“Right, then. All we need is a major author,” said Cleo. “Who did you have in mind?”

She remembered the sprightly Dorothy. “Trevor Dashwood,” she said. “He’s perfect, right?”

“And impossible to book,” said Bertie. “We’d have better luck getting Harry Potter himself.”

“Harry Potter is fictional.”

“And easier to book than Trevor Dashwood. Seriously, the guy is on fire.”

Natalie took out a number and dialed. “I have the name of his booking agent. I’m going to give it a try.”

After a few rings, someone picked up. “Candy and Associates.”

Natalie had to make her way through a few of the associates. Then she found someone named Emily and made her request. “We’re a full-service bookstore in the heart of San Francisco, and we’d like to organize an event with Trevor Dashwood.”

“He’s scheduling events two years out,” said Emily. “I can send you a request form—”

“Oh, gosh.” Natalie’s heart sank. “I was hoping for something later this month. It says on his webpage that he lives in California, so—”

“I’d love to help,” said Emily. “But honestly, he’s fully committed for the next two years.”

“But—”

“I’ll email you the request form. I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do.”

The rest of the day revealed more frustrations as it unfolded. Natalie contacted publishers about other authors, but the ones who could draw a crowd were booked up as well. She also discovered more unpaid bills from publishers.

“My God, Mom,” she muttered. “How the hell did you manage?” She rolled her chair back and glared at her mother’s desk, a bright collage of Post-its and pinned notes, stacks of books, a bin of still-unopened mail. The spines of the books displayed tantalizing titles: The Never-Again Club. One Hand Clapping. Life Among the Elephants.

She noticed a slip of paper protruding from a book like a sliver of hope. She extracted the book and set it in front of her. Maybe, Maybe Not by Quill Ransom. A pen name, probably. No author photo. The cover art showed a person on a tightrope, but more importantly, an embossed medallion designating a literary prize.

Natalie opened the note. It was a personal letter from the author. “… scheduling bookstore events this fall” were the magic words she was looking for. She looked up the account with the publisher and it appeared to be paid up. It wasn’t a children’s book, but it checked all the other boxes. Encouraged, she sent an email to the author and publicist.

Most of the customers who stopped in were just browsing or needed the bathroom. This reminded Natalie that the building itself added its own set of worries. A pipe in the wall was making a funny sound when the hot water ran. She worried about her grandfather, too. Yesterday Grandy had dropped a glass bottle in the shower and cut himself.