“That is the best part of a grandfather’s job—making a child laugh.” He paused. “You don’t laugh much anymore, Natty-girl.”

“I … Hey, let’s see if we can find more things to laugh at. It’s hard to find the humor in a flooded basement, but maybe later we can watch something funny on TV.”

“Benny Hill?”

She tried not to cringe. “Happy Gilmore,” she countered, handing him a napkin. “There’s fresh cider, too. The bakery across the street gets theirs from an orchard up in Archangel, where I used to live.” She poured him a glass from the chilled jug.

“Do you miss it, then?” he asked. “Your life up in Sonoma County?”

She set the glass in front of him. “I don’t know. Sometimes … It’s so beautiful up there. I never really liked my job, though,” she confessed.

“In that case, you’re well rid of it. The way you spend your day is the way you spend your life.” He picked up a napkin and stared at it uncomprehendingly.

She reached across and tucked it into his collar for him. Oh, Grandy.

“It would be very unfortunate if the water ruined things in the basement,” he remarked. “That was Colleen’s domain down there. Papa told me she didn’t have much, and she was careful with her things. I shall ask Papa why they were never found.”

Natalie was learning not to ask Grandy to remember or to try to make him understand what was real and what wasn’t. She was learning that it was enough to be with him, to take his hand, tuck his collar, fix him something to eat.

Sometimes he spoke of his parents as if they were in the next room. Maybe it was a blessing for distant memories to be so vivid. She thought about her mother every day, remembered countless details of their life together, but already certain things were fading, like images in a rearview mirror growing smaller and smaller. There were moments when she couldn’t picture the exact shape of her mother’s hands or the way she parted her hair or the tilt of her head when she was concentrating. Moments like that made her panic. Don’t go. I still need you.

Well before it was time to open, Peach arrived with Dorothy in tow. The little girl was adorable, even with severe bedhead and shoes that looked a bit like bedroom slippers.

Peach buckled on a tool belt and holstered a flashlight, then swapped his shoes for rubber boots. There was something elemental about him—his approach to a problem, his calm confidence as he ripped into a 150-year-old wall or tackled a flood.