“Look at this one, here.” Auggie indicated the man in the middle, staring from beneath a dimpled brimmed hat, white-gloved hands folded around a rifle barrel. “That’s Sergeant Julio Harper.”

“That’s your grandfather?” Natalie looked at Andrew, eyes bright with discovery.

“So it appears.” He studied the grainy photo, showing a man of color like all the others in the shot. “He was a Buffalo Soldier, then.” Andrew absorbed the information. His father’s father had been a black man. It was very puzzling.

“You never knew?” asked Natalie.

“I couldn’t have.” Could he? Was it something he’d once known? What other memories had been snatched away?

“The pension claim was probably rejected because it was an interracial marriage. It was illegal,” said Auggie Larrabee.

“Wow. Just … Wow.” Natalie gazed across the table at Andrew, and he saw Blythe in her thoughtful smile. “Then how did they get a certificate of marriage?”

“Another matter to puzzle out,” Andrew said. “This is simply delightful, having a photograph of my grandfather,” he added, addressing Augusta. “We’re very appreciative.”

The Larrabees left copies of the documents they’d brought, profusely thankful that they had been reunited with the medal. After learning of its value, Andrew had toyed for the briefest of moments with the notion of selling it. But there was no profit in keeping something that rightfully belonged to someone else.

As they were saying goodbye, young Auggie Larrabee asked Natalie if she’d like to go out for drinks sometime. She looked sweetly flustered, then said, “Maybe. I’m a bit busy with the shop. You know where to find me.”

After they left, she came back into the office. “Mom did one of those home DNA tests,” she said. “Did you know that?”

Andrew took off his glasses and wiped the lenses. “How’s that?”

“You send off a saliva sample and it’s analyzed to find out your genetic makeup. Mom did that test, and I found the results in her computer files.”

“Perhaps she mentioned it. I don’t recall.”

“According to the results Mom received, most of her DNA was from the British Isles. But nearly an eighth of her DNA is West African, and another sixteenth is Spanish. And there’s a small percentage of Native American as well.”

He put his glasses back on and studied the grainy photo again. “Now we know why.”

“Are you surprised? Shocked?” she asked.

He shook his head. “At what point does one’s phenotype change one’s ethnicity? It’s never mattered to me.”

She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I love that you said that.” Then she sighed. “What a world. I feel bad for old Colleen. I guess she wasn’t old, though, just a young immigrant trying to make her way in a strange country. It’s sad, picturing her raising her little boy alone, being denied her husband’s pension. I hope they were happy for a time.”