“Just now.” She pointed at Beckett. “I went to the historical society today. Remember, like we talked about over breakfast?” Then she remembered to quit using the damned word “remember.”

He nodded in agreement. The man he’d been speaking to, Colleen recognized him—Mr. Dalton, her teacher from junior year algebra. She exchanged a few words with him and then he rejoined one of the women sitting alone at a table.

“Dad.” Colleen sat on the stool that had just been vacated by Mr. Dalton. She would start over, make sure he understood.

“Yes?” He smiled at her and nodded at Beckett. It was a vacant word, a preconditioned response.

“Today I went to the historical society with Beckett here.” Beckett took a bar stool next to her, reached under the bar to squeeze her knee in complicit sympathy. “We found such interesting photos.”

“Photos?” His eyes lit as if someone had turned something on inside him.

Beckett pulled out color copies of the originals.

The door behind the bar swished open and closed, and Shane emerged, preoccupied on his phone. When he glanced up and saw them, he smiled. “Oh, hey. What’s up?”

“We found these at the historical society.” Colleen spoke softly and tilted her head at her brother in question. “Are you okay?”

Shane glanced at their dad, a sideways slide of the eyes that only Colleen would notice. “I’m fine. What are these?” He eased his way to the bar, pushing the photos under the domed light above.

“Dad,” Colleen said, “one is a photo of the pub you used as a model for this pub. It’s some place in Ireland.”

Gavin slapped his hand on the counter and let out a laugh. “The old O’Shea pub in Clare. How many hours I spent behind that dirty counter, dragging the old kegs and cleaning after the brawls of the locals. Did you know it takes exactly 119 seconds to pour a perfect Guinness?” He looked at Colleen.

“I did, Dad. I did know that. You taught me.”

He shook his head and lifted the photo closer to his face. “How long has it been?” His gaze found Colleen’s and there seemed a desperate need for an answer. “How long?”

“I don’t know exactly when you were there. But before I was born, so at least thirty-five years ago.”

“Oh, my dear, you’ve always been a part of the pub.”

“No, Dad. That’s a different pub. That’s not the Lark.”

Her dad kept his gaze fixed on hers. She understood why he wouldn’t look away; he needed to be grounded in that moment, to find his way back to reality. But it wasn’t happening.

“Dad, that’s another pub. Did you work there? At that pub in Ireland?”