May knew better than to try to step into that role, but she was a gentle presence in their lives. His girls, he called them—May and Blythe and Natalie—were sunshine and fresh air, and they created a deeply happy, if unconventional, family.

He clung to memories of May’s soft singsong voice and soothing hands gently loving him in the shadowy quiet of the back bedroom. Sometimes missing her seemed like too much, like he should simply die rather than live another day without her. Then he reminded himself that there were those who never found what he and May had—poor Blythe among them. He was grateful for the years they’d had, and the ache of grief was assuaged by memories of a rare and special love. Now Blythe was gone as well, but that pain was still too fresh and sharp to soothe. His mind played tricks; he would see her face when he looked at Natalie. He’d hear her voice and imagine she was in the next room. His daughter was everywhere in this place, another reason he clung to the venerable old building despite its many flaws and failings. Just because something was old and damaged was no reason to abandon it.

Dorothy had asked him if he’d had fun getting old. He feared losing the cherished memories. If he forgot, would that mean his life had never happened at all? That it didn’t mean anything? Perhaps this was the reason his mind lingered in the past.

Blythe appeared in the doorway of his apartment. “The Larrabees are here,” she said.

Turning to her, he saw his daughter in all her radiant beauty, the large soulful eyes alight with anticipation. She was his greatest accomplishment in life—his daughter, best friend, business partner, and favorite person.

“Grandy?”

Natalie, not Blythe. His heart absorbed the hit yet again. Blythe was gone. “I’m ready,” he said.

He was grateful for Peach Gallagher, who tackled the repairs with gallantry and confidence. The renovations revealed so much more than corroded pipes and rotted timber in the walls. Andrew was quite proud of the fascinating artifacts that had been secreted away generations before. This building was a trove of hidden lives—ghosts with secrets waiting to be revealed.

She introduced him to Augusta Larrabee Jones, a woman about his age with a dramatic swirl of silver hair, bright diamond earrings, and sharp polished nails. Soigné, she would have been called back in the day. Well put together. “Augustus Larrabee was my grandfather,” she said. “My son and grandson also carry the name, but we call them Gus and Auggie to avoid confusion.”

“We’re all quite delighted to have found you,” said Andrew as they filed into the back office.