“Not yet. I’m not in a rush, though. How’s the bookstore?”

Harry, partly from nerves, found himself telling Grace not just about the work he’d been doing at the store, but also about his anxiety regarding the store’s future. His own future, as well.

“You’re not interested in taking over?” Grace asked.

“No, not really. And if I was, I’d be interested in working at the Ackerson’s in New York, even though it doesn’t belong to my father . . . didn’t belong to him, anymore. I guess I’m not interested in living up here in Maine, with Alice, for the rest of my life.”

“Alice is your . . . stepmom?”

“Yes, sorry. She’s my father’s second wife. My mother died when I was in high school.”

“So what’s Alice like?” Grace had finished her beer, and must have signaled the bartender, because a full one was being placed in front of her, along with a small bowl of Chex Mix.

“She’s . . .” Harry searched for a word, finally coming up with “. . . fine.”

Grace laughed. “Faint praise.”

“Honestly, I just don’t know her that well. She married my father just as I was getting ready to head off to college. It was pretty much all about me, then, and I didn’t really bother to get to know her”—a flash of his father’s young bride in her bikini went through Harry’s mind—“at least not in any significant way. She’s very sincere, and that’s always made me a little bit uncomfortable. My father was always closed off about his emotions, my mother not so much, but she was also sarcastic, and that goes a long way. Alice doesn’t really have a sense of humor. I sometimes think my father fell in love with her because she reminded him of Maine, and he really wanted to return here.”

“Why did she remind him of Maine?”

“I don’t know. She’s straightforward, not complicated, or neurotic. She’s old-fashioned. She took care of him the way his mother took care of him, maybe. This makes him sound terrible.”

“Not really,” she said, licking some foam from her upper lip.

“Tell me about yourself,” Harry said, sipping at his drink, surprised to find it was nothing but ice.

“Do I have to?” Grace said, and laughed.

“You don’t have to do anything. I’m just curious. How old are you?”

“You’re not supposed to ask that, but I don’t mind. I’m twenty-five.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“I grew up in Michigan, then I went to school in New York City, and now I live right here in Kennewick, Maine.”

“And you dream of working in a bookstore?”