Glancing up from her clipboard, the woman spotted her and beckoned with a wave.

“I’m Claire.” She grinned, and dimples puckered apple-round cheeks. “You must be Tessa. Marion Diefenderfer wasn’t kidding when she said you have hair like Lucille Ball—though I would have said Jessica Chastain. Yours is natural, isn’t it? So jealous. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She returned Claire’s grin, and the tension in her shoulders eased. “You, too.”

Tossing a sleek bob, Claire nodded to a gaggle of older women. “I hope Marion didn’t overwhelm you. She’s just highly excitable.”

“I’ve known Mrs. Diefenderfer since she was my first grade Sunday School teacher. She doesn’t scare me.”

Claire leaned in close. “I like the ’tude! We can use some new energy around here.”

“I’m glad I could help.” She shifted the flower arrangements and cringed. “I do have a confession. I bought pies for the dessert table. I’m completely useless in the kitchen.”

Claire widened her eyes. Then she smiled and swatted the air between them. “Please. Baking is for schmucks who don’t know how good grocery store cupcakes really are.” She gave a throaty laugh, glanced at her phone, and groaned. “Oh jeez, I’m late picking up the kids at swimming. Why Tyler can’t get out of rounds to retrieve his children just this once, I will never know. Somehow, I show houses and parent at the same time—go figure. I’ll be back.” She threw a chic, floral bag over one shoulder and narrowed her eyes. “Look for Dr. Richard Bruce. Unlike my husband, he escaped the hospital. He’s around here somewhere in a ridiculous chef’s hat. He’ll help you carry your store-bought pies.”

“Actually, they’re Amish pies,” she said.

“Even better.” Claire squeezed her hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

She whirled on perfectly coordinated, designer sneakers and took off toward the parking lot. Clutching the lilacs, Tessa joined the pre-auction madness. Keeping watch for a guy in a funny hat, she wandered among tables overflowing with items. Many donations were of a literary nature: autographed books, magazines, and—saints be praised—the much-anticipated copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul. Mrs. Diefenderfer could die a happy woman. She saw playbills, movie posters, memorabilia, and photos. The Volunteer Committee outdid itself.

Partway down one aisle, another auction piece veritably leapt off the table and stopped her in her tracks. The book appeared to be a first edition. A tree branch covered most of the dust jacket, its mass of emerald leaves vibrant against a brown background. She set the flowers on the table and picked up the copy of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird like it was the Gutenberg Bible. With trembling fingers, she cracked the cover. Actor Gregory Peck’s signature scrawled across the title page. She studied the angular printing. Atticus Finch himself autographed that book.