“Grandy’s father had a drugstore here,” Natalie told Peach. “Grandy turned it into a typewriter repair shop. And now this.” She gestured around the bookstore, wondering what it looked like through Peach Gallagher’s eyes. It was worn and sad in too many places. Some of the walls bore road maps of cracks. She touched her grandfather’s hand. “I saw the notes on Mom’s computer files. We can keep going with the history project if you like, and—” A text message appeared on her phone. “Oh, here’s more information from Tess. She says the medal with the palm trees is probably worth something, and the others might have sentimental value to someone.”

Grandy looked over at Peach. “Are you here about the plumbing?”

Peach Gallagher’s eyes were a compelling shade of blue-gray, like sea glass with the light behind. And even though he was a stranger, she somehow got the impression that he understood and empathized.

“He’s here to fix some things around the place, and to do a few projects in your apartment,” Natalie said. “I told you that a few minutes ago.”

“You probably did,” he agreed, and took a sip of coffee.

Natalie got up from the table. “Let’s have a look at what needs to be done.” She led the way to the back apartment. “Mom wanted to make sure it’s safe for you in here,” she said to Grandy.

“She was a good daughter when she remembered to be,” he said.

Natalie was startled by the comment but said nothing more. Peach unclipped a tape measure from his belt and took some measurements. “You need grab bars in the bathroom and a ramp going down the back steps.”

“I so enjoy the garden on a nice day,” Grandy said. “May and I spent many happy hours there. And you,” he added with a smile at Natalie, “you were a veritable Mary Lennox in those days. There’s nothing like a garden in the sunshine.”

“Then I reckon I’d better get that ramp done soon,” Peach said.

Grandy’s favorite typewriter, an Underwood Excalibur, sat on the table next to a stack of typed pages. Natalie recalled him using it for as long as she could remember. Beside it was a stack of books, papers, and handwritten notes.

“More of your project?” she asked.

“We worked on it nearly every day. I do the research and type the notes. Blythe was transcribing everything on the computer.” A wave swept over him—invisible, but it seemed to leave him diminished. “I suppose we’ll never finish now.”

“Like I said, I’ll help you,” Natalie reminded him. “I can take over for Mom.”

He gave her a vague look, signaling the confusion that overtook him all too frequently.

“Who’s that?”