Inside, among the racks and racks of bottled wine, were three large rectangular tables, the kind that were ubiquitous at book sales and family reunions. The tables themselves were covered with newspapers, and on top of the newspapers were rolling pin–like objects, knifelike objects, small tubs of water, and piles of gray blocks that were two to three times the size of ice cubes.

I swallowed, suddenly intimidated. What I’d agreed to attend was a fun night learning how to do a little pottery while drinking a little wine. “Pottery and Pinot,” my aunt had said. “Drink a little wine, make a little something. It’ll be great.” But . . . this? I didn’t understand the function of a single thing on the table, other than the wineglasses, and those were at the far end, miles out of my reach.

What I did understand was my aunt’s uncharacteristic hesitation at the door. I started to back up. Maybe I could fake a library emergency. Or maybe Kristen would go into labor and need me to drive her to the hospital because the Scruff was too freaked out. Or—

“Frances!” A fiftyish woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a friendly face waved madly. “We were just wondering if you were going to make it. And I know this is Minnie.” She smiled at me. “We haven’t met, but I’ve heard all about your bookmobile and your Eddie. So much fun.”

She introduced herself as Lisa and rattled off the names of the other women at the tables too fast for anything to stick in my head. “Pull up an empty chair,” Lisa said. “We’ll get started in just a minute.”

Aunt Frances and I shared a glance.

“It’ll be fun,” she said softly.

“Of course it will be.” I paused. “You go first.”

My aunt grabbed the sleeve of my coat and hauled me forward. “Patsy,” she said to a seated woman with short, tightly curled hair. “You’ve met my niece, haven’t you?”

Patsy nodded. “Minnie, how are you?”

I was pretty sure Patsy was an intermittent library patron, but not super sure, so I nodded and let Aunt Frances sit next to her while I took the chair farther away. This sat me next to a fortyish woman with long jet-black hair, someone I didn’t recognize at all.

When I introduced myself, however, her face took on an odd expression. “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re the bookmobile librarian. With that cat.” She almost sneered as she said the word “cat.”

The evening was suddenly a lot less fun. “That’s me,” I said politely, and cast about for an empty chair I could move to. The lighting wasn’t right here, I could say. But the chairs were all occupied, so I turned my attention to the instruction sheets in front of me.

“Have you heard about that Ryan Anderson?” my new neighbor asked. “Do you know him?”