Dalton crossed the room, and the man behind the counter extended his hand. They shook, and there seemed to be a mutual respect between them. She poured herself a cup of coffee, discovered it was indeed good, and walked around the showroom, studying the pictures featuring their lumber on a variety of projects.

She hadn’t been alone for more than twenty minutes when Dalton reappeared with a stack of brochures and folders under his arm. “Never knew there was so much lumber, did you?”

“About as many as there are types of salt. Right product for the right job.”

“You should be a builder,” he teased.

“We both take raw ingredients and make something. Your products just last a lot longer than mine.”

He opened the door. “I hope so.”

Laughter bubbled in her as they both made their way to his truck. She could have seen Talley alone, but having him with her would make it easier. Hunting the past was always a risk.

He found the assisted-living facility on a wooded side street. The parking lot was half-full, allowing him to find a spot close to the front.

Her stomach churning a little, she climbed out of the car, the hotel-registration book tucked under her arm, and came around to the front, where Dalton met her. They walked inside, she introduced herself to the receptionist, and they were escorted to a large sitting room filled with lounge chairs and tables, where several of the residents were already playing cards or reading the paper.

Ivy tried to imagine Ruth here and could not.

An attendant rolled out a wheelchair carrying the small frame of a silver-haired woman. She was wearing a pink blouse and lipstick that brightened her face.

Ivy walked up to her. “I’m Ivy.”

The smile mirrored the young girl’s in the image captured so long ago. “I know who you are. Ruth has told me all about you.”

Ivy turned toward Dalton. “This is Dalton Manchester. Pete’s son.”

Talley regarded him. “You don’t look like a Manchester.”

“Pete Manchester isn’t my biological father. He adopted me when he married my mom.”

Talley nodded. “You carry yourself like him. Pete always had a direct way of looking at a person even when he was little.”

“That so?” Dalton said.

“That’s a good thing,” she said.

Ivy and Dalton pulled up chairs and sat at the table with Talley. The old woman fussed with the folds of her blouse and then rested her deeply veined hands on the table.

“It’s good you don’t look like your grandfather. His eyes always scared me,” she said.

“My father was only six when he died, and he doesn’t remember much.”

“That’s for the best. The older Manchester wasn’t always kind.”

“You were here the summer he died, right?” Ivy asked.