When the machine was ready, she expertly drew the Americano and fixed some kind of small latte for herself. He took a sip and looked straight at her. “Damn. That might be the best coffee I’ve ever had.”

“My mom dated an Italian guy for a while, decades ago, and he gave her this amazing machine. Customers love it.”

“Gives people a reason to shop local,” he said.

She nodded, and her shoulders tensed. “So … anyway, you’ll have to forgive me. I’m still in a fog.”

“Nothing to forgive.” He studied her face, soft and sad in the morning light. “A plane crash,” he said. “What happened? Or does it suck too bad to talk about it?”

“It sucks whether I talk about it or not,” she said.

“Up to you, then.”

Several seconds passed. She looked at him through eyes that seemed bruised with pain and exhaustion. “What happened was … well, there was this work thing. At my firm in Archangel, up in Sonoma.”

“The one you walked away from. In a fit of pique.”

She threw him a sharp look, as if surprised that he’d listened to her every word. “Mom was planning to come up for an event, and she never showed. It wasn’t a big deal. She tends to—tended to—change her plans a lot. Later that day, there was a report on the radio—a small private plane went down.” She faltered, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Damn. I don’t even know what to say.”

“There’s nothing … We had an amazing memorial service. And people have been coming by, leaving notes and expressing sympathy.” She indicated a collection of flowers and cards, a scattering of dropped petals on the floor.

“I hope that helped. Just a little.”

“It’s nice. But … gone is gone.”

As they finished their coffee, a cat sidled over and perched on the windowsill, tail twitching to and fro. “That’s Sylvia,” Natalie said. “She hates me.”

“This girl?” Peach held out a hand. The cat bowed her head and rubbed it against Peach’s knuckles.

“Watch this.” Natalie put her hand out. Sylvia glared at it and bared her teeth. “See?”

“You never know about cats.” It sounded like the start of a song. Peach had been writing since he was a kid, and sometimes his mind hooked onto an idea like that. He finished his coffee and opened his list. “Let’s go see about these repairs. A plumbing issue in an upstairs bathroom … She also said there was a damp spot on the wall on the main floor …”

“Maybe she meant this section over by the travel books,” Natalie said. “It looks like water damage. Is it, like, really bad?”

“It’s not good.” He bent down to inspect the crumbling plaster. “But I am. I’ll figure out what’s going on and fix it.”