Maggie stared at the girl. Did she always comment on her customers’ purchases? And appearances? How … rude. It was probably a good thing she didn’t work in a grocery store. (“Oh, these are the overnight pads with wings. You must get heavy periods. And Little Debbie Star Crunches? Bad for you.”) Maggie pointedly held out her money.

The smile widened. “I’m interested in what people read.” She shrugged, as if her interest excused the nosiness, then rang up the books. “I’m going through a Russian phase, myself,” she said airily. “Chekhov, of course. Some Tolstoy. A little Dostoyevsky.” She handed Maggie her change and slipped the receipt and books into a brown bag. “And I’m finally getting around to Nabokov. I started Lolita last night. Ever read it?”

Maggie shook her head. She had zero interest in reading Lolita.

“Our book club just finished Doctor Zhivago, but we’re shifting back to contemporary stuff and doing My Name Is Lucy Barton next.”

“By Elizabeth Strout?” Maggie had been wanting to read that.

The girl nodded. “In a few weeks.” She reached down and brought back up a flyer. “Here’s our schedule.” She leaned forward to hand it to Maggie, then stayed that way, hanging over the desk. “We need more members.”

Directly behind Maggie, someone muttered, “Really bad.”

Maggie whirled around.

This girl rubbed a tattoo of a feather by the base of her throat. “There are only four of us.” She twisted one of the piercings along her ear. On the side of her neck was another tattoo, not a picture but a word and numbers. Maggie had just made it out—Romans 12:9—when the girl turned to glare out the window. “You should come.” She said this fiercely, almost daring Maggie to disagree.

“Thanks.” She swiftly collected her bag. The two book club members had her practically sandwiched. She sidestepped toward the door. “I’ll, um, think about that.”

“Great!” The clerk shared a victorious glance with the other girl, as if Maggie’s involvement in the book club were a done deal, then added in a singsong manner, “See you soon.”

“Good-bye!” the girls from the back of the bookstore called.

Disoriented by this show of excessive interest and warmth, Maggie mumbled a good-bye and backed out of the store, holding her bag against her chest like a shield.

3

THE WIND ROLLED off the lake, grabbed Maggie’s hair, and flung it straight up. She held her cold forearms and hunched in her T-shirt. Mom and Aunt Wren were gone for the day. Maggie finally had the beach to herself.

Summer was over. On the trees edging the water, orange and scarlet streaked the foliage in narrow swaths. Even the September sky belonged to fall: fitful, moody. Silver-edged clouds, like dirty fingerprints, smudged the bluest blue.