She was always hard at work when Peach showed up in the morning, and she was still working when he left each day. She and her staff were looking for ways to improve the bottom line, like expanding the coffee service and putting on events for readers.

She was good at her job, greeting customers who came in and helping them find what they were looking for. During slow periods—and there seemed to be too many of those—she worked efficiently at her computer station. She stayed calm through phone calls that would drive most people crazy—I don’t have a certified copy of the death certificate yet. I can’t access those documents until there’s a court appointment making me her personal representative. The official cause of death is in those papers … Each time she had to reexplain the situation, her voice sounded thinner and more weary. Each time her grandfather mistook her for her mother or treated her like a stranger, the heartache showed in her haunted eyes.

While Peach patched the wall he’d broken into, Natalie fielded a call from some lawyer, which she took on speaker while shelving books. The lawyer suggested she sue the aircraft company and plane manufacturer.

Her eyes took on a glassy haze. “What, sue them because my boyfriend was bringing my mother to watch him propose to me?” Stabbing her finger at the phone to end the call, she looked up and noticed him. He set down his trowel and wiped his hands on a rag.

“I’d ask how your day’s going, but I overheard your conversation.”

“In my wildest dreams, I never imagined getting a call like that.”

“So, uh, I didn’t realize you’d lost your boyfriend in the crash, too.”

She shivered slightly, folded her arms. “Yes, he’s … he was a pilot. A good one, and the thought of suing …” She tightened her folded arms. “It’s complicated. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m just a horrible girlfriend. Even after he died I was horrible. I hocked his ring to pay bills.”

Oh.

“It’s no crime to be practical,” he said. “You’re looking after your grandfather. Doing what you have to do.”

She stared at the floor, then back at him, her eyes soft with sorrow.

“I sure wish I could help more.”

She looked at his plaster trough and the trowel. “You’re helping,” she said.

He offered a slight smile and went back to work. You’re helping. He wished he could patch up her heart.

Later that day, she made several calls to publishers, some to work out a plan to settle bills, others to see about scheduling book signings with famous authors.