“How about you, Mara?” Trevor turned his attention to the bashful girl. She’d been watching the exchange between him and Dorothy with an expression of horror, which had gradually turned to fascination. “Ready to talk story? Tell me what’s on your mind, and we’ll make a story.”

The girl mumbled something. Trevor held the microphone closer to her. “One more time, because that’s a good one.”

“I can’t swim,” she said, her voice thin and a little shaky.

Within moments, he was leading the audience through a zany story, seeming to revel in their raucous participation. He held his listeners captive, and then there was a rush for pictures with him.

Dorothy was beaming as she posed for a photo with Trevor and held up her book. It was a kindness, what he had done, but was there also a hint of opportunism? There was no disputing the delight in Dorothy’s eyes, though. Trevor was a pro. He knew what he was doing.

As they said goodbye for the evening, Trevor and Peach shook hands. “Thanks for smoothing out that thing onstage,” Peach said.

“No problem. Kids have a way of keeping things real.”

21

You’re very quiet.” Trevor’s comment broke in on Natalie’s thoughts.

She turned to him from the passenger seat of his sleek electric car. After the signing, she’d changed into a dress with leggings and a cashmere shawl her mother had worn for years. It was fitting to be wrapped up in her mother’s shawl after the shop’s most successful event.

“I’m taking in the scenery,” she answered him. The sun was setting over the hills of Napa, creating a landscape so beautiful it almost didn’t seem real, more like an artist’s idealized conception of a flawless scene. The rounded crests and shadowy valleys formed a cradle for the cotton-candy clouds riding high above the undulating horizon.

“I love the wine country,” Trevor said. “I’m glad we get to share it tonight.”

“It’s so gorgeous,” she agreed, relaxing in the luxurious leather seat. Each winery they passed had its own peculiar character. Some were ultramodern architectural pieces. Others were rustic and fiercely individualistic, and a few were as grand as the châteaux of Europe. Her mother had designated a section of the bookstore to wine-country books. Far preferable, Mom had often said, to fighting the traffic to visit in person.

“But you don’t love it,” Trevor said, resting his wrist on the top of the steering wheel. They glided up and over a hill, its dun-colored grass swathed in evening shadows, mist gathering in the valleys.

“I …” Natalie paused. “Back when I worked in Sonoma, I never really connected with the area. It’s beautiful, but it never felt like home to me, not the way the city does.”

“So the city feels like home,” he concluded.