“You’re Aunt B!” I say, remembering Noah’s story about the women who had raised him. Her smile widens. “He told you about me?” she says, in a husky twang reminiscent of Dolly Parton. “I guess that’s only fair, because I’ve heard all about you.” “You have?” “You’re the editor. The Magic One, he calls you. Oh dang, Bernadette.” She slaps her tan cheek twice. “He’ll kill me if he knows I said that.” I brighten. On my best days, editing does feel like channeling magic, and it feels good to know Noah said that.
