of many of West Palm Beach’s homeless mothers and children. She wasn’t just a total badass. She was my heroine. Since I was a little girl, all I had wanted to do was write and help people. I hoped the articles I published would do both. And getting this interview would be a huge step toward that goal.
I cried when I found out Greer was sick. I barely knewthis woman, and here I was weeping to Thad. But Ididknow her, which was hard to explain. I had read her columns about her mother’s death, bought shoes that she’d recommended, made family recipes she’d shared. She didn’t know me from Adam’s house cat, but, as foolish as I knew it made me sound, I positively worshipped the woman.
I consoled myself with the thought that Greer Thaysden didn’t let anything stop her. She would beat cancer and be back to saving the world before I got this story to press.
In some ways, it seemed voyeuristic, but I knew with all my heart that I would protect Greer, that I would tell the story that needed to be told, the one that would portray her in all her glory. In Palm Beach and New York,Clematis’s biggest readerships, a sick Swan was big news. Somebody was going to break it. As Parker’s mom, Olivia—who had been the one to talk Greer into giving me the story—had said, “Might as well be someone with a little tact and Southern charm.”
Even still, I was nervous as I rang the doorbell that morning. One wrong word said, and I could irreparably offend a woman I idolized—and put myself out of a job.
Greer greeted me at the door in a hot pink sheath dress. She was so petite, even in sky-high nude pumps, that my five feet seven inches felt practically Amazonian. Her hair was freshly blown out, her nails smooth and rounded, her skin dewy, soft, and unlined. And she smelled like a pleasant breeze on a perfect spring day, like honeysuckle and gardenia but mixed with salt air. She didn’t look sick. The sight of hercracked me open with happiness. She was going to be okay. I knew it.
She hugged me, smiled warmly, and said, “How are your parents? Any Cape Carolina news?”
I thought it would be a little impolite to say that Greerwasthe Cape Carolina news, so I just said, “Oh, you know, same old, same old. Nothing ever changes in that town.”
We both laughed and she said, “I think that’s what makes it so special, right?” She paused. “Thank you for doing this, Amelia. I’m glad it’s you. Oh, and I’d really prefer no tape recorders,” she said, signaling that the small talk was over.
I nodded. “They’re so invasive.” I never used them. Nothing made a subject clam up quite like putting a black box in front of their face. Plus, listening to a bunch of tape wasn’t authentic to me. The feedback-riddled, staticky sound didn’t quite capture the heart of the story. The story was a living, breathing thing that would begin formulating in my mind the second I met the subject.
Greer Thaysden moves through her Palm Beach home with all the elegance of the swan she is.
“Could I get you a cup of tea or coffee or anything?”
I shook my head.
She is kind and warm, with a graciousness that exudes from every pore.
“The story you’re getting today may not be the one you imagined,” she said as she sat down on the white leather couch in the open, airy room and gestured for me to do the same at the other end. I would have preferred to be acrossfrom her in a chair; sitting beside her felt so intimate. I knew already that what was coming next wasn’t something I was going to want to hear. I glanced out the window at the totally unobstructed view of the Intracoastal beyond.
“I am dying, Amelia,” she said. “I know you think you’re here to publish a story about my valiant battle with ovarian cancer, but this is going to be a different story.”
The tears in my eyes embarrassed me.
“I invited you here today because I am planning to move to a right-to-die state so that I can take my own life. My cancer is not responding to treatments, and I will not have my family or my husband remember me as a rotting vegetable.”
I felt my entire body go numb. “You can’t do that!” I exclaimed, shocking myself.
She crossed her arms. “Are you one of those journalists who thinks every piece is an opinion piece? Because, if so, this isn’t really going to work.”
