The reading concluded and soft music trailed from hidden speakers. And then it was Andrew’s turn. With Natalie at his side and his cane in hand, he made his way to the podium. He turned slightly, letting his granddaughter know he was all right standing on his own. Then he set aside the cane. The least he could do was stand for his daughter.

Then he took off his glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. He didn’t need to look at any prompts. Notes were not necessary when speaking from the heart.

“On the day she was born, my beautiful daughter, Blythe, became a part of my life’s journey, and we followed our common path until … until … the unthinkable happened. So let us not dwell on the way she died. Let us celebrate the way she lived.” He had to pause, then, as despair took his breath away. Recalibrate. Speak of Blythe, who could no longer speak. “What can I tell you about my child who died?”

He heard a few gasping sobs. “I can tell you that she had a happy life. I can tell you that her life was too short and mine is too long. At my age,” he explained, “I thought I knew what grief is. In all my years, I have known loss—my parents, dear friends, the woman I loved. But until the day my daughter was taken from me, I had no idea that grief could cut so deep or feel so painful.”

He paused, hearing Natalie’s soft, broken breaths. “And that is all I shall say about my feelings, because today is not about me. It’s about my daughter, Blythe Harper. On the day she was born, she changed my life. And the day she departed, she left an indelible mark on us all. And in between, she led a remarkable life.”

4

Andrew Harper’s wife left him on a Monday. He would always remember it was a Monday, because that was the day May Lin delivered the finished laundry, crisply folded and wrapped in a paper parcel. Then she would pick up the week’s bag, marked Harper and tagged with Chinese characters.

The bag of soiled items was considerably smaller without Lavinia’s clothing. She had packed everything in a battered steamer trunk she’d made him drag up from the basement. The trunk was a mysterious family heirloom that had once belonged to Colleen O’Rourke, the grandmother he’d never known. Colleen had migrated from Ireland in the 1880s, arriving at the age of fifteen. She had found work as a maid in the very building that was now the bookstore, somehow making her way in the world alone.

Now her trunk would be traveling with the gloriously beautiful Lavinia, not on a steamer but on a train to Los Angeles, where her rich lover had promised to give her the life she always claimed she deserved.