In the strictest sense, they only needed two seats—one for her and one for Grandy. Blythe’s mother was long gone. Lavinia had gone away when Blythe was a baby, leaving disaster and scandal in her wake. As for Natalie’s father, Dean Fogarty, he likely had heard about the memorial, but he was as much of a no-show today as he had been for Natalie’s entire life.

Her family had consisted of the three of them. And now, all of a sudden, there were two. Natalie and Grandy. And her grandfather seemed to be leaving her in small, heartbreaking pieces.

She recognized many of the attendees—her mom’s friends, customers who had frequented the shop over the years, even salespeople from New York, publishers and colleagues in the book industry—people who had depended on her taste and opinions. There were authors whose books had graced her shelves, local merchants and neighbors from the tree-shaded enclave of Perdita Street.

Guests on both sides of the aisle offered tentative waves, mouthed expressions of sympathy and hand-over-the-heart gestures.

No one knew what to say to people facing a grief so big and shocking. Natalie wouldn’t know, either. She had a hard time meeting their eyes, feeling irrational shame, or perhaps guilt.

She and Grandy took their seats facing the podium, festooned with sweet-smelling native lilies and autumn mums from the Bonner Flower Farm up in Glenmuir, organic and sustainable, the way Blythe would have wanted. A swag of Buddhist prayer flags hung overhead. Her mother had never subscribed to a particular dogma, claiming organized religion was the cause of too much violence and strife in the world. But she often spoke of her favorite spiritual books, including Buddhism’s The Noble Eightfold Path, and admitted happily that she was drawn to the all-loving and nonviolent tenets of Buddhism.

The smooth-sided urn was overshadowed by another portrait of Blythe Harper, this one larger than all the rest in the gallery. Natalie had chosen it herself. Blythe was in her favorite spot in the bookstore—a cushy chair littered with throw pillows, angled near the lace curtain of the shop’s front display window. The natural light, filtered through the antique lace, illuminated the fine features of her mother’s face, framed by wispy dark curls, smiling lips, and eyes that were bright with ideas. The book in her lap was a poetry collection of Mary Oliver, which most people knew was a favorite of Blythe’s. The caption under the photo was a line from a well-known poem: Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?