“I know. The whole evening was incredible. Last night … we weren’t there yet, you know? We were both pretty tipsy and way too full from dinner. It’s early days, Cleo. We’re new to each other.”

“That’s the best time to sleep together,” Cleo pointed out. “To see if it’s a thing.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Natalie. She ducked into the back office to get some inventory and bookkeeping done. Thanks to Trevor’s signing, this would be the best month in the history of the shop. It was, she hoped, the start of better times. She studied the loan consolidation documents, wondering if her mother had understood what she had signed. Natalie had appointments with the bank and with a tax counselor to set up a plan to resolve what she could. She didn’t want to press Grandy about selling everything and moving, but unless a miracle fell from the sky, that was where she was headed. Now there was a tiny glimmer of hope, and she studied that glimmer until her head ached.

A package arrived, and she welcomed the diversion. Colleen’s journals had been professionally archived, and the historical society was cataloguing the originals. The parcel contained facsimile copies, put in order, for Natalie and her grandfather to read.

Finding the war medals had been intriguing. Discovering the ancient vase was ridiculously exciting. But the cache of Colleen’s letters and drawings—that could be life-changing, a window into the history of their family.

Natalie would probably never know whether or not her mother had realized their significance or how they had come to be hidden away, apparently unread and undisturbed, for generations.

Needing a break from the twenty-first century, she went to find her grandfather. He was outside in the tiny rear garden in his wicker lounge chair, a Mackinaw blanket tucked around him, his hands in fingerless gloves turning the pages of his book. He couldn’t seem to shake the symptoms that had his care team so puzzled, especially the fatigue and poor appetite.

Seeing him amid the yellow leaves and berry-colored hips of the spent roses, and the fading hollyhocks gone to seed along the garden wall, filled her heart. In that moment, she understood why her mother had made so many seemingly reckless financial decisions, all with the goal of taking care of this beloved old man.

“What are you reading?” she asked him.

“A lovely book.” He held it up so she could see—Being Mortal by Atul Gawande.

The book was a perennial bestseller in the shop, a meditation on living with joy even at the end of life. Even when medical interventions had run their course. “And you’re finding it lovely? How so?”

“Because it’s honest. I do know—sometimes, most of the time—what has been happening to me.”