Maggie watched them leave. She was sorry to see them go. An absurd reaction, she realized. She didn’t know these people. But for a minute, they’d distracted her from Jane Cannon’s email. I know something similar happened to you, I know something similar happened to you, I know something similar happened to you …

“Hey!”

Maggie jerked around.

The young woman behind the counter was beaming at her. “It’s you.”

Maggie headed in her direction and bumped into another customer. She mumbled an apology and sidestepped past two women talking by the table. Books, cookies, and pretzels were everywhere.

When Maggie reached the desk, she shook her hair away from her face and held out the wrinkled check.

“How’s it going?”

Maggie nodded.

The girl laughed. “Me too,” she said, imitating Maggie with a frown and a bob of her head.

A customer brushed against Maggie’s shoulder. She flinched. “You’re busy.”

“Because it’s Fun Fiction Friday,” the clerk explained. She took hold of her braids and tied them under her chin. With a covert scan of the crowd, she slouched sideways and said softly, “This is the weekly gig that keeps my family’s shop going. We try to make it entertaining—story time, snacks, author signings, giveaways, costume parties, discounts—and it’s become a Friday tradition for a lot of locals. Sometimes I think they show up and shop just because they’re worried we’ll tank.” She sighed. “Like tons of other Kesley businesses have.” With a slap on the counter, she straightened. “What’s that?”

“Hmm? Oh.” Maggie frowned at the wrinkled check in her hand and thrust it toward the girl. “I found this in one of the used books I bought from you.”

“Carina.” She accepted it with a cluck. “Not surprised. She works for us part-time. Smart woman but a total flake.” She slipped the check under the counter. “I’ll give her a call. Thanks for bringing it by, ah…”

Maggie stared at her dumbly.

The girl laughed again. “I’m Ran Kita. And you are…?”

Maggie opened her mouth, then closed it. Margaret Arioli, Maggie Arioli—both had been in the news and not only in Carlton. She didn’t want to ring a bell. “Marge,” she blurted.

“Marge. You don’t hear that one very often.”

Maggie shrugged. Unless you’re hanging out in a nursing home.

“Just Marge?”

She nodded and took a step toward the door.

“Like Rihanna. Or Madonna. Cool. Well, don’t forget Saturday, Marge. Not tomorrow Saturday, but two weeks from tomorrow. Here. Seven o’clock. Bring your questions. Bring your epiphanies.”

She stared at her, confused.

“Our book club meeting?” the clerk prodded. “Bring the novel, too. You need a copy?”