He was grateful for the autumn sunshine in the little back garden, a reprieve from a string of drizzly days. The attic beam had been custom fabricated, but now he had to put on a good finish and fit it with hardware. After that, he’d supervise the insanely treacherous task of hoisting the new section and seating it in place of the rotten one. He’d lined up a crane for that. Natalie had turned a bit green around the gills when he’d quoted her the cost, but one look at the crumbling wood had convinced her it had to be done.

Each time he accessed the attic to check on something, Peach had to pass through her apartment. When she’d first showed it to him, the place had been crammed with books and colorful clutter from her mother, who apparently was not super organized nor inclined to throw things away. He noticed that Natalie had been systematically conquering the clutter but managed to keep the color and charm of the place. The overstuffed love seat under the window had been excavated, and she’d turned it into a little reading retreat. There was an afghan and a couple of pillows, an antique side table with a nice stack of books, and a lamp with an old-fashioned painted shade depicting Yosemite Falls.

He tried not to snoop, but as he passed the bedroom, he got a waft of girly scent and lavender, and he noticed a Giants T-shirt hanging behind the door. He wondered sometimes if his own place—the big drafty house on Vandalia Street he shared with Suzzy and Milt—felt homey enough for Dorothy. God knew, the kid was adaptable, shuttling between Regina and Peach as the parenting plan dictated. Maybe one of these days he’d ask Natalie for advice on how to girly things up in Dorothy’s room. The kid would probably love that.

Natalie had a lot on her plate, though. Maybe not the best time to ask for decorating advice.

Throughout the workday, Peach overheard Natalie with the reporter and photographer. They seemed to be capturing a day-in-the-life of the shop. She was so damn smart, helping people find the books they were looking for—and some they didn’t know they needed. The customer of the moment was a middle-aged woman with a little white dog wearing a jacket. “Blythe’s not here anymore?” the woman asked. “Did she retire, or …”

“Blythe was my mother,” Natalie said quietly. Her gaze darted to the reporter, who occupied a stool behind the counter. “I’m sorry to say, she died in an accident. A plane crash.”

Peach felt bad for her, having to explain the situation over and over. And then there was her grandfather, who kept confusing her with Blythe, needing to be told yet again that his daughter was gone.

“That’s terrible,” the woman said. “I’m very sorry. But also grateful that her shop lives on.”