To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
Subject: Hello?

Hi, Logan,

Yep, it's me again. Amelia Bentley. I know, you'd think after three unanswered emails I'd give up. But reporters — even small-town Iowa ones — have spunk. Except, hmm, maybe you're some Lou Grant–type and you hate spunk.

In that case, I've got persistence, determination, and, Þne, a fair bit of stubbornness.

Which is why I'm writing you this third email to see if you have any interest in coming back to work for the News. Since Freddie passed away, we're short a reporter. I know you live in LA now, so this is probably crazy talk. But you told me yourself you miss the newspaper world. So I can't help asking ...

Amelia Bentley

Editor, Maple Valley News

p.s. It just occurred to me that maybe the reason you haven't replied is you don't remember me. I was the reporter at your sister's boyfriend's nonproÞt's grand opening last month.

(World record for most possessive nouns used in one sentence?) We talked for a few minutes. You complimented my Nikon.

* * *

To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
Subject: RE: Hello?

Amelia —

I do remember you. And your Nikon. Sorry that I haven't responded until now. My inbox is like something out of a horror movie.

And I remember telling you I miss reporting. I have to be honest: That might have been mostly small talk. Yeah, I miss it now and then. But I don't have a ton of desire to go back to writing about school board meetings and really tall asparagus. :)

— L

* * *

To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley

If that's a crack at how often small-town newspapers run photos of oversized produce ... well, then, okay. (This is Iowa, after all.)

So would you consider coming back if I promised to cover ALL the school board meetings?

Just kidding. I knew it was a long shot. But aren't the best reporters the ones who chase long shots?

— Amelia

p.s. Is signing off with just an initial an LA thing?

* * *

To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker

There are long shots and then there are looooong shots. But hey, it's almost graduation time. Check with the area colleges. I bet you can Þnd a journalism major in need of a job.

— Logan James Walker (There. More than an initial this time.

Happy?)

* * *

To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley

I don't want a journalism major. I want you.

And yes, I realize how that sounds. Don't get smug or anything! I'm just saying, your award plaques still line the ofÞce walls. When you worked here, subscriptions topped 5,000. Freddie talked about you constantly. If you change your mind ...

— Amelia Anne Bentley

* * *

To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker

The only thing I'm smug about is the fact that I finally figured out the Lou Grant reference in your earlier email. Mary Tyler Moore Show, right?

By the way, I should've said earlier: Sorry about Freddie. He was a good guy, great editor. I wish I could've made it home for his funeral. When I heard he died, I kept kicking myself for not keeping in better touch since moving out here.

— Logan

* * *

To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley

He knew you were busy. And he always talked about how proud of you he was.

Truthfully, Freddie was ready to be done with the newspaper biz long ago, too. The flood last year did a number on him (not to mention our equipment). He was in the process of selling the paper and retiring before he passed. He only passed on the editor mantle to me a month ago. It's all up in the air now — we don't even know who our current owner is.

That's not meant to be a guilt trip, by the way. Just letting you know why I'm grasping at straws and trying to talk an Iowa boy home.

— Amelia

* * *

To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker

I get it. And I do appreciate you asking me to come back. Believe it or not, I did actually consider it for a few nostalgic seconds. Most of my Þve years at the News were good ones. But my life and work are here now.

Besides, I'm not a reporter anymore.

* * *

To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley

Aw, come on. Newspapering gets in a person's blood. You don't just stop being a reporter.

— Amelia

* * *

To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker

Whatever you say, Hildy.

* * *

To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley

Hildy?

* * *

To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker

You're a reporter. Figure it out. :)

* * *

On days like this — when sunlit snowflakes fell like tiny, glistening jewels and a crisp quiet brushed through the cold — Amelia Bentley could almost believe she'd never led another life.

Never stood in front of an altar one morning to begin what a hastily scrawled signature, smudged by tears, would eventually end. Never carved open a chamber of her heart, only to later lock it tight, hiding away the goodbye she'd never asked to say.

Amelia pulled open the front door of the Maple Valley News office, bells chiming overhead as she stepped into a cocoon of warmth and familiarity.

Today there were no brick-heavy yesterdays. Only the inky scent of newsprint and the embrace of this wintry town — her town. Well, and the yipping voice at the back of her mind reminding her she was —

"You're late." The News's receptionist peered over thin bifocals, silver-tinted hair coifed with enough bobby pins to pick every lock in the county.

Amelia loosened the turquoise scarf at her neck, camera bag slinking down her arm. "I know. Just need fresh batteries for my flash. But Mae ..." The rubber soles of her fur-lined boots squealed against the laminate floor as she slid to the reception desk. Her voice lowered to an awed whisper. "It's snowing."

"You think I don't know that? You're tracking it all over my space."

Amelia glanced down at the puddle forming around her feet.

"Sorry. It's pretty, though, don't you think?"

"If it were December, sure. But it's the middle of March. No way you'll hear me calling snow pretty in March."

"You just said snow the way most people say oral surgery. Or taxes. Or beets."

Mae only harrumphed and turned back to her computer. Amelia nudged the camera bag back up over her shoulder, stomped the last of the snow from her boots, and hurried through the room that contained the ad department — if two women and a part-time intern counted as a department. She waved at Kat, Mikaela, and Abby as she passed. Pin-ups of ads for this week's issue dangled from the cloth-covered cubicle wall separating their desks, and sunshine spilled in through generous windows.

She pushed through the newsroom door.

Just inside, Owen swiveled in his chair. "You're —"

"Save it. Already got the third degree from Eeyore at the front desk." Amelia dropped her bag onto the sprawling island counter that gulped up most of the newsroom's space. Back issues of the News and other area papers covered the high tabletop.

"The fire chief's already called twice."

"I'm not even five minutes late. You told him to keep his pants on, right?" She bypassed her...