Her mother’s friend Frieda came in, cheeks bright from the autumn air. “Oh, good, I’m not too late,” she said, giving Natalie a hug. She bustled over to Quill. “You’re one of my favorites. Did I miss the reading?”

Quill laughed. “I think we decided to skip the reading. But I’m happy to sign a book for you.”

“Sign two,” Frieda said. “One for me, and one for my daughter-in-law.”

The author gamely inscribed two books.

“I thought—I really expected a better turnout,” Natalie said. She remembered her mom’s events, readers streaming in to meet the author.

“Don’t feel bad,” Quill said. “I’m a writer. Rejection is my life.”

“I just don’t get it,” Natalie said.

“Oh, I do. This is my thirty-first book. Over the years, I’ve learned to adjust my expectations. Judging by my sales figures, my readers are many, but they do tend to stay away in droves.”

“Your books are fantastic. You’re fantastic. Did I get something wrong in the planning?”

“Nah.” Quill sank her teeth into a chocolate chip cookie, ignoring the crumbs. “Some authors have the X factor, and they draw a crowd. Others just have readers. And frankly, I’d rather have my readers. They’re all home waiting for me to finish my next book. Which—if I’m being perfectly honest—is my favorite place to be.”

“Shoot. I’m really sorry,” Natalie said.

“It’s all right. I’ll sign a stack of books so you’ll have some on hand.” She scrawled her name in the books and ate another cookie.

“Thanks for being a good sport,” Natalie said.

“Thanks for being a good bookseller,” Quill said. “Mind if I take some of these cookies with me?”

“Of course. Help yourself.”

The author left, still unfailingly cheerful. Natalie turned to Frieda. “I’m mortified.”

“Don’t be. She’s lovely. I can’t wait to dive into her book.”

“God, Frieda. I wish I could clone you.”

“Ew. No. Listen, your mom would be proud. She endured her share of book signings where she and the author just sat there with egg on their faces.”

“Really? I don’t remember that.”

“She was a trouper, your mom. I miss her every day.”

Natalie nodded. She was getting a sugar high from all the cookies. “Why didn’t Mom ever fall in love?”

“Blythe? She did, all the time. Just didn’t stay in love. She finished with guys the way she finished books—closed them with gratitude and moved on to the next.”

“Dean Fogarty came by after the memorial.”

Frieda’s eyebrows went up. “Did he, now?”

“I’m not sure why. We’ve never been close.”

“I think—and with all due respect to your mother—that Blythe wanted it that way. He wanted to be more involved, but she didn’t let him. She was grateful for the tuition payments, but—”