She looked over at Peach. Then she crossed to Grandy and gave his shoulders a squeeze. “Let’s let Mr. Gallagher get to work. I need to open for the day.”

Peach hummed as he worked. He had a pleasant voice, she thought. On key, unusual for a workman. He said he’d draw up estimates for the repairs that needed to be done. His tone had sounded like a warning—historic buildings could be complicated. And by complicated, he meant expensive to maintain.

Trying to stave off a sinking sense of doom, she busied herself by texting back and forth with Tess about the found medals and other mementos. “Well, what do you know,” she said to Grandy. “My friend was able to trace the numbered medal to the recipient, and she says his ancestors might still live in the city. The soldier’s name was Augustus Larrabee, and there’s someone by that name who lives in the Mission District. Suppose we found them and gave them the medals?”

“It would probably mean a great deal to them.”

When Cleo came in later that morning, she raised her eyebrows at the sight of Peach at work on the leaky wall. “Dorothy’s father,” Natalie said, introducing them.

“Nice to meet you, Peach. You have the coolest kid,” Cleo told him.

“Thanks. I think so, too.”

Natalie pictured him as a family man with a lovely wife and cute daughter. A man who hummed while he fixed things. He worked through the day on the leaky pipe, which entailed numerous trips to the basement, from which he emerged with more dire news about repairs. Old wiring and corroded plumbing. Her grandfather’s apartment had multiple issues as well.

“You need a king stud,” Peach told her.

“I beg your pardon.”

“In your grandfather’s room. That’s why the door doesn’t close all the way. Whoever put in the stud-framed wall didn’t do it properly.” He went into an explanation about jack studs and headers until she held up her hand and told him to fix the door. Please.

Customers came and went. Grandy walked down the street to the senior center for lunch and bingo, and Natalie made several halfhearted calls to publishers, hoping to set up book signings—to no avail.

In the late afternoon, a woman stopped by looking for Blythe. She wore a crisp business suit, sharp shouldered and nipped in at the waist, and she carried a no-nonsense but expensive-looking bag, perfectly matched to her shoes with a subtle houndstooth pattern. She hardly resembled one of Blythe Harper’s close friends.

Natalie got flustered, choking out an explanation. She felt strangely like a fraud, saying the words she’d never pictured herself saying: My mother died. She passed away. She was killed in a plane crash.

The shock on the woman’s face made Natalie want to apologize. Sorry for ruining your day.