“Nobody’s asking you to be purr-fect. But you could try being open-minded.”
I sighed. The enormous banyan trees that sprawled across the yard mostly blocked our view of the signing tents, but I could see that quite a lot of people were gathering around them. I figured they were heading toward their cars to leave. Although Little Bridge seemed lovely, and it was nice so many people had packed into the auditorium to listen to us speak, it was unlikely many of them would buy books. That’s the way book festivals worked. Authors were an oddity at which people loved to come out and gawk. Only a few cared enough to sample the product they were selling.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be open-minded. Will Price admires me. He admires me so much, he—”
Bernadette held up a warning hand. “Don’t. Don’t start that again. He said he was sorry. Maybe he really did have a bad day that morning at Novel Con. It could happen to anyone. Maybe—”
But I never did get to hear what Bernadette thought might have happened to make Will say such awful things about my books, because at that moment we cleared the trees and saw that the hordes of people in the parking lot weren’t heading toward their cars at all. They were crowding instead outside the author tents… .
No, not crowding. Lining up.
“Holy cattails,” I said, once again freezing in my tracks. “Are all these people here for—?”
“There you are!” Chloe came running toward us, breathless in her little red-and-white dance shirt and shorts. “I’ve been looking everywhere for both of you! Are you ready for the signing? Do you need bottled water or anything? Because there are a ton of people waiting, and it would be great if we could get you seated and started, because we’ve got a conch chowder lunch lined up for all the paid attendees over by the lighthouse, and we really want to get them over there before the chowder gets cold.”
Bernadette and I exchanged shocked glances. What?
Maybe I really should start being a little more pawsitive after all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LITTLE BRIDGE BOOK FESTIVAL ITINERARY FOR:
JO WRIGHT
Saturday, January 4, 1:00 p.m.–2:00 p.m.
Book Signing
With Clive Dean, Jerome Jarvis, Victoria Maynard, Garrett Newcombe, Will Price, Jo Wright, and Bernadette Zhang
All of Little Bridge Island turned out for the book signing. Or at least it seemed that way. The line of people with books in their hands seemed to stretch endlessly.
Not that I was complaining! Hadn’t this been my dream when I was secretly writing Kitty Katz, Kitten Sitter #1: Kitty to the Rescue in between shifts as a server in one of New York City’s many, many beer ’n’ burger joints, certain the book would never get published, yet also hoping against hope that it would? To be faced with a line of people who, in this day and age, actually read books—and not just any books, but my books?
It was like I’d died and gone to heaven.
Or at least it would have been, if I hadn’t ended up being seated next to Will.
This time it wasn’t his choice, though. The festival seated its authors alphabetically by last name.
So I found myself at my own little white-cloth-covered folding table with Will to my right and Bernadette to my left.
At first this was fine. I’d done so many signings with Bernadette, I knew exactly what to expect from her: she was warm with readers, but never phony; signed quickly but not like she was in any big rush (which, of course, we were, because of Chloe’s dire warning about the conch chowder); she allowed fans to take selfies, letting them come behind her signing table to snap a quick photo, and even allowing them to come back for a retake if someone’s eyes turned out to be closed or they didn’t like their smile.
This was pretty much standard signing procedure. Bernadette and I always tried to be pleasant so no one ever felt slighted, but quick. We couldn’t afford to stop to chat too long (like Jerome, Kellyjean, and Saul) or draw an elaborate illustration next to our signatures (like Garrett), because if we did, we’d never get through everyone in line, and then the worst would happen: some adorable child or teen would walk away disappointed, their book unsigned.
Will, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care about any of these things. He hardly lifted his dark head from the books he was signing, barely stopping to smile or say hello to his die-hard fans—some of whom were so moved by the experience of meeting him at last that they’d begun to weep in line before even getting to his table, working themselves into sobs by the time they reached him. He was in such a rush to get through the line that he didn’t, I noted, even respect his readers enough to sign his entire name, just his initials, WP, with a swoosh.
This was appalling, especially since his name was already so short—no longer than mine, and I always wrote out the entire thing. I felt it was the least I could do, even for readers who weren’t purchasing any of my books new at the event, only bringing along copies from home.
I totally understood that an author like Saul, who’d been in the business long enough to have published hundreds—literally hundreds—of short story collections, novellas, and even entire series of novels under multiple pen names might put a limit to the number of books he’d sign for his fans at one event. His line would never end if he agreed to sign every single thing he’d ever written for every single Clive Dean fan who showed up, although he was always so tickled to see some of his very old books—from the seventies!—that he’d sometimes sit and chuckle over them, asking the fan where he or she had gotten it, how they’d managed to hold on to it so long, and whether or not they liked it as much as his new work, that his line would be held up even more.
It was Frannie who’d finally put her foot down. Three books per fan. Three books per fan—more if the fan bought the books new at the event—was all Saul was allowed to sign, or they’d be at every signing forever, and Frannie would never get back to the hotel for lunch or dinner.
But how could I apply the same rules to some sweet, adorable kid who’d brought along all of her tattered but much treasured editions of Kitty Katz, Kitten Sitter, the pages soft as velvet from being so well thumbed, smelling delightfully of vanilla, the scent of old paperbacks? Especially when they said, as they often did, that mine was the first chapter book they’d ever read, or it had come as a gift from Grandma, or gotten them through a difficult time?
I couldn’t be so hard-hearted.
Instead, each got a personalization, a You’re Purr-fect! or Thanks Furr Reading! and an XOXO Jo Wright, even if the book was clearly stamped as having been purchased secondhand at a used bookstore or library sale and there was no possible way I’d ever earn a cent of royalties from the sale. If someone—especially a child—was taking the time to come to a book event, that meant I needed to make the experience as special and memorable as possible, so that child would stay a reader forever. It wasn’t just my responsibility: it was my duty.
Will Price apparently did not share this belief, however. He didn’t even have qualms about denying his fans selfies, giving them a crisp British, “I wish I could, but I’m a bit pressed for time today,” before turning to the next person in line.
I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t witnessed it for myself—and if he hadn’t confessed to me earlier his fear of public speaking.