“Truth is, like I told you, I know the Ackerson’s in New York City. I used to live on the same block and go in all the time. I like old books. And I knew that there was a second Ackerson’s here, and that’s partly why I picked Kennewick. Not to work at the bookstore, although obviously I would love to do that, but because I wanted to move to the coast of Maine, and when I found out that the bookstore on my block had a sister store in Kennewick, it felt like fate. That’s why I picked here, and that’s why I went to your father’s funeral. You look like you don’t believe me.”

“Do I? No, keep going.” But Harry had been having trouble believing her. Her story sounded rehearsed, and as she told it, her eyes shifted back and forth, never settling on any one point. She was lying.

“That’s it. That’s my story.”

“Why did you leave New York?”

“Why do you think?”

“Boy troubles?”

“Ha. That’s one way to put it, but yes, that is why I left New York.”

The bartender asked Harry if he wanted another drink. He hadn’t eaten since the chicken sandwich at lunch, and the two bourbon and ginger ales had felt pretty strong. He ordered a beer instead, the same kind that Grace was drinking. After serving it with an orange slice on the rim of the pint glass, the bartender pointed a remote and turned on the flat-screen television built into the bar. Red Sox players were running onto the field at Fenway.

“You a baseball fan?” Grace asked, clearly hoping to change the subject.

“Fair-weather, I guess. When the Red Sox make the playoffs I start to pay attention. My dad was a huge fan.” And suddenly Harry realized that his father would never see another Red Sox game again, never read another box score, or complain about a pitcher. “How about you?”

“Not really. I’m a football fan. Soccer fan, I mean. I follow Man United.”

“How did that happen?” Harry asked.

He listened to her talk about soccer, how she’d played her whole life, and how she’d started watching the Premier League games when they’d begun airing them on American television ten years earlier. She talked about players as though Harry had heard of them. Now that she wasn’t hiding anything, she was making eye contact, and her voice had altered slightly. She’d relaxed and Harry could see her at fifteen, a feisty, freckled soccer player with long dark hair on some playing field in the Midwest.

Harry finished his beer and ate the orange slice.

“You hungry?” Grace asked.

“I am. I should go home, probably, because I’m sure that Alice has cooked a three-course meal. It’s what she’s been doing since my father died.”

“I should eat something, too.”