“Good Lord.” Trevor studied the provenance report.

“Right? I suppose we’ll never know what became of them. Forever lost, like Colleen.” Natalie patted her grandfather’s hand. It was ice cold.

“It’s sad, losing pieces of ourselves,” he said. A bright bead of blood slipped from his nostril.

“Oh, Grandy—” Natalie gasped as her grandfather slipped to the floor as if his bones had turned to liquid. She looked up at Jude and Trevor. “Call 911.”

They kept her grandfather overnight for tests and observation. The physical symptoms, Natalie was told, were secondary to the dementia, and the tests failed to pinpoint the cause. They treated him with steroids and antibiotics, and by morning, he was ready to be discharged.

While waiting for the paperwork, Grandy dozed. Natalie sat by his bed, reading yet another guide to dealing with dementia. The books and brochures offered plenty of information and strategies, but little in the way of hope.

She studied the process of applying for guardianship. It was a likely next step, but she shied from it. Had Mom considered such a move? Sometimes when Natalie came across her mother’s wild expenditures, she would feel frustrated. The amounts Blythe had spent on alternative treatments, shamans, so-called healers whose only credential was a fancy website, often sent Natalie’s frustration spinning into anger.

She understood now. When a loved one was in distress, you would try anything.

“You miss Peach,” said Grandy suddenly, blinking awake.

“What?” The observation startled her. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m old, and I have no filters.”

“Oh, Grandy.” She set aside the guide. “I wish I could help. I wish I knew what to do for you.”

“I was thinking of you, not myself. You’ve kept me well and you’ve given me joy. And joy will keep you well, but you have to let it. If it’s any consolation,” Grandy said, “I miss him, too. Not the way you do, of course, but I did enjoy our conversations.”

“What do you mean, the way I do?” She felt oddly chastened and defensive.

“He lights you up.”

“I don’t know about that.” She did, though. Too often, her thoughts lingered on that evening stroll in the moon garden. That kiss. “It’s great that he was able to take care of so many repairs. But that was … it wasn’t a relationship. It was just work.” She had to admit, though, that she did miss him. She had become accustomed to having him around. Now that he’d moved on, she caught herself wishing she could hear his tuneful humming, his wry observations, his easy laughter.

Grandy waved a hand as if to dismiss her comment. “Stop it, Blythe. You get more than one shot. Do you understand that?”

“Grandy—”