“I didn’t. It’s Brett. Brett Hamilton.”

“You know, Brett, I’d like to ask you to use a different venue to express your concern, because tonight, we’re just here to have a good time. Have you read my book?”

“No,” he admitted.

“It’s about losing what we most love. So I do understand how you feel about the trees. I’d be more than happy to talk with you about them, but not tonight. Okay?”

She smiled, reached out, touched his shoulder.

He was silent.

“I think it’s time for refreshments,” Maggie Nelson said. “Thank you, Grace. She’ll be signing up here for all of you who brought books.” She slipped quickly between Grace Fitzgerald and the young man, took his arm, and with gentle force, guided him from the room. He didn’t resist.

Jo and Jenny found themselves near the end of a line that formed for Grace Fitzgerald’s signature. When they reached the author, she smiled at them warmly. “Hi, Jo.”

“Hello, Grace. I’m sorry about the disruption.”

“What disruption?” Her eyes, a brown so light they were nearly golden, fell on Jenny. “This must be the writer I’ve heard so much about.”

Jenny reddened deeply. “Just poems, mostly.”

“That’s exactly how I started.” She took Jenny’s book. “How would you like this inscribed?”

“Whatever you want to put there is fine.”

“Wonderful.” Grace Fitzgerald bent and wrote in a florid script, “From one writer to another, good luck.” She started to close the book, then bent once more and added something Jo couldn’t quite see. She handed the book back to Jenny and laid her hand on the shoulder of the boy next to her. “Scottie, I’d like you to meet Ms. Jo O’Connor. She’s a famous lawyer here. And this is her daughter, Jenny. My son Scott.”