Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

“Mom died. Remember? You spoke at her memorial.”

He turned his head and stared out the window. His shoulders came up as though hunched against a cold wind.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was a beautiful service and you spoke of her with so much love.” It was awful enough getting the news for the first time. Each time he forgot, she had to remind him, forcing the words from her mouth and bringing on a fresh wave of hurt.

“My wonderful Blythe,” he said. “She was killed in a horrible accident. A plane crash. I hope she didn’t suffer. I miss her terribly. We had so much more to do . . .”

Natalie wondered if the exchange sounded strange to Peach. She tried to move ahead with the conversation. “So you said you and Mom found out more about this building?”

“We’ve been putting together a history of it. Blythe thought the project would help unscramble my brain.”

Natalie winced and touched his hand. It must be frightening to feel the memories slipping away, always wondering if he’d ever get them back.

“It’s a remarkable building,” Peach commented. He seemed to be taking Grandy’s confusion in stride. “I can see why it’s listed in the historical registry. The facade in front is made of cast iron. That might be one reason it didn’t burn after the earthquake.”

“Blythe and I found references to this place in the county records and in early issues of the San Francisco Examiner .”

“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?”

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.

“Here’s my card,” said the woman. “I was going to set up a lunch with Blythe, but . . .”

Natalie took the card. Vicki Visconsi, Equity Advancement Specialist, Visconsi Development. “Thank you.”

After the woman left, Natalie showed the card to Cleo. “What’s equity advancement and why did my mom need a specialist?”

“No clue. Blythe never mentioned her.”

Natalie tucked the card under the desk blotter. She searched the web and found out that the firm had developments all around the Bay Area. Could her mother have been thinking of selling? No way , thought Natalie. The shop had been her mom’s life.

* * *

By the end of the day, Peach had made a list of repairs, ranked in order of urgency—safety features for Grandy, things that were on the brink of disaster, followed by matters that probably needed attention sooner rather than later. Natalie walked outside with him as he loaded tools and gear into the truck. She studied the list, picturing a river of cash flowing out the door.