“I thought so.” Lulu nodded as they bent to inspect the group. “It seemed about the right time for it. And whoever this woman is, you can tell the others all loved her—look how they’re clustering around. And you said the other day that they adored her, didn’t you, Mom? That’s what you said. They adored her.”

“They did.” Fee smiled at her middle daughter, whose voice only she had heard shake slightly, and reached a hand to replace a curl behind Lulu’s ear. “They did all adore her, and you can tell that these people all adore this woman. I think this must really be her, Lulu. Aren’t you clever? This is a real find.” She picked up the photograph again. “An interesting face,” she said. “Not pretty, they always said, but interesting. She was fifteen when the Civil War began, and seventy-five when women got the right to vote. What stories she’d have had to tell. But I guess we’ll never know them now. David has to see this. David!” She leaned back from the table to call down the hallway to where her husband was working in his office.

After a moment, David appeared, Sunday rumpled and unshaven, his coffee mug in hand.

“You screeched,” he observed mildly.

“I raised my voice in order to attract your attention,” Fee told him. “It’s a common form of human communication. I’ll bet even Claire does it from time to time.”

“Claire never wants attention,” he said. “She has no needs or desires. She sits quietly in the corner and waits for me to speak and then she waits for me to finish speaking and then she says, ‘How wise you are, dear, do tell me more.’ She’s the most interesting woman I know. What’ve you got?” He sat, resting his arm on his wife’s shoulder with the ease of long companionship, and picked up the photograph.

“That’s Grandma Jo,” said Fee. “Lulu’s been up in the attic, and she quite brilliantly found her.”

“Did she now?” David inspected the face. “Blimey, I wouldn’t mess with her,” he commented.

“The family adored her,” Lulu told him.

“From the look of her, they wouldn’t have dared not to,” he said. He looked closer. “Intelligent face,” he added. “Was she the one who was a writer?”

“So my mom used to say,” said Fee. “There was a story she was once quite successful, but you know how family stories get blown up, and I’ve never seen any of her books anywhere.”

“It’s still possible,” said David. “Literary fashions come and go like any others.” He looked up at Lulu. “Here’s a thought, Lu—if you ever want to try your hand at writing, there are any number of people I could put you in touch with to help you.”

“Here’s another thought, Dad,” said Lulu. “If you ever want to try your hand at not making helpful suggestions about my life, not yours, I’d really, really encourage it.”

“Grandma Jo.” Emma took the photograph from her father; she could have enough, she felt, of bickering between Lulu and her parents about Lulu’s career path. “Grandma Josephine, actually. I wonder if she minded having her name shortened like that?”