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“Protect the castle! Protect the castle at all costs!”
I swivel my head around and see Lyla in a tug-of-war with the same librarian from two years ago who was so bent on stealing Oswald’s foam-board headshot. Lyla still has the same old Dolly Parton hair, which swings violently all around her. She also has a protruding belly showing she’s about five weeks from her due date. Three weeks into her first tour she realized she might not be cut out for the country-star life after all. Now she sings on the weekends here and there, and Will and I, along with Garrett, and even Sam and Brittney, go out to show our support.
“Excuse me,” I say politely to the woman before me and hand her the copy.
I spot Yossi and Marge in the corner, covered up in conversation. Gabriel just left for coffee. Will is off at an appointment. It’s up to me.
I jump up and rush as quickly and professionally as I can over to Lyla. I grab her shoulders and say calmly, “What did we just talk about in the car, sweetie?”
Lyla stiffens without letting go. Her lips purse and her nose wrinkles.
“What was it?” I prompt again. I stare at her, smiling, until she gives.
Lyla, after glowering at the librarian, finally looks at me.
“Remind ourselves,” Lyla chants dully, “that people have feelings. And they are more important than things.”
“What things?”
Lyla raises her eyes to the ceiling. “Books. Pens. And foam boards.”
“And what is Will going to do if he catches you chasing another nice librarian down the aisle?”
Lyla exhales. Lets go of the foam board and folds her arms across her chest. “Make me stand in front of everyone at the next meeting and compliment each person one by one.”
“That’s right,” I say, rubbing her shoulders soothingly for several seconds. I then turn to the librarian and give her a broad, we’re-all-sane-here smile. “I’m so sorry, but that board isn’t part of the merchandise we are giving away today.”
The elderly miscreant, for her part, only wrinkles her brow distastefully at me, with zero regard that it’s my own face she’s currently stealing.
“I’d be happy to give you my book instead. Signed personally,” I add.
She, holding the foam board, takes a step backward.
Beside me, I hear Lyla hiss.
“You know what?” I’m stepping on Lyla’s toes. “How about I just sign that for you and you can take it? I’m happy to.”
But as I turn to grab my Sharpie, the small woman swivels faster than I imagined was possible and makes a squirrely rush for the crowd.
Well. Sometimes that’s how it goes.
I return to my seat, and to meeting with librarians, many of whom I’ve specifically come to know over the past twenty-four months as the sweetest, most encouraging, and most powerful cheerleaders for my books. And by the end of the signing, my aching, smiling cheeks reflect it.
“Thanks, Miss Michelle,” I say, passing her the book. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
Miss Michelle, a kind librarian out in East Tennessee, takes the book and slips it into her bulging tote, along with all the other ARC reads for the day. “Thanks, Savannah. We’re all really excited for our chat with you.”
“Me too,” I say and smile at her, meaning it. Some authors, like Oswald (whom I ended up retaining despite the company shakeup, simply because he was so overwhelmed at the thought of a new editor), find social gatherings around their books terrifying. Not me. Chatting with book clubs is quite possibly my favorite part of the job.
The librarian drifts into the stream of traffic, and I sit there on my little barstool, snagging a moment to take it all in. The hum of energy. The eager faces.
A few moments later there’s a break in the stream of passing people, and I see Will standing on the other side.
He’s just looking at me, as though he’s been standing there for some time, taking it all in as well. An easy smile plays on his lips.
As he saunters forward, I see two hardcovers in one hand.
Recognizing the bold orange cover, I suck in a breath. “Is that . . . ?”
