“People like to know where they came from,” he said to Peach. “Gallagher is an Irish name. Your people came from Ireland, then?”

Peach nodded. “The first Gallagher we could trace settled in Atlanta and worked as a framing carpenter.”

“An honorable trade,” Grandy said. “Perhaps it’s in your blood, then. I can tell you know your craft.”

Peach had no idea how grateful she was that he treated her grandfather with such dignity and patience. As she returned to the shop so Cleo could have her lunch break, she found herself wondering—not for the first time—what Peach’s wife was like. Did the two of them make dinner together after work, ask Dorothy about her school day? Would Peach talk about the old bookstore he was working on? Did he describe its crumbling walls and dotty old man tapping away at his typewriter? Would he mention the stressed-out woman who was probably going to lose everything while trying to save the shop?

In the final hour before closing time, no one came to the bookstore. Not one customer. Grandy had gone to a community dinner at the senior center with Charlie. Now they were playing canasta with their usual squad. Peach had finished the day’s projects, and he was gone, too. Even Sylvia the cat had padded off somewhere, probably looking for a warm place to curl up as the autumn fog gathered and wandered through the streets. Bertie and Cleo were gone for the day, Cleo to a table reading of one of her plays and Bertie to meet friends for a drink. He’d invited Natalie to join them, but she’d begged off.

Now she wished she’d accepted. So far, her social life in the city was a big fat zero.

The silence accentuated her solitude and despair. These were the moments that struck her like a blow sometimes. The reality of her mother’s absence hung in the very air of the shop, redolent of the papery aroma of books and ink, spinning like dust motes stirred by the turn of a page. The ache of loss was almost physical as she yearned for more time with her mother. The two of them had had their differences, but at the core of their relationship was an indelible bond. She hoped with all her heart that Mom had felt the same way. It was utter torture to think about all the conversations she’d never have, all the moments she’d miss out on.

She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes, trying to swim up from the depths of loneliness. When she opened her eyes, she saw that a refuge lay right before her, as it had all her life. The books.

You’re never alone when you’re reading a book.

She had known the truism all her life. Not only that, she knew there was a book for everything. Her mother had taught her well.