Agitated, she got up to stretch her legs and wandered over to her mother’s W.O.W. shelf—the “words of wisdom” Blythe had marked in favorite books. Natalie’s eye fell on a volume of Thoreau’s letters, and she opened it to a passage marked with a sticky note in her mom’s handwriting with an arrow pointing to the words: I am grateful for what I am & have It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing definite—only a sense of existence O how I laugh when I think of my vague indefinite riches. No run on my bank can drain it—for my wealth is not possession but enjoyment.

Natalie’s frustration ebbed as sadness returned. Trying to channel her mother’s optimism, she focused on the heady pleasure of deliberation. Which books would catch someone’s eye? Which would captivate their imagination? What brand-new title would get people talking? She’d made a spreadsheet—of course she had—detailing sales patterns, review and media attention, and reader affinities, and made a plan for each major category.

The king of the spreadsheet, week in and week out, was the elusive Trevor Dashwood. People couldn’t get enough of his books. Natalie ticked the box next to his recent title, knowing the copies would sell quickly, whether or not he’d deign to visit her shop two years from now. She was actually more excited to find the next Trevor Dashwood—the incredible author no one had heard of yet but who would one day capture the hearts of readers.

She’d been staying up late every night, devouring new offerings from publishers, and there were several she couldn’t wait to put on display in the shop—gripping memoirs, soaring romance, irresistible cookbooks, twisty thrillers, exuberant children’s books. This part of the process was catnip to her. Still, studying the spreadsheet and her own notes on the distributor’s order sheet, she felt a wave of uncertainty. There was no algorithm for predicting which books would sell. That took judgment and taste. She only hoped she had adequate supplies of both.

This had been her mother’s singular expertise and probably the reason the shop was still afloat despite Blythe’s haphazard management. She’d called herself a book evangelist. Natalie could still remember her mom’s look of utter pleasure when she hand-sold a book to an eager customer.

In the late afternoon, a bright spot appeared—an email from Quill Ransom’s publicist. Since she was local, the author was available on short notice. The publicist proposed a date for the book signing. Natalie knew one event wouldn’t reverse the shop’s fortunes overnight, but it was a start. She went straight to work planning and even had an excited call with the author, who sounded utterly charming.