If there’s one thing I’ve learned about running events in Mooselick River, it’s that they always bring out the best and worst in people. Not all people, mind you, only my mother and the ones who help put on the events, and then mostly only when folding chairs are involved.

“Bess, we agreed to arrange the rows in straight lines, not this weird horseshoe shape,” Martha Tipton said, arms crossed and pearls gleaming like warning beacons as she surveyed the meeting room of the town library.

Bess Tate squinted at the wingback chair at the front of the space as if geometry itself had wronged her. “Straight lines are sterile. Authors like flow. People like mingling. It’s festive.”

“It’s chaos.” Martha turned to me, the de facto referee, because she knew Patricia Croft, the third in their unholy trio, would be more likely to side with Bess. “Everly, tell her.”

I glanced at the line of readers forming in the vestibule and decided Switzerland had the right idea about neutrality. “If the author survives the night without a paper-cut lawsuit, we’ll call it a win.”

That earned me twin sighs—one exasperated, one triumphant—and a chance to retreat to safer ground behind the refreshment table where cookies glittered with sanding sugar and homemade bookmarks fanned out like party favors.

Not that my escape lasted more than a minute because the next topic up for debate was the precise placement of the signing table.

“It has to go right here,” Bess Tate announced, wagging a finger at the front corner. “Where the people waiting in line can see him and the book covers. Presentation matters.”

“Right under the air conditioning vent?” Patricia said, steady as granite. “He’ll be frozen in five minutes. We aren’t filming a shampoo commercial.”

There wasn’t time to parse the meaning of that because they had the signing table gripped between them as if it might bolt. Keeping one eye on my mother, the head librarian, Martha hovered nearby as if she hadn’t been the one to instigate the altercation. As usual.

I slapped my hand on the edge of the table. “How about we split the difference. Two feet left for that good view and a foot forward to avoid the vent. Jackson Whittemore writes about corpses. He doesn’t need to be the same temperature as one.”

Bess sniffed. Patricia pursed. Martha hid a smile. We slid the table into place. Peace returned just in time for our headliner to arrive at the back door with his entourage. A couple of teenagers, I assumed were the author’s sons, carried in boxes of books and a nifty banner with his name and photo splashed across it that they set up behind the table.

“You’ve done this before,” I said to the one who looked to be the older of the two.

“Best summer job ever. Pays well and I get to spend time with my dad before he disappears into his office to write the next book.”

I returned his infectious smile, then pointed them toward the refreshments table while I greeted their father.

“Welcome to Mooselick River, Mr. Whittemore,” I said as I shook his hand. “I’m Everly Dupree.”

“Parker,” my mom corrected.

“Dupree-Parker,” I said, glaring at her, then clarified so the famous author didn’t think I was too stupid to know my own name. “Recently married.”

“Ahh.” He nodded and smiled. After we’d done a round of introductions, he asked us to call him Jackson. “Looks like a good turnout. ”

My advertising campaign worked even better than I expected, bringing in locals and tourists alike. One thing we do well in Maine is support our local authors.

“You can thank Everly for that,” Martha gushed. “She’s our resident marketing genius.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, cursing my pale skin and the blush creeping up my face. I left the schmoozing to Martha and did my final round of checks. Everything looked good. We were ready.

At the allotted time, the evening’s headliner took his place at the front of the room with a practiced mixture of humility and delight. Twenty minutes later, he’d finished a dramatic reading involving frozen mudflats, adultery, and a snow shovel. He handled questions with charm and the faintly haunted look of a man expecting to be asked if his characters were based on people he knew.

While Mr. Whittemore made his way to the signing table at the back of the room, I checked the refreshments table and added the last of the cookies to platters that had been picked nearly clean.

Across the room, my mother used her special brand of quiet authority to keep the signing line moving. I just happened to be looking at her when her face changed. She fished her phone out of the pocket of the lightweight blazer she wore over a navy pencil skirt, and quickly stepped away.

Knowing she wouldn’t have answered a call that wasn’t important, I took her place near the corner of the table just in time to hear an enthusiastic reader tell Jackson, “My name’s Fiona Lewis. The woman who grooms my dog used to date your cousin. Maybe you remember her?”

“It is a small world, Mrs. Lewis. Did you have a book to sign?”

“Oh, my. Yes.” She handed over a copy of the new book she’d just purchased, and a copy of his first novel, letting me move her along without protest when he was done.

“Don’t forget to check the raffle table where we’re featuring book prizes. And to make it even more fun, the raffle is a town-wide event. Participating businesses have a sign in their windows. You can purchase and put as many tickets as you want into as many raffle buckets as you want. Win one, or win them all. It’s all in the luck of the draw.”

While getting Mr. Whittemore in for a reading was a feather in the town’s cap, the true purpose of the evening was to kick off a week-long fundraiser. Sprucing up the library’s children’s nook would cost five thousand dollars, at a minimum. If the event generated awareness of local businesses at the same time, that would be the caramel drizzle in my iced coffee.

And based on the turnout, I figured we were well on our way. As I looked around the room, my attention was caught by a man standing near the travel section. He wasn’t familiar, which came as no surprise since local faces only made up about half the turnout. Still, something about him drew my attention.

Mid-thirties, I judged, with close-cropped hair and a plain sport coat that didn’t try to impress anybody. A face that blended into the crowd. It wasn’t his appearance that made him stand out. It was that his manner was attentive without seeming to be. When he noticed me noticing him, he smiled in a way that just barely reached his eyes.

Before I could get a better look, my mother stepped into my line of view.

“Nell’s coming to town tomorrow,” she said. “I’ve already made arrangements with David. She’ll stay at the inn while she’s here—her choice, not mine. I’ll expect you and Drew for dinner tomorrow night.”

It took me a beat to pick up on the name. Then it landed. “Your cousin Nell?”

“The very one.”

“That’s wonderful. I barely got a chance to talk to her at the wedding, but why is she staying at the inn when she barely lives an hour away? Is everything okay?”

“As she sounded cheerful as ever, it would seem so. I’m sure she’ll tell us all about her reasons for the visit when she arrives.”

Knowing Nell, I had no doubt. “Well, as long as it’s nothing tragic, this is happy news. Maybe we should convince her to give a talk on how to recognize rare books while she’s here. It would be good publicity for her shop. Do you think she’d do it?”

Mom’s eyes softened the way they do when she approves, which warmed me from the inside out. We used to circle each other like cats around a new couch. These days, we manage a solid two-step more often than not. “I think that’s a lovely idea. Now, why don’t you help Mrs. Abernathy?” she said, patting my arm and nudging me out of the way so she could take back her former position. “She looks tired.”

So she did.

“It’s nice to see you, Mrs. Abernathy,” I said, relieving my across-the-street neighbor of the bag of books she carried, and tucking my hand under her arm to lend support. If she suspected me of trying to be helpful, she’d turn prickly, so I had to be subtle. “I didn’t know you were a fan of Jackson Whittemore. Which ones did you buy?”

“No reason why you would, is there?” She gazed up at me, one penciled-in eyebrow arched. She knew her purchases were none of my business, and so did I, but I’d rather she consider me rude or nosy than patronizing. Still chatting, I kept her company until her son joined us, then handed her and her books off to him and beat a hasty retreat before she could tell me another story about her cat. Mr. Bootsy was the one topic she didn’t mind exhausting.

The line had dwindled down to a few stragglers, so when a sudden motion off to my left caught my attention, I turned in that direction and slammed right into the man I’d seen hanging around the travel section earlier.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, trying to catch my breath. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you all right? Mr….”

“No worries. Name’s Hank Barlow,” he offered somewhat reluctantly.

“Thank you for being so understanding.” I offered my hand. “Everly Dupree. Can I get you a cookie? I think there are some left.”

“I’m all set, thanks.”

“Are you here for the event?” Up close, he seemed even less animated than I’d thought.

“I’m a fan of Whittemore’s earlier stuff. I wanted to hear him read.”

“Then you picked the right night.” I nodded toward the signing line, which had only two people left. “He’ll be leaving soon if you haven’t had a chance to get your copy signed.”

He didn’t have a copy, but it wasn’t too late to buy one.

“Thanks.”

I didn’t think of him again after that. The signing wound down. Jackson posed for a last selfie with Bess, who angled herself to take up most of the frame. Mom helped me straighten up the space and reset for the next day when several authors had been invited to sell and sign books. Martha cleared the snacks table, boxing up what few snacks were left, while Patricia totaled up the raffle ticket sales.

“That went well,” Martha understated, peering at Patricia through her bifocals. “How many raffle tickets did we sell?”

“Thirty-eight books of five, seventeen books of ten, and six books of twenty tickets.”

“That’s what, sixty-one books for a total of four-hundred-sixty tickets altogether?” Mom did the math in her head. “I counted more than seventy guests, so I’d say that went rather more than well.”

The library fundraiser was off to a rousing start.