Natalie had chosen the quote, too. She settled back and tried to focus on the display. The images blurred together like a ruined watercolor. She checked her bag, touching the folder with her eulogy notes. There was no way to express this terrible goodbye, but she’d scraped her soul to find the right words.

Grandy leaned his cane on the seat back and stared straight ahead.

Natalie tucked her arm around his and wondered when she would stop feeling like she was on the verge of tears. “How are you doing?”

“I’m maintaining calm,” he said simply.

His lifelong friend, Charlie Wong, in a fine black jacket with a Nehru collar, arrived and sat down next to Grandy. A talented diorama artist, Charlie had known Andrew when both were young boys running around the city. Many years ago, Charlie had created an art piece based on the bookstore building, which was then Grandy’s typewriter shop. Now the two old men got together several times a week, going to dinner at one of Charlie’s daughters’ homes or attending game night at the local senior center. Charlie’s usual smile was in place, yet dimmed by the sadness in his eyes.

Tess and Dominic slid into the row behind Natalie. Tess leaned forward and gave her shoulder a squeeze. Natalie acknowledged the touch with a pat of her hand.

Cleo and Bertie, who both worked in the bookstore, arrived and took their seats on Natalie’s other side.

“Hi, guys,” she whispered. “Thanks for being here.”

“How are you holding up?” asked Bertie. “Sorry for speaking in clichés, but I really want to know, sweetie.” An aspiring actor, he was lithe and graceful, his whole body expressing feelings without words—in the angle of his head, the slant of his shoulders. Bertie was smart and funny and melancholy, chasing his dream of starring in a major theater production. He’d loved her mother, who had encouraged his acting career by giving him time off for auditions and rehearsals whenever he needed it.

“Grandy and I are keeping each other company,” Natalie said. “Honestly, I’ve never had my heart ripped out of my chest. But I imagine this is what it feels like.”

Cleo’s eyes were as dim as twilight, gleaming with a mist of sadness. She nodded and dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue. “Damn. You remind me so much of her.”

“Do I?”

Bertie leaned forward. “Hell, yeah. In the best possible way.”

Cleo was Natalie’s age, and had grown up in the neighborhood. The girls used to play together in Portsmouth Square, surrounded by Chinese grannies sipping their milk tea and playing board games. They’d snack on soft buns filled with sweet coconut, and when it rained, they’d duck into the curio shops or the Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory, their senses dazzled by the delicious, sugary aroma.