As he floundered for words, the woman leaned back against the black enamel facade of the building, put her hands to her face, and, to his mortification, began to cry.

What the hell? Jesus.

Peach set down his toolbox and strode over to her. “Damn, I’m sorry. I spoke with her about a job and—Damn. What happened?”

She used the tail of her shirt to wipe her face. He had a swift, inappropriate thought about her toned, bare midriff.

“It was an accident. A plane crash.”

“Holy shit. I mean, I’m sorry … Natalie, right?”

She nodded. “That’s me.”

“I’m Peach,” he said. “Peach Gallagher.”

She blotted her eyes with her sleeve. “Peach.” She gave herself a little shake. “My mom wrote that on her calendar, underlined. I thought she was starting a shopping list or something. And you’re here to …” Her voice trailed off as her gaze wandered to the tattoo on his upper arm—one of several bad decisions of his youth.

“Are you all right?” he asked, feeling way out of his depth. He was a contractor, not a grief counselor. “I mean … Sorry. Dumb question.”

She leaned against the building, hugging her arms around her middle as if she were cold. Peach felt an urge to touch her, pat her shoulder or something, but he knew better. “I’m really sorry.” The tragedy put his crappy morning into perspective. “I just don’t know what else to say to you.”

She conceded this with a nod. “No one does. I get it. I wouldn’t know, either.” Then she looked up at him, enormous brown eyes beneath that tumble of curls, her lashes damp spikes. “So you had an appointment to …”

He flipped the page in his notes. “She had a list. There’s a doorway that needs widening, a light switch that needs to be moved, and a wheelchair ramp installation. Grab bars in a bathroom? Does any of this sound familiar?”

“I feel so out of the loop. I live—lived—up in Sonoma until all this happened. My mom was planning to make the apartment safer for my grandfather. He had a fall recently and broke his hip, so he moved from the upper apartment to a studio on the main floor.”

“She mentioned some other repairs in addition to the accessibility modifications, but didn’t specify. Said she’d walk me through it all when I got here. Listen, if you want to reschedule, we can do that,” Peach suggested.

“No,” she said quickly. “Grandy—my grandfather—needs those safety features. I have to take care of my mother’s shop. And I need … oh God.” The tears came again. The shirttail. The undeniably cut abs, the kind you saw in a yoga studio if you were lucky enough to see the inside of a yoga studio.