Before I realized her intent, she’d scooped up a spoonful and held it up to my lips, leaving me no option but to taste. And while I didn’t have anything to compare it to, never before having had daal, it was undeniably delicious.

Mrs. Buzzard seemed pleased by my reaction.

“Good, huh?!” she asked.

“It’s fantastic.”

I reached for the spoon, hoping for another bite but I got my hand slapped instead. Then she filled a small bowl and practically shoved it into my hands.

To my surprise, she turned back to the pot and said in a normal voice, “Your grandmama added that to the menu for those Indian folks. Asked me to make it even though they left. Poor thing.” She shook her head, but in a way that I knew she at least had some inkling of my grandmother’s motivation, and, to my relief, she seemed sad for Grandma.

And so was I.

My heart ached not merely for myself, at Arthur’s absence, but for Grandma Jo’s loss, too.

A week ago, she had told me with a sparkle in her eyes how she had ordered the ingredients for traditional Indian meals and had even learned to prepare some herself. I wondered now if she had planned to make them for Esha and their dinner that never happened.

On impulse, I took out my phone and snapped a few pics, which earned me a glower from Mrs. Buzzard, who resumed shouting.

“Eat it, don’t snap it!”

Impulse hit again and I took a picture of Mrs. Buzzard. Her scowl turned more ferocious and she opened her mouth to yell at me until I said, “You look cute.”

And showed her the photo. Which was at the very important higher angle and caught her blue eyes behind her thick glasses.

She stared, but when I asked her if she wanted me to send her a copy, she grunted in a way that I was pretty sure was affirmative.

Stepping off to the side, I quickly scarfed down the bowl of daal and put the dish in the dishwasher. When I started to exit, Mrs. Buzzard yelled: “Wait!”

I turned.

“You dropped your nut!” she said, holding up my conker.

That was the first time anyone had ever said that to me.

I swiped the conker, thanked her, and made my way to the front lobby, still clutching it and thinking about Arthur, which was when I almost collided with:

“Brody?”

Brody turned and smiled bashfully, rubbing the back of his head. “Hey, Fin.”

“What brings you by?”

“Uh, do you have a sec?” He glanced at Val, who was working the front desk with her typical level of invisible enthusiasm.