It was a color photo, faded by time as though it had been washed in the rain or by tears. The pub in the picture was a white thatch-roof building, squat and square, set against a landscape that must have been emerald in its time but was now like a weak green tea. The name of the pub was written on a circular sign over the doorway: O’Shea’s. Was it the name of the owner, or maybe the owner before? Who knew? The doorway was painted dark green, the window sashes also. Two sets of rectangular windows were set on either side of the doorway, red awnings protecting them with swollen eyelids. In small, tight script words on the photo stated: 1980 County Clare, Ireland.

Beckett had fished the photo from a manila envelope with a pile of others, which they’d also placed on the pine table at the historical society. He stood next to Colleen and his hands sifted through them. Martin Burris, the long-term volunteer and history buff, a man whose bushy beard seemed to compensate for his bald head, stood back with his hands in his front jeans pockets.

“That photo you got there.” Martin took a step closer to Colleen and tapped its center, almost knocking it from her hands. “Your dear dad brought that to the contractor to show him how he wanted the pub to look like in the redesign. He didn’t go tearing out the brick and mortar, but he damn sure wanted to change its appearance. He would have added a thatch roof if they’d let him.” Martin’s accent, so deeply southern it sounded like a parody, made Colleen smile.

“Why this pub in Ireland?”

“I have no idea.” Martin scratched his beard.

“What do you think?” Colleen asked Beckett.

He held another photo with a smile. “Think about what?”

Colleen held out the photo. “Why did he choose this pub to use as a model for the Lark?”

“Because it’s good-looking? I can’t guess about something a man did all those years ago.”

“It’s so interesting.” Colleen sat in a chair, sifting through other images of the Lark during different stages of its life. “Why do we think to ask the most important questions when it might be too late for those questions?” She looked at Beckett. “Why don’t we ask when it doesn’t matter so desperately?”

“I don’t know.” He sat next to her and took her hand. “I just don’t damned well know, but maybe you should try now—maybe it’s not too late.”

And in that instant, the one person, the only person Colleen wanted to turn toward was Hallie. This need, this primal and old desire, carried the pain of loss and the slightest whisper of existing love, appearing quietly and shyly from the past.

Yes, they would find a way to ask their dad—together, she and her sister would find a way.