Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(151)

“Katie Scarlet, I’m about to go diabetic from so much sweetness. Finish up and put me out of my misery. What’s number twelve?”

“‘Number twelve, the first time you realize that he loves you as much as you love him.’”

“What happens after twelve?” asked Savannah, half kidding.

“After twelve, you’re ready for forever,” said Scarlet, not kidding one bit.

Savannah smirked humorlessly as her little sister closed the mammoth magazine with a flourish.

“And now I am going to go get ready for tonight’s dinner-dance at the club. Sure you won’t come, Vanna? Trent could get you a date.”

“With one of his frat brothers? Five years younger than me? Or, worse, with his brother, Lance? No thanks, Scarlet. But you have fun.”

As her sister headed inside, Savannah let the words roll around in her head: loves you as much as you love him. Her heart clenched with a weakness, a longing, that she tried to ignore. She’d given love a chance, and she’d been blindsided, duped, and destroyed. Lost her home and her job and everything else that she’d worked for. She looked up as two blond-haired kids rode by on bicycles decorated for the Memorial Day parade tomorrow and tried to find the silver lining. But she couldn’t. She’d worked her whole life to get out of Danvers, Virginia. And yet, here she was, right back where she started.

She was surprised to feel her cell phone vibrating in her back pocket. Once upon a time her phone had been the epicenter of her world, as she fielded calls and texts, chased down stories, and followed leads as the up-and-coming star reporter for the New York Sentinel. But, over the past two or three weeks, it hadn’t buzzed more than a couple of times. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at the unfamiliar area code: 602. She thought for a moment. Hmm. Phoenix. Who did she know in Phoenix?

“Savannah Carmichael, New York Sen— Um, this is Savannah.”

“Hey, Savannah. It’s Derby Jones.”

Savannah drew a blank. “Mm-hm. What can I do for you, Derby?”

“For starters, you can remember me,” said the woman in a cheerful, knowing voice. “We met at the West Coast Journalism Conference out in LA last fall. I was doing a story about—”

“Health care for seniors!”

“Yep! I knew you’d remember me once you remembered the story.”

“I’m like that weird lady at the dog park who knows people by their dog’s names. Spot’s mom. Rex’s dad. Senior health-care story.”

Derby laughed. “I don’t know if you remember, but I was stuck on that story. I couldn’t figure out the angle, but you stayed up until well after midnight with me, looking over my notes, talking to me about what I wanted to say. When the sun came up, I had an angle.”

“That’s right.” Savannah smiled. “I was glad to help. How was the article?”

“Actually, it was so good, I won a Sunshine Award from the SPJ.”

“Valley of the Sun ?”

“Yep. It also won me a raise and a promotion.”

“That’s great, Derby. Your star’s rising, I guess.” She tried her best to sound enthusiastic, even though it stung a little bit.

“And yours is falling.”

Ouch. “Umm . . . ” started Savannah, at a loss for words.

“Jeez, there I go. I’m not known for my tact.”

“You don’t say.”

“Listen, let me get right down to it. I’ve been keeping tabs on you since that conference, reading your articles, following your stories. You wrote that groundbreaking piece on the New York subway system. And you deserved the award you won for the article on the preferential treatment some lawyers are given in the DA’s office. Not to mention the time you rode in the back of an NYPD police car for a week and did that terrific piece about the habits of New York’s Finest. You’re talented, Savannah. More talented than most. I can’t figure out what happened with the Monroes, but it sounds like you were taken for a ride.”

Savannah swallowed the lump in her throat. “It was my fault. I should’ve seen—”

“We all get a bad source now and then. That was a doozy.”

Savannah grimaced, wondering if Derby would ever get to the point of the call and stop making her feel about two inches tall. She started every day with a heavy heart, grieving the loss of her dream; she didn’t exactly need someone to drive it home for her.

“Anyway,” continued Derby, “I already knew it that weekend, but you’re a heck of a reporter. Top-notch. I’m betting you’ll never make the same mistake again with a source, and any paper would be lucky to have talent like yours.”

“Well, that’s, er, nice of you to—”

“So here’s the scoop: the Phoenix Times is looking for someone to take over the Lifestyles section. I know it’s not New York, and I know it’s not the Sentinel. But for someone with ambition, someone looking to get back on her feet . . . ” Derby let that thought linger, and Savannah battled her conflicting emotions.

Lifestyles?! She’d been an investigative reporter for arguably the most well-regarded newspaper in America. Lifestyles would mean reporting on cook-offs and fashion shows, charity benefits, and star sightings. Not to mention, the Phoenix Times was second-string at best. And it was in . . . Phoenix. Hot, dry, middle-of-nowhere Phoenix.