She was at her desk, swiveled sideways in her chair; her long legs were twisted around each other. “Did you enjoy your time off?” she said.

“I did,” I said. My voice warbled, so I swallowed before adding, “I haven’t been to New York in a long time, and it was good to be back.”

“I find traveling opens my mind in a way that doesn’t happen at home or in the office.”

“I agree with that.”

“Now that you’ve had a chance to think, I’d like to ask: Are you planning to stay in development?”

Was this a segue to her firing me? Or as Russ had suggested, did she think I was going to quit? I sat up a little straighter in my chair. “I have no plans to leave.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She clasped her hands and leaned forward. “Because as it happens, I do.”

“You’re . . . leaving?”

I had never seen her smile so wide. “I accepted the top development position at UCLA’s school of medicine.”

“Wow. Congratulations, Yolanda. They’ll be lucky to have you.” I meant it, even if I wondered why she had scheduled a one-on-one meeting to tell me this.

Yolanda being Yolanda, she had already anticipated my next mental step. She tilted her head and regarded me. “I wanted to meet with you privately so I could ask you about applying for my position.”

I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Really?”

“Yes. In the interest of transparency, I encouraged Russell to apply, too. But Dean Willis and I both think you have a lot of potential.”

“I’m incredibly flattered . . . but I’m also flabbergasted,” I admitted. “I thought you were disappointed in me for asking for time off.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “No, I said there were procedures to be followed.”

“But you’ve also expressed concern about my work over the past few months.”

“And in each instance, you’ve been able to prove me wrong. That’s ultimately why I decided to ask you to come forward as a candidate. This position involves having hard talks and making your presence known. I didn’t think you had it in you, but you do, Penelope.”

This was a big compliment. I wondered why it didn’t make me feel better. “Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome. Needless to say, if you take my position, your salary would be considerably higher. Granted, you’ll have to ace the interview.” She regarded me, and I glanced down at my dress, which was a plain navy shift. “You’ll need to dress sharper. That’s doubly true if you take the job. I may be the only person who will say that to you point-blank, but that’s only because it’s absolutely true.”

I nodded.

“You’ll also have to acquaint yourself with some of the nuances of working with . . .” She pursed her lips. “The ultrarich. I know you do a stellar job with our wealthiest donors, but I’m specifically referring to the select few I don’t hand off to you and Russell, as they’re a very particular type, if you get my gist. And you’ll need to get used to being on the road several times a month. But I’m not leaving until the end of October. We would have a couple of months to noodle the details together. So, what do you say? Would you like to interview for VP of development?”

“Yolanda, I’m flattered,” I said slowly.

“But?” she said.

But I wanted to reduce my schedule—not expand it. Still, I knew it was the biggest opportunity of my career. “Could I see a write-up of the responsibilities the position entails? There’s a lot to your job that I don’t know about. I’m also curious to know what my salary range might be.”

Yolanda narrowed her eyes, and I steadied myself for some sort of reprimand. “I’ll inbox you that and the job link today. Dean Willis and I would like your application by next Monday.”

“Absolutely.” I stood. “Thank you. This means a lot to me.”

“Thank yourself, Penelope. You’ve been doing the work, and you told me to pay attention to that. This is all you.” As she stood and gave me a knowing smile, I took a minute to appreciate her preternatural poise and commanding presence. I wondered if I would ever be able to fill her shoes.

I wondered if I wanted to.

When I got back to my office, Russ was sitting in my desk chair. He grinned at me. “So, Yolanda tell you about your new job?”

I eyed him. “How did you know about that?”

“She talked to me last Friday.”

“Right. Then you know it’s hardly mine ,” I said.

“Oh, come on, Pen.” He spun in a full circle, then made a grand gesture indicating I could have my chair back. “Obviously I’m dying for the gig, but everyone knows you deserve it. Why don’t you look more excited?”

“Don’t I?” I said. There was no window to see my reflection in, but maybe I would put a mirror in my office. Or I could just take Yolanda’s.

“You’re going to apply, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“You’ll have that sweet office, a massive corporate expense account, and a legitimate reason to be free of the ol’ ball and kids several times a month.” He grinned. “No offense, but you could get a new set of wheels, too.”

And a house with smooth ceilings and a bathroom on the first floor. We could sock away more than a few dollars for the kids’ college funds and max out our retirement contributions.

I knew I was supposed to be leaning in—these were important years in my career, and I wasn’t getting any younger. If what I’d read was to be believed, opportunities to vault myself to the next level would be few and far between.

But . . . I wasn’t so sure I wanted to upgrade my wardrobe and get a haircut that said business and perfect my ability to hobnob with the ultrarich.

I was equally unenthused about the possibility of working even harder , at least at this particular job at this particular juncture, and regularly being away from my husband and children. Because now I knew—really and truly knew in a way I hadn’t before—that it could all end in an instant. And if, God forbid, that happened, would I take my dying breaths feeling glad for getting a chance to fly business class?

Anyway, there were other things I wanted to do. Since Cecily and I had written the book about the girl in the magical forest, I had begun spinning another tale. It was still a glimmer of an idea, but I knew it would be about a child who had lost something dear to her. I needed the time—and yes, the mental space—to write it. And what about having evenings to read Sanjay’s book and being able to pick my kids up after school—especially given that I had just told them I wasn’t glued to my desk anymore?

“You’ll apply, yes?” I asked Russ.

“Obviously.”

“Good.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Remember when we talked about how I wanted to be a writer?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, I thought about that a lot while I was in New York. I need this job, but I need to make my own writing a priority again, too. Plus, I’ve still got a lot of stuff to work through.”

“By stuff , you mean your marriage and Jenny’s death.”

“Yes,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure moving up the ladder will make that more difficult than it needs to be.”

Russ was leaning in the doorway now. “Well, good for you, Penny. You’ve got guts to admit all that.”

I thought of Jenny’s letter. She seemed to be so close to finding her way out of that dark hole. Once again, it occurred to me how incredibly fortunate I was. “A couple months ago, I would have responded to that compliment with a self-deprecating comment,” I told Russ. “But now I’ve got to agree with you. It takes courage to be yourself when everyone expects you to be someone else. I’m just glad I still have the opportunity to make that decision.”

THIRTY

I visited Jenny’s website frequently after her death, and each time I wondered the same thing: if she had never started her blog, or maybe if it had not become the sensation that it had, would she have found it easier to admit she was struggling and seek help?

Because sharing her life online meant strangers—and even loved ones, me included—came to think of her in the particular way she presented herself online. People had expectations about how she should look and what she should say and do. And the more everyone expected of her, the harder it must have been to disappoint us by deviating from the image we had already bought into.

Perhaps Jenny wanted to unshackle herself from the golden handcuffs of internet fame. I would never know now. The draft I had discovered on her computer didn’t hold that answer. Nor did it provide closure, though it was close.

Still, that letter was the last thing I expected to see when I clicked on her site before shutting down my computer at the end of the day. It took me several seconds to process what had popped up on my monitor.

A new photo of Jenny and Cecily had been posted at the top of the page. They were sitting under the enormous oak tree in her backyard; Cecily was in Jenny’s lap, looking up at her as Jenny gazed down at her adoringly.

Below the photo, Jenny’s letter had been published in full, followed by a brief note saying she had accidentally died of a prescription painkiller overdose on June 26. Just beneath the note was a list of resources for people struggling with addiction.

A sob flew out of my mouth.

Matt had done the right thing.

After I had composed myself, I picked up the phone to call him, but it went straight to voicemail. I glanced at the clock and saw that I needed to pick up Stevie and Miles from their school’s aftercare program. I would have to try him again later.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled into the school parking lot. I was itching to see my kids, to put my arms around them and let their hugs lighten what had turned out to be an incredibly heavy day. I had just closed my car door when someone called out my name.