I'm at work when my roommate, Frank, calls. After the whole wedding fiasco and public scandal, I had no desire of ever retaining a shred of my former lifestyle. I moved to Atlanta, Georgia and got a job as a PR executive for a minor publishing company. I met Frank during a shopping excursion in the local mall; the two of us became fast friends after grabbing the same pair of jeans at Express simultaneously. We later bonded over cups of coffee at the local Starbucks and Sex in the City marathons on HBO (courtesy Frank: his ex-boyfriend was a cable nerd who'd left without undoing the hack he had put on Frank's TV, enabling him to get free premium cable). Since we were both a bit short on cash (Frank works as a bartender on weekends and a peon at my publishing company during the rest of the week), I moved into his small duplex in one of Atlanta's many suburbs, where we've been for the past eight months. It's quite a different lifestyle than what I'd been accustomed to, to be sure, but we were both happy with the situation.

After minimizing the solitaire game I was playing on my computer, I pick up the ringing phone. "Henderson's Publishing, Olivia Jefferson speaking."

"Livvie, you'll never guess what arrived in the mail today." The loud noises in the background tell me Frank is watching my new Gilmore Girls DVD in the den for the fifth time this week.

"What, Frank?" I ask, trying to look busy as my superior, Ms. Jackson, strides by (luckily, the solitaire game is still hidden on my computer's taskbar). I've only been working under her a few months, and I've put the people-reading skills I earned while living in Allerton County to good use in determining that to her I must appear to be the very picture of hard work to even hope of advancing to a senior-level position. It's a fine line I walk at my new job. Under older circumstances I would have simply called Father and he would have me the president of the company in a few weeks. Under these new rules however… I'm learning to adapt.

"Does the name 'Deeter's Publishing' sound familiar?" he teases. My breath catches in my throat and my entire body tenses. Soon after moving to Atlanta, I enrolled in a creative writing class at the local library. My instructor encouraged me to explore my "creative talents" (read: pent-up frustration) through journaling. In pursuing this, the entire story of my previous life spilled out: my father's deal, my sister's marriage, my own near-death experience. After reading the finished product and making slight alterations, my instructor had me change all the names and submit it for publication. This, he said, would be my therapy. Immediate rejection followed (excellent positive therapy, I know), and I was ready to withdraw the manuscript from every house I submitted it to. Deeter's had been my final attempt.

"Well?" I ask eagerly, forgetting Ms. Jackson's glare in lieu of the moment.

"Congratulations, 'Carly'. They bought it," he says, and I hold back a shriek of unbridled joy. After a writing career that spanned nearly a decade and included more rejections than I cared to remember, I am going to be a published author. Again. But the thing about this, I remind myself as I hang up the phone to call Kanis, is they chose to publish this story themselves. Father's money has no connection whatsoever (except for the inevitable lawsuit if he ever sees the finished product). After years of struggling against his money, I will finally achieve my dream without any of his 'help,' something I'd never thought possible. "Hello, Felipe? Is your wife there?"

When Kanis (her name was the only one I left unchanged in the book...could you imagine if I had to tried to write her as a 'Connie' or 'Patricia'? It would never have worked) hears the news, she releases the shriek of joy that I'd been holding back. Unfortunately for her, she's just put Melinda down for her afternoon nap, and will have to begin the sleeping process all over again as soon as she hangs up. She doesn't seem to mind, however, despite the grumbles I can hear coming from Felipe. "They bought it? Are you sure?"

"Positive," I say, opening the email Frank has forwarded to me, containing a scanned copy of my acceptance letter. "It says so right here: "Dear Ms. Olivia Jefferson, we are pleased to inform you that your submitted manuscript has been accepted for publication"...blah, blah..."we feel that your story is just what we at Deeter's are looking for"..."we are very excited and will be in contact soon"..."Sincerely, Eric Logan, Head of Publication". "

"Wow," remarks Kanis, and I hear Melinda wailing in the background. "Felipe, do you mind? I'm on the phone-Livvie, this is amazing. I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks," I answer modestly, still reading over the email. I can't believe it. I'm going to be published. I'd published a book before…during the "dark ages," as Frank likes to call them. However, I was well-aware that the novel hadn't been published on pure talent. This book however…not only was it my baby, but my life. It represented the hardest times of the past few years. Basically, my soul ripped out and set to size 10 Times New Roman.

"Have you told anyone yet?"

"Who else is there to tell besides you and Frank?" I ask, puzzled. "My parents and I are still not on speaking terms and you know about the whole situation with my sister..."

"I'm not talking about Dakota," Kanis sighs. "You know who I'm talking about."

"Why would I tell him?" I ask, my voice betraying my emotions with a slight squeak. "It's not like he'll be interested. I told you what we decided the light he left."

"Livvie, Parker was your husband," Kanis says, her tone frustrated. We'd had this conversation (and many others similar) before. "Not to mention..."

"The main character in my novel," I finish, the initial elation sapping out of me. I'd not spoken to anyone in from Allerton County in months (approaching years), but still the mere mention of my ex-husband and the life he was leading without me caused a droop in spirits. Kanis occasionally drops pieces of gossip into our bi-weekly telephone conversations, but she usually respects my wishes when it comes to revealing information about the "dark ages", and refrains from beating what I'd decided was my greatest mistake down my throat at every available opportunity.

"Don't you think he deserves to know? I think he'd want to know."

"Kanis, I've told you a million times. Parker never wants to see me again." To my horror, tears began forming in my eyes. God, and at work too. I look over at my cube-mate, who was looking at me like I'd lost it. Mouthing, "Bad contact," I reach over for a tissue and dug it into my eye, hoping that I would not only remove the tears, but the entire duct. "I told you what happened that night in the hospital. I told you."

"It's been over a year, Livvie," Kanis says gently, and the damned ducts begin to swell again. "I don't think you could forget everything that happened in a year's time, and I know he couldn't either."

I shake my head, even though Kanis can't see. Pinching my eyes shut, I squeak out "No...I'm not going to tell him. I couldn't face him. Besides, he's probably perfectly happy engaged to Lily. I'd just mess up his life all over again."

"Coward."

"Listen, Kanis, I've got to go," I whisper hurriedly, looking over at Ms. Jackson, who's looking at me oddly. "I'll call you back later tonight. Give my love to Felipe and Melinda."

"Alright," Kanis begrudgingly agrees, probably not looking forward to the task of putting her daughter back to sleep. I share the feeling, after baby-sitting my 'niece' on numerous occasions and having to share in the task (good lord, the girl has a set of lungs on her). "Congratulations, Liv. You deserve it."

"Thanks, Kanis." I rest the receiver back onto the cradle, deep in thought. I notice Ms. Jackson's inquisitive look, and begin digging around in my desk for some Visine.

"Damn allergies."

oOo

"Hello," I say brightly to the teenager behind the cash register of my local Barnes and Noble. She raises her heavily eyelined eyes from the manga novel she is reading, taking in my "published author" look: smart pantsuit from Kohl's (Frank assured me it was quite a bargain upon purchase), shoulder-length hair (freshly permed and highlighted), and the eternal glimmer of acceptance all authors have in their eyes. The outfit exactly matches what I had worn when I sat for my "About The Authoress" photo, put on again in the hope someone at the store might shriek "OMIGODYOURTHATGIRL!" and mob me for photos, autographs, and (hopefully) a sequel. As Anime Annie flicks her eyes over my too-eager form, I wish I'd worn a ratty T-shirt and flip-flops instead. Who dresses up to go to Barnes and Noble besides overly-excitable authors and nerds searching for the latest Dungeon and Dragon's RPG? "I was wondering where your new releases were kept."

"New releases?" the girl asks, a look of distasteful superiority falling over her heavily drawn features. I mentally kick myself, remembering that this was a place of literary merit, not VideoWorld. "We got some new kid books yesterday. They're still in the back, though."

"I was thinking more adult fiction. Released a few weeks ago, on a Saturday…at twelve oh-one worldwide," I say, biting back the desire to correct the cashier's grammar (an automatic impulse since taking up my current job). The girl thinks a moment, and I stare at the Starbucks across the street behind her, as a desire to be caffeinated fills me to the point where I almost abandon my quest for a Mocha Frappuccino.

The girl finally shakes her stupor and looks over my shoulder to the display of "Summer Reads" a few aisles away. "Oh yeah. We got some new stuff last week. It's over to your right, under that sign over there."

"Thanks so much," I say, ignoring her stupidity for the sake of pure, undiluted excitement. I make my way over to the display (it was, in fact, to my left), a table piled high with John Grisham's latest and, I note with interest, the feel-good classic of the year: Everybody Still Poops. Picking up a copy to send to Kanis and Melinda, I rifle through the other books, hoping for a glimpse of the lurid pink cover I'd grown to adore.

People say the feeling of holding your first-born child can never be replicated. I've never given birth, nor been pregnant (nor do I want to be until the next millennia, if you're getting any ideas). But, at the risk of sounding too self-involved, I can only say that the feeling that overwhelmed me after holding the first copy of my autobiography A Marriage of Convenience: Secrets from The Other Side in my hands, still warm from the printing press, was like none other. The satisfaction of publication was what had lead me to take a little trip to the local bookstore on a Saturday afternoon, three weeks after copies of my literary soul had been sent off to stores. In completing this little pilgrimage, I was hoping to recreate that exact moment of joy…and see if anyone might recognize me as the next Kafka or Rushdie (I'd settle for the next Helen Fielding, however).

Fifteen minutes later, no luck. Perhaps they're all sold out, I think hopefully. Doubtful. Most likely they never even received copies in the first place. I look at my copy of Everybody Still Poops and chuckle in spite of myself. "How does crap like this-literal crap—get sold by the hundreds, and I can't find a single copy of my soul on the shelves?"

"Looking for this?"

I look up, and Poop nearly falls to the ground as shock courses through my veins. It's him.

Parker.

At first glance, I don't know what to think. I haven't seen him in over a year, and here he is in front of me, our joined life story in his hands. He holds out the novel, and I accept it wordlessly. My pink baby stares up at me, cartoon figures of myself and Parker decorating its cover. My purpose in making the trip was now accomplished, but I didn't feel as satisfied as I though I would. That could be explained by Parker's mere presence making my heart into a Russian gymnast.

"Don't look so surprised, Liv," he laughs lightly as he scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. The familiar action triggers a flood of memories, memories I though I'd buried deep in Freud's unconsciousness. My hands tighten around the book in my hands. He doesn't look any different than he did the night we'd parted in the hospital room except the bags under his eyes are now no more. He remained the same handsome man I'd married nearly two years prior, and a hint of self-loathing shoots through my body.

"Sorry. I—I just didn't except to see you here," I say, my heart thub-dubing in my chest. Mentally, I curse myself for turning into such a Disney princess: where was the confident, sassy heroine I had just published a book about? "Not ever."

"Are you angry?" he asks, tilting his head to one side.

"No!" I blurt out. Anime Annie looks up from her novel, curious. "I mean—no. I'm glad you're here. Confused, but glad."

"I was in the neighborhood," he remarks casually, as a smile flits across his face. He leans on the table behind him, piled high with bargain-bin classics. "I figured I'd stop and see my favorite ex-wife cum authoress."

"Your favorite?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Of your many ex-wives…of course."

"Certainly," he grins. "I haven't yet gone to Scotland to see how old Jo is doing: you always knew how she got on my nerves. You were always my number one gal."

"Your sense of humor hasn't changed," I say. "One of the few things I can recognize."

Parker gapes. "I haven't changed a bit...don't tell me—"

"I was kidding." I grin. I fold my arms across my chest, and take him in. "I didn't know Atlanta was "in the neighborhood" for you."

"It is now," he says, looking around the store with bemused interest. "I'm thinking of getting a house around here, actually."

This was simply too much. Parker was here, in the flesh, with my book in his hand, and now he was moving to Atlanta. This had all the makings of a bad romance novel (and trust me—I'd read enough in the past few months to know exactly what they were).

"Atlanta?" I say incredulously. He nods as if it is the most normal action in the world to pick up one's fortune and relocate halfway across the country on a whim. This was too ridiculous to be true.

"What does Lily think?" I ask before I can stop the words from escaping, regretting the question as soon as it exits my mouth. Ex-wives don't usually inquire about the new fiancée they just published the roman-a-clef about, even if said ex-wife was their favorite.

"I don't know," Parker answers, looking at the novel in my hands. The familiar white elephant in the room rears its head for the first time since I'd left Allerton. "I haven't talked to her in months."

"Kanis said you were getting married," I blurt out, then physically block my mouth from saying further stupid sentences by clasping my palm over my lips. Parker doesn't reply, but instead looks at the ground as if a very interesting ant parade is making its way across the floor. Shame burns through me. After a moment, "Two years, and I still don't know when to shut it. Sorry—"

"—Can we talk?" he interrupts.

oOo

"I left Dad's company," Parker says, sipping his cappuccino. He has not met my eyes since we set foot in Starbucks, not even to ask me what I want. Instead, he orders our usual drinks, even remembering the shot of peppermint I always added to my mochaccino. After nearly two years, he still remembers. We sit outside the café, aside from the usual patrons tapping out emails on their iBooks and teenage cliques swigging down crème frappucinnos. Norah Jones' latest drifts over the outdoor stereo, masked by the flowing traffic and the thump-thump of Atlanta radio. Parker, in his crimson button-down shirt and dress slacks, looks remarkably out of place. I absently stir the steaming drink in front of me.

"I bet he was thrilled about that," I say, remembering the day I'd come to gather my things from what I thought was an empty house, only to discover Parker's father ranting in the wine cellar about his malevolent daughter-in-law. "Did he get to the hospital all right that day? Kanis never said."

Parker shrugs. "A minor fall down the stairs of one's house does little to injure someone physically as it does mentally. His pride hurt much more than his ass, my mother told me, although he wouldn't admit it to anyone. It was a few days, though, that he would let me see him."

"You're welcome," I grin across the table. Parker's father was reduced to a minor flat character in my novel; in truth, he was a nasty mix of both my father and Taylor rolled up into a single bitter old man. Parker holds out his cup in thanks and we clink our cups together in mock-toast.

"What made you do it?" I ask, as Parker sets his cup down. "Leave, I mean. You had practically the entire company under your direction, your father was going to retire…sounds like a pretty ideal life."

Parker grins as he folds his hands on the table. "You're a terrible influence, Liv."

I roll my eyes. "Seriously, now. My little flight was over two years ago. I know I'm a bit of a tragic hero up there—"

"We're taken to calling you Wilhelma Wallace, actually—"

"But, to blame me for your mid-midlife crisis is a bit of a stretch, I would think." I finish. "I lived there too long to know that just because Tragic Livvie has one crazy idea doesn't mean Allerton County is now home to revolutionaries and –gasp- free thinkers who are concerned with ideas other than Lady Dollar."

"You can count me as a convert," Parker says seriously. I chuckle, and sip my drink. "I go to worship every Friday night."

A comfortable silence falls over the table. Across the patio, someone's cell phone rings. "What made you do it?"

"What?" says Parker offhandedly. He'd been listening to the cell phone ring tone, a very fitting 'SexyBack'.

"What made you do it?" I repeat, the jovial tone I'd used earlier disappearing. "Leave."

Parker thinks for a moment, not replying right away. He chuckles softly and goes, "You're never going to believe this actually—"

"Try me," I say, leaning on the table conspiratorially.

"Your brother."

Automatically, my hand jabs at my half-filled cup, and if it not for Parker's quick reflexes the contents would have spilled all over the table and onto the concrete below.

"Reg?" I say. I wouldn't have been any less surprised if he would have answered "Peter Pan and the Lost Boys." The last Kanis had told me, my brother Reginald was the clear definition of 'money-hungry lost hope,' and certainly not a candidate for Life Changing Catalyst of the Year. "How? Why?"

Parker holds up his hands defensively. "I could hardly believe it myself. Although, to be fair to him, he probably wasn't aware that he instigated my sudden departure—he was just throwing an insult at me over a tennis game he happened to be losing…terrifically, I might add."

My brother's athletic prowess, I remember, caused the majority of his personality to be as stuffy and snobby as it was. Remembering his accomplishments on the golf course and tennis courts still trigger my gag reflexes to this day. "Excellent. Please tell me you were the victor."

Parker grins. "You know how I hate to disappoint."

He stops as I give a small cheer. As it concludes, my good sense overtakes me and I blush at my own immaturity (and the teenagers on the patio, who are looking at me like a Roswellian alien). "Anyway, you were saying?"

Parker opens his mouth to answer, then stops. I gesture, indicating for him to continue, but he shakes his head. As we sit in silence, the sun ducks behind the clouds above, providing us a temporary shade. The teenage group in the corner rises and heads for the door to the café, passing by our table to drop their emptied cups in the waste can. "This was actually what I came down here to talk to you about."

"My brother?" I say skeptically, and he shakes his head.

"No, Lily," he says, and my heart skips a beat. I had been too busy playing catch up and joking around that I'd forgotten about the subject that had brought us here in the first place.

"My brother and Lily?" I say incredulously, bile rising in my esophagus. The very thought of their coupling was down right disgusting. It was a poorly-envisioned match right off, even for Lily's low standards.

"No, no," Parker says, shaking his head. "Good God, no."

I breathe easier, my fingers wrapping around my cup. A slight chuckle escapes my lips as I look down at the concrete floor my feet rest upon. "Thank goodness. I don't think I could have handled that."

"I don't think any one of us could have," Parker says quietly, and I look up. The jocular mood had all but disappeared. Instead, his brow was furrowed, a sign I'd learned to mean as if he was about to do something he didn't really want to do.

"It was your little drabbles that made me change my mind," he says, picking up my book. In his hands, it looks small and sophomoric.

"My brother gave you my book? Not that I'm not happy he's read it, but-" I stop. "What does this have to do with anything?

"He chucked it at me one day," Parker says, and a slight laugh escapes him. "Hit me right on the head. Have you ever had a hardback novel thrown at you in the middle of a tennis game?"

"No, I can't say I have," I say, confused.

"We were in the middle of the game down at the club last Saturday and I said something to him…I can't remember it exactly. Something about how Daddy's money couldn't fix this tennis score, no matter how much he wanted it to. He was stuck with the loss, if he liked it or not. Pretty normal childish behavior from a pair of nearly grown men. He sneered something about my Father's money in return and then I realized…I was becoming the exact same person as he was."

"No, you're not. You're completely different." I say, meaning every word of it.

"Am I really?" Parker looks up, and there's a tortured look in his eyes. "I live off the same money my father made…money made by extorting other people's trust and manipulating them until I gained even more trust and money. I was just as bad as he was."

"Parker—"

"You," he says, and his throat tightens. "You were always different. I knew that the moment I saw you. Behind that spoiled rich girl was an intelligent free-thinking woman. You knew exactly where the funds for your thousand dollar shopping sprees were coming from, but you decided to change things. You broke the mold, Liv. You got out."

"I ran away," I say, trying to soothe him. "I didn't stay and fight; I left!"

Parker is quiet. When he speaks, he sounds much older than his youthful age. "I've come to find out sometimes the problem can't be solved. And the best course of action is to remove ones self from it."

"Anyway," he says to my silence, "He waits until there's a break between the match. I'm getting a drink of water, and then all of a sudden, there's a throbbing pain in my neck where this-" he picks up the book, "has hit me. From across the court, Reg tells me that I should read it. Read it and—I quote—"go back to that freak sister of mine, as you two and your crazy ideas were perfect for each other in the first place". And then he takes up his racket and leaves."

"I read it. Read it and turned in my resignation the next day. After I borrowed some money from Kanis, I hopped on a bus. Kanis had told me your new address; I went to there first thing and your roommate told me where you were. And now I'm here."

"Just to see me." I fill in, and then stop. Too presumptuous? I wonder, but Parker says nothing to the contrary. Instead, his face softens as he spins his nearly empty cup between his fingers. The sun peeks out from behind the cloud, illuminating the patio with pure, unblemished sunlight.

"I'd like to start again," he says bluntly, sitting the cup down. I start, and he waves me silent. "Before you say anything, hear me out."

I say nothing, my heart pounding in my chest.

"We've both been treated…abysmally, I believe that's how you put it." He nods to the book. "And, it's both our faults. As much as I'd like to blame your father, or my father, or Taylor," (I look away at the mention of his name) "we both know that the only people we have to blame about this ordeal are ourselves."

"Is this about Lily?" I venture. "Not putting the blame on her, but—God, you and your non-sequiturs, Park-"

"We broke up along time ago." He says quickly, and takes a sip from his cup, even though I know it to be empty. A familiar defensive tactic of his I'd forgotten in our time apart. I don't have too much time to mull over what he is hiding however, as I recall his words again.

Something inside me snaps, and I cock my head. "But Kanis said—"

"I know what Kanis said. I told her to keep saying that. It was some selfish part of me that wanted you to hurt because you hurt me and I can't actually believe she went for it."

"She's a good friend," I say, my mouth dry. "It's a fair trade, now that I think of it"

A pregnant pause fills the air. Equal hurt reigns on both sides, and I know neither of us wishes to be the first to break the silence. It's a sign of our own stubbornness. We'd always been too afraid to bend to each other—one of the reasons we'd broken up in the first place.

"We were never really together, you know," Parker says finally.

In spite of myself, I hear my voice. "Really?"

"I couldn't care for her any more the way I did after you, Liv. She knew that and I knew that. It felt rushed and painful and awkward as hell. It wasn't fair to her, or your wishes to continue on, so we split finally a few weeks after you'd left. She's happier alone, Livvie. Believe me, our relationship died about as painful a death as one can in which the two parties still speak to each other."

"Which is why I'm here."

I look up. His eyes are glassy, and the perspiration I'd attributed to stress glows at me from atop his forehead. Both of our breathing is becoming shallow. "I still love you, Liv…or Carly…or whatever you want me to call you."

"Liv's fine," I whisper, the old voices of the past rising up in my brain, showing me consequence after consequence of what might happen. Memories of our shared past flit through my brain, suppressing the thoughts haunting me since I'd left years ago. "And…I still love you too. As much as I've told myself to the contrary these past months, I still do."

Parker smiles and the surges of emotions I hadn't felt since leaving begin rippling through me, uninhibited and free. It feels as if a giant rock has been taken of my heart, and I am finally able to breathe. We look, to passersby, like a set of overgrown goofy teenagers, smiling at each other so hard the edges of my lips start to hurt, and my eyes water.

"So, how about it?" he says, and I feel my cheeks growing warmer. "It won't be what we were used to. It's not Clark, or Carly, and their multi-million dollar fortune. No more opera houses on Monday nights, weekends in the Hamptons, or red-eyes to Vegas. Instead, it'll be Parker and Liv, going on dates to McDonalds, renting movies because neither of us can afford to buy them, and sleeping in on Saturday mornings just because we can."

I laugh inwardly. He knows me all too well. I'd forgotten how much he knew…and how I'd missed his knowing.

"What do you say?" He lays his hand on the table, palm up.

My thoughts, normally cool and collected, race. Parker is offering me a chance for a brand new beginning, one where the two of us could set things down on our own terms, instead of being controlled by Money and Power. No longer would I have to embark on this mixed-up life journey on my own. I look down, my eyes glancing quickly over at the book sitting between us. Cartoon Carly smiles up at me, her blue eyes and drawn Prada heels glimmering in the light. There would be no hope for Clark and Carly; their stories were done and set in permanent typeface. Did that mean that Parker and I would be forced to accept a similar fate? As I look into the eyes of the man that had haunted my thoughts for the past year, I realize. There was one difference between Carly and I.

I take his hand.

oOo

It's been a long road, ladies and gentleman, but now it's the end. I have a feeling this epilogue will be treated a lot like the one in Deathly Hallows: you either love it or you don't. Like Ms. Rowling, this has been the ending I've planned on since writing the Introduction nearly four years ago; little has changed. For Clark/Carly fans, you're sort of rewarded, and for those who enjoyed the first ending, then you'll be happy knowing they didn't get together (but their real-life counterparts did). I tried to make this as obvious as possible, but I know some people will skim through it, say, "I don't get it" and tell me so in a review, so I can give you a run down on who's who fictionally and actually in a PM if you want it, but I think I made all things clear. Except perhaps in the case of Taylor, who is Marcus in disguise.

So, four years later, I don't want to end this on a sad, "I'll miss you always!" note, but I really want to say thank you to every single person who's reviewed this story, even if just to tell me that my summary is stereotyping and I should burn in hell for it. It takes a special person to take their time to share their thoughts with another, and I appreciate each person who's done that for me. I'm not a perfect writer; I don't claim to be. In many ways, AMOC embodies the beginning of my writing career perfectly: I've made a lot of mistakes, learned a lot of things, and hopefully entertained someone out there, the only thing I set out to do when I began to write this years ago. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me since the beginning: you all have the patience of saints. I'm working on two pieces at the moment that I should have previews up for in a few weeks or so. You can read them, you can not: it's your decision. But if our relationship as author-reader comes to an end now, I want to tell you again: Thank you so much for being there. It's been a fabulous ride.

Kaci

July 29, 2007