Page 48 of A Small Town Spring

“Did you take this picture?”he asks, holding up the photo of Luna I had printed and framed in the city.“It’s lovely.”

“It’s just a picture from my phone, but I thought you’d like to have it.”

“Since she’s decided you’re her favorite, you mean?”he says, but he’s teasing.“Thank you, Kingston.I do love it.Now you.”

He pushes a red envelope toward me.The outside of the envelope has a big, dramatic K written on it in Toby’s decisive hand.I slide open the flap and take out a simple folded piece of card stock.The front has a black ink drawing of a Christmas tree—but not just any generic cut tree.It’s our rosemary tree, complete with the sunflower and tulip and cactus felt ornaments.He’s managed to completely capture the nuances of this particular tree.I haven’t seen many of his drawings, but he’s just as talented with a pen as he is with paint.Clever boy.

I open the card and a homemade booklet slides onto my lap.I pick it up, read the first page, and chuckle.It’s a coupon for “one freezerful of ice cream.”I look at the next one.“Dry cleaning duty—pick up and drop off.”There are a dozen slips, and they’re all hyper specific, only things that Toby can do for me, right down to “de-cat hair your wardrobe.”I look up at him.I hadn’t expected anything in particular—perhaps a small painting, if I was going to be greedy.Or a scarf.I’d never turn down Hermès or Chanel.

But this is better.This is something no one else could have given me, and it makes me feel toasty warm from the inside out that Toby would make me something so personal.So intimate, in a way.It leaves me indescribably happy that he knows me so well.

“I love these.Thank you.And I’ll look forward to using every single one.”It will take ages to use them all up—well after the imaginary deadline in my head of his gallery show in March.Somehow, I have it in the back of my mind that once he becomes a big shot in the art world, he’s going to move out, move on.He won’t need me anymore and he won’t be the first person I see most mornings and he won’t be the last person I see most nights.

“I’m glad you like them,” he says, ducking his chin.“It took me a while to figure out what to get the man who has everything.”

“I don’t have everything,” I say quickly.Because I don’t have you.

But I don’t say the words, because they’d destroy the carefully curated existence we’ve built here.

Even so, it’s a pretty wonderful Christmas morning.

Twenty-Five

Kingston

January bringsthe biggest change to my professional life since I became an agent.I officially open the proverbial and literal doors of the Kingston James Literary Agency.I don’t quite believe it until I see the notice in Publisher’s Marketplace.

Kingston James has left Fenster Agency to open the Kingston James Literary Agency, which will provide its agents with salary and benefits.Stephanie Collier, George Wu, and Julie Davis will also be working under this model, bringing together representation for children’s, middle grade, YA, commercial adult fiction, film and television rights, and foreign translations.

Our first all-hands-on-deck meeting goes well, even though I feel like I’m bullshitting my way through most of it.But later that week Julie closes her first television rights deal for the high six-figures and one of my authors wins a Caldecott Medal, which is huge.And it feels like this wild idea just might work.

But one January Friday, I look around the tidy office space I’ve leased off Columbus Circle and realize I’m the only one there.My assistant is working from home today.In fact, everyone is working from home today.We have a flexible schedule, with the only requirement being in-person meetings once a month.I don’t want people to feel obligated to come into the office when they could accomplish their work just as well from home and save themselves the trouble and expense of navigating the city.On the other hand, it’s nice to have a place to go and focus on work.I’m glad I decided on the smaller space, though, one that has manageable rent, as long as we hit the projections for our first year’s revenue, because right now there’s no one at the big conference table or any of the desks.I actually have a lighter day as well.No meetings, just the usual stack of reading.

I leave around noon for Rosedale, looking forward to sleeping in my Rosedale bed tonight, where Luna will probably inveigle her way in.Depending on what Toby’s doing, we could order some dinner and I can hear about the preparations for the show.

When I walk into the house, it’s grown dark outside, but there are no lights on inside.Luna greets me as I flip on the lamp in the living room, meowing urgently, then padding into the kitchen.I follow, intending to give her some treats, when I see Toby sitting at the kitchen bar in the dark, his head in his hands.

I flip on a light, and he looks up at me, his face drawn.Luna hops up on the counter, nosing Toby’s arm, until he lifts his hand and drops it clumsily on her back.There’s something wrong.

“What is it?”I ask, my heart pounding.“Bad news?”

“Um, hey,” he says.His voice is rusty, and he clears his throat, tries again.“Hey.No, it’s nothing.Something stupid.”

By his posture and mood, it’s clearly something serious.“What is it?”The urge to go to him and put my arm around his shoulders is so strong I have to lock my hands together to stop myself.

“My dad.He heard about my show and wrote me an email.He was—I haven’t heard from him in like two years.He was… nice, I guess?”Toby looks lost and I don’t know exactly why his dad emailing him would send him down this path, but I hate Nathan Wheaton on principle, anyway.“He implied that he’d like to come to New York to see the show.”

“And how do you feel about that?”I ask carefully.

“I don’t know.”With nothing more forthcoming, I cross the kitchen and fill the kettle.

“Tea?”

Toby nods, and I pull mugs and tea bags down to the counter.

“Let me order something from Nina’s.The usual?”

“Not really hungry,” Toby says, but I know if I put his favorite order of ravioli in front of him, he’ll eat it.

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