“Yes.”
“So I guess you do have one.”
“One what?”
“A granddaughter.”
He sat down on the hotel bed.
“Yes,” he said, and his voice failed him on the word.
Maisie looked at the oak leaves moving above the street.
“Are you crying?”
“A little.”
“Okay.”
She waited without embarrassment. Adults cried. She had learned that early. What mattered was whether they expected her to fix it.
Arthur took a breath.
“Thank you for calling.”
“I wanted to ask something.”
“Anything.”
“Don't say anything. That's how people end up agreeing to weird stuff.”
He laughed through the tears.
“Good point. Ask, and we'll see.”
“Can you fix a bell?”
He looked at his hands.
“I can try.”
“It sticks when it's damp.”
“Then we should look at it.”
“Friday. Before soup.”
“I'll be there.”
After hanging up, Maisie went inside and asked Nora whether Arthur's voice sounded like a grandpa's voice.
“What does a grandpa sound like?” Nora asked.
Maisie thought about Daniel telling stories in the dark, about the peppermint in his pockets, about Arthur carefully repeating the words blue lid.
“Like he means Friday,” she said.
Nora had to turn toward the sink before she could answer.
On Thursday, June found Evelyn.
Not conclusively at first. A marriage announcement, an obituary for a husband named Thomas Reed, a photograph from an art show at a public library in coastal Maine. The artist in the photograph had gray in her hair and the same tilted smile as the woman beneath the oak.
June brought the information to Amelia before calling anyone.
Then Amelia asked Nora how she wanted the first contact made.
Nora stared at the printed photograph.
“She thinks she gave me away?”
“We don't know what she believes.”
“Does Arthur know?”
“He knows we have a possible match. He hasn't contacted her.”
Nora looked up.
“He agreed to that?”
“Yes.”
For the first time, she understood that restraint might be costing him as much as searching once had.
“I don't want her frightened by a stranger telling her she has a daughter,” Nora said.
Amelia nodded.
“We can begin by asking whether she's willing to speak about a matter from Bellwether in 1992. We can verify who she is before sharing more.”
Nora looked at the photograph again.
The woman stood beside a watercolor of a kitchen window. A small bluebird perched on the painted sill.
Nora reached for the cream fabric in her bag.
She placed it beside the page.
The two birds were not identical.
They were close enough to make her hands shake.
Friday afternoon, Arthur arrived with bread, a small tool roll, and no flowers.
He had stood outside a florist for nearly five minutes before deciding flowers might make dinner feel like an occasion Nora was required to feel good about. Bread had been approved. Tools had been requested. For once, he followed instructions without improving them.
Maisie waited on the porch with the bicycle upside down, balanced on its handlebars and seat.
Arthur stopped at the gate.
“Do we need it upside down for the bell?”
“No,” she admitted. “It just looks more like fixing.”
He took off his coat.
“Strong argument.”
They turned it upright together.
The bell had a loose fitting and a little rust beneath the lever. Arthur asked before taking it apart. Maisie held the small screws in a saucer Grace brought from the kitchen, and he explained what each piece did without talking as if she had never seen a tool.
“My dad fixed stuff,” she said.
“What was his name?”
“Eli.”
Arthur nodded.
“What did he like fixing?”
“Anything that annoyed Mom by staying broken.”
From the kitchen window, Nora called, “He also enjoyed making things more broken first.”
Maisie grinned.
Arthur looked up at the window.
“I've done that professionally.”
Nora laughed and disappeared again.
Maisie watched him clean the bell's little spring.
“Dad painted it.”
“The bicycle?”
“Yes. It was red before. I wanted pink. He said pink would cost extra because the paint had to be persuaded.”
Arthur smiled.
“What was the extra?”
“Two hugs and a peanut butter sandwich.”
“Demanding negotiator.”
“He said I could pay the hugs in installments.”
She looked at the bell.
Arthur kept working, giving her the choice of whether to say more.
“He died on a road,” she said at last. “A truck hit his car. Not his fault.”
Arthur laid the cloth down.
“I'm sorry, Maisie.”
“I know.”
She traced a scratch on the frame.