8

Peach Gallagher was amazed when a parking spot opened up right in front of the job site—a bookstore in a funky old building. That almost never happened. Parking was a bitch in this section of town, one of San Francisco’s historic districts. That was code for “no place to park and unaffordable real estate.” But this morning, luck was on his side, and he glided the truck smoothly into the nice big spot.

He could use a little luck this morning. It was changeover day for Dorothy, when his kid had to go to her mom and Regis for the rest of the week, leaving a giant gaping hole of loneliness in Peach’s life.

On the sidewalk near the bookstore, there was a homeless woman with wrinkled clothes and messy hair and an overstuffed bag. He made sure he had a couple of bucks in his pocket to give her if she panhandled him. He wasn’t exactly made of money, but he could always spare a little something.

Adjusting the bill of his baseball cap, he jumped out of the truck, went around to the back, and lowered the tailgate. He heard the woman talking, maybe babbling to herself. Then he realized she was talking on the phone, pacing the sidewalk. So maybe not homeless.

She hung up, jammed the phone into her pocket, and finally seemed to notice him.

“Morning,” he said, flashing a grin.

“Morning,” she said, and brushed a hand through her hair. Dark and curly, tumbling over a frown that appeared to be more angry than troubled. “This is a tow-away zone, by the way,” she said.

He strapped on a tool belt and clicked the buckle. Then he added a nail bag to the belt. “Yeah?”

“I just got towed.”

That accounted for the frown and the pacing. “Bummer,” he said, then took out his battered notepad, double-checking the numbers over the shop door.

“Looking for something?” she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.

“I’m looking for Ms. Harper.”

The frown deepened. “What? Ms. Harper?”

He glanced at the address on his notepad again, then back at the woman. “Pretty sure this is the right place. Do you know her?”

“Yes,” she said. Then she shook her head. “I mean, no.”

He paused, eyeing her up and down. She was small and cute in spite of the rumpled clothes and distracted air. Amazing eyes, nice lips that needed to smile more, the kind of interesting face that might inspire a song. “Which is it?”

“I’m Natalie Harper. But I think you might be looking for my mother.”

“Gotcha. So is she—”

“Dead,” the woman named Natalie blurted out. “My mother’s dead.”

Whoa. Dead? He adjusted his cap and absorbed this information, hoping he’d heard wrong. “Oh, uh, oh, man.” Shit, what the hell did you say to that? “What … I mean …”