CHAPTER 1
FIONA
God, it had been years since she’d been at a signing. Fiona Fowler loaded her hand truck with books and things for her table. She was late; she hadn’t had coffee; and attending this signing was an incredibly bad idea. What the hell had she been thinking?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She tugged it free, the glow of the screen making her stomach sink. The banking app was still open from the parking booth: $58.43 in checking. Not nearly enough to feel safe, not with gas to buy, groceries to stretch, and another bill due Monday. She shoved the phone back into her purse as if that could erase the red numbers.
Time was she’d have breezed into events without a thought, her publisher footing every bill, her face printed on glossy programs. Now she was schlepping her own books through a drafty garage that smelled of saltwater and motor oil, praying the wheels on her cart didn’t give out before she reached the registration desk
In that time the world had been her oyster and she had made money hand-over-fist, but a nasty divorce and shattered self-esteem had robbed her of her natural self-confidence and her writing had suffered. It was time to get back into the real worldand go back to work. All sitting on her laurels had done was to help her gain twenty pounds and run through what little money she’d managed to salvage from the destruction of her marriage.
Fiona hated feeling humiliated, and she was sure she was well on her way to feeling just that. The Mystery Readers of Maine Book Signing was huge, as in more than one hundred and fifty authors and an expected attendance of over three thousand readers. She hadn’t had a bestseller in years.
She snorted. Bestseller? She was barely keeping the roof over her head. There’d been a time she would have been welcomed at any signing—courted, even—but now she had to beg to grab up the table of an author that had canceled. She feared hearing whispers of ‘what’s she doing here?’ It would be bad enough from other authors, but to hear it from readers would be like a knife through the heart.
The pixie-cut registrar kept writing, pen scratching over forms. A plastic placard that readAUTHORS CHECK-INpointed left. Only when Fiona’s rolling cart bumped the table did the woman acknowledge her presence.
“Can I help you?” Her eyes didn’t lift from her paperwork. She tapped a long, red fingernail on top of her desk. “Reader registration isn’t for another four hours unless you’re a VIP conference attendee.”
“I’m Fiona Fowler. I’m one of the attending authors.”
“Fowler?” the woman said, flipping through her registration materials. “Fowler… hmm, I don’t see… oh, there you are. You’re a last-minute addition and your name is penciled in. Let me see what I can do about an ID and lanyard.”
“I’m running a little behind. Could I go ahead and start setting up my table?”
“I can’t leave the registration desk and go traipsing about looking for you…”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that. Just let me get my table set up, and I’ll come out and get them.”
The woman took a deep breath, did a virtual eye roll, and sighed. “I suppose that will be all right. The table assignments are on the table just inside the doors by the continental breakfast. Yours should be easy to spot as it will be handwritten in red.”
“Great. Thank you. I’ll be out before the signing starts.”
Gather yourself, Fiona,she thought, tugging at the thin thread of confidence she had left.What possessed you to do this? No one invited you. No one begged you to come. You heard a rumor about cancellation, and what did you do? You called in a favor, shoved yourself onto the list, and now here you are—setting yourself up for humiliation.
Steam curled from urns that smelled faintly of dark roast and salt air that drifted in every time the lobby doors opened. Platters of blueberry muffins and molasses brown bread sat beside paper boats of whoopie pies, the kind every local swore theirs did best. A gull cried outside, sharp and close, and the room answered with the clatter of rolling banners and gossip.
She found the table chart, and as promised the scheduled author’s name had been marked out and her name had been scribbled in. It was misspelled, but it was there. It was in a back corner along the wall, which meant she’d have more room. Looking at the names of those closest to her, she groaned. Talk about sticking out like a sore thumb.
Of course. Christie Crofton on one side—the overnight darling with one book and already a featured slot. And on the other? Jessica Murdoch, queen of the genre, a hundred titles under her belt and a hit show on its sixth season. Perfect placement, Fiona. Let’s drop you between two women with fan armies who draw lines around the block. Brilliant. Could this get any worse?
Fiona would be sitting to Jessica’s left. To Christie’s right would be Lori Sykes, an up-and-coming author who had produced four books in three years, had won a prestigious award, and who was reputedly being courted by Fiona’s old publisher—the same one who had dropped her like a hot stone when the third book in a row didn’t perform to expectations.
She made her way to her table, reminding herself that she was here to try and bolster her failing sales and find new readers. So far none of those sitting closest to her were there. Good. Maybe she could get in and get set up and then slip out to get that name tag and something to eat. And coffee. Oh, how she needed her coffee.
Banner first. If I can get the damn thing to stand without collapsing, that’s a win. Table runner next—smooth it flat, no wrinkles. Books stacked evenly, not too high. Business cards in the holder. Swag spread out so it looks generous, even if I don’t have much. At least Jill nailed the design—the logo, the colors. That part, at least, should look like I belong here.
Standing in front of her table, Fiona smiled.Damn, it looks good, and I do look like I belong.She wasn’t sure she did, but at least she looked the part. What was the old saying? Fake it ‘til you make it.I made it once; I’ll make it again.No one had to know how carefully she had selected her outfit from several vintage clothing stores in the region. She looked quirky, but chic. She headed out to registration, waiting in line to retrieve her name badge.
“Name?” the woman asked, looking right at her.
“Fiona Fowler.”
“Hmm… let me see.”
“Earlier you found it written in.”
“Oh right, the late comer. Well, let me see what I can do,” the registration lady said, starting to handwrite a name tag.
