Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

He flipped through the schedule in his head, the one that managed Dorothy, his work projects, the band, and his nonexistent personal life. He and Regina tried to be flexible with their parenting schedule. “Sure, I can make it.”

“Great! It’s being held in the most amazing space—the Moon Lee Mansion. Do you know it?”

“Over by the Palace of Fine Arts. I worked on a restoration job on the roof a few years back. Never been to a function there, though.” Of course he hadn’t. In the world of exclusive clubs, it was one of the most exclusive, according to the contractor he’d worked with on the project. From what he’d heard, you practically had to give blood to enter its rarefied halls. And now a nobody in a tool belt had been invited. All because of that vase. It must be some vase. “So I’ll see you there,” he stated.

She swallowed, turning the card over in her nervous hands. “Well, there’s, um, a dress code. It’s a black-tie reception. That means—”

“I bet I have a black tie left over from my days of waiting tables.” He couldn’t help laughing at her expression. “Natalie. I won’t show up in a denim tux.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“‘You can never be overdressed or overeducated’; isn’t that what Oscar Wilde said?”

Her cheeks turned pink. “He probably did. You’d know, wouldn’t you? I swear, Peach, the stuff you come up with . . .” She handed him the thick letterpressed card. “I wish we’d had more advance notice, but they really wanted to present the vase at the gala. And if—”

“Am I late?” Her grandfather made an appearance, his gait uneven as he emerged from the apartment in back.

“Come sit.” Natalie gestured Andrew over to the café seating area. “We were just talking about the reception where the vase is going to be unveiled.”

Peach detected a glimmer of concern in her eyes. Old Andrew had his shirt buttoned wrong, and he was still in his bedroom slippers. He smelled funky, too. Damn, that’s hard , he thought, watching a beloved grandparent struggling with the simplest of things . The old guy was smart and had led a long and interesting life, but he was fraying at the edges. Maybe even unraveling.

“Hey, man.” Peach stood up. “Let me help you with your shirt, okay?”

“My . . . Oh. Hello. Are you here about the radiator?”

“It’s me, Peach,” he said, quickly fixing the buttons. “The radiator is on my list.” The old iron hulk was a hundred years old and needed to be removed. “Is that shower bar working out for you?”

He nodded vaguely, giving no indication that he understood. Peach held out a chair for Andrew.

Natalie sent him a grateful look. “Here’s the Examiner . Save the crossword for me.”

“Very good. It’s a print day. There used to be a print edition every day,” Andrew said. “Now it’s only three times a week. The other days, Blythe prints off the pages from her computer. Have the morning glory muffins been delivered yet? I should like one with my coffee.”

Natalie got up and opened the bakery box. “Here you go. So, Grandy—”

Her phone went off, and Peach saw a name and a picture flash on the screen—Trevor Dashwood.

“Excuse me,” she said, grabbing the phone and stepping away from the table. “I need to take this.” She ducked into the back office, but the phone was on speaker and he could hear their conversation. He pretended not to.

“About Friday night,” Trevor said. “Do you like boating?”

“Depends on the boat,” she said. “And the weather.”

“Well, I can assure you the boat is seaworthy, and the forecast is good for sunset. Can you get away?”

The boat is seaworthy , Peach grumbled inwardly. Tell me more, pretty boy. There was something phony about this guy. Just a hunch Peach had. He’d been raised by a pair of fraudsters. He was tuned in to the signs. Maybe. On the other hand, could be he just envied the guy for asking Natalie Harper out on a date.

“When I was a young man, I married the wrong woman,” Andrew said out of the blue, distracting Peach from his eavesdropping.

“Sorry, how’s that?”

“I had a terrible heartbreak. My one true love was forbidden to see me. Her parents were very strict Chinese immigrants, and they wouldn’t hear of her associating with a gweilo . In my disappointment, I had an impulsive love affair with a woman I scarcely knew, and in almost no time at all, she was pregnant. The marriage was my greatest mistake, yet it resulted in my greatest achievement—my daughter, Blythe.”

“I like your way of looking at it,” Peach said. “I wouldn’t trade Dorothy for the world. Hell, she is my world.”

“Of course she is. But it’s the nature—no, the duty—of a child to grow up and leave you. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? The person you love most in the world is destined to leave you and break your heart.”

“Well, when you put it that way, it’s even more depressing.” Peach finished his coffee and rinsed the mug. “And on that note, I’d best get to work.” He hung his mug on a hook and briefly gripped Andrew’s shoulder. “I’m sure sorry about your daughter, man. I wish I’d had a chance to meet her.”

“You will,” Andrew said vaguely, staring down at the crossword puzzle as if it were in Mandarin. “Perhaps you will.”

* * *

Natalie had grown up watching the ferryboats and sightseeing catamarans coming and going from the docks of the Marina District. As a girl, she’d attended a couple of parties at the St. Francis Yacht Club, hosted by her school friends whose parents seemed to be drowning in money. She’d been on the high school sailing team, and she and her best friend, Millicent Casey, had become experts at maneuvering their double-handed Vanguard-15 around the bay. However, Natalie had never been aboard any of the luxury yachts with their shiny hulls and helipads and incognito celebrities lounging on the decks. She was always speculating about them from the outside, looking in. Her mother had given her an annotated copy of The Great Gatsby to read, in case there was any question about the toxic effects of idle wealth.

Thanks, Mom.

The autumn weather was changeable, but tonight, Indian summer paid a visit, rendering the sky a hard, clear blue. Following the directions Trevor had sent to her phone, Natalie arrived at the yacht club and made her way to a gated entrance. As soon as she gave her name at the guardhouse, the pampering began. The offer of a cold beverage, a cocktail, perhaps? A hot towel? Directions to the ladies’ lounge? Wi-Fi password?

Although the red clay tiles of the race deck looked familiar, she felt like an imposter here. Women with Birkin bags and Hermès scarves and sunglasses strolled around in chatty groups, taking in the scenery. Empty-nester couples shared drinks at bar tables on one of the decks, looking like a layout for an idealized travel article. Watching them, Natalie remembered that as a kid, she’d tried to put her mother in a picture like this, certain her beautiful mom belonged here among the polished couples.

As Natalie had gotten older, she came to understand that most people found a lasting love. This realization made her wonder about her mother’s heart. She would see handsome, youthful couples together enjoying the good life, and it made her wish her mother could find—and keep—a great guy. When she was in junior high, she’d asked her mom if she was gay.

“Nope,” she had said simply. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you go out with guys, but nothing ever lasts. So I thought maybe you might be gay but trying to be straight.” Her frenemy at school, Kayla Cramer, had posited this theory.