“At least his family was with him at the end.”

“Yes.” All those hours they sat stroking his hands, Anneliese on one side and Jordan on the other. Can he hear us? Jordan had asked the doctors, and they said something about blast injuries to the eardrum, which seemed to be their way of saying they weren’t sure. He seemed to pass in and out of consciousness—he couldn’t speak, not with the broken jaw and mangled tongue, but sometimes he tried to move. “He threw my hand away,” Anneliese had cried once, and Jordan had climbed into the bed and put her arms around her father until he quieted. “I can’t stand to see him in pain,” Anneliese said, white as frost on a window. “Keep him asleep. As much sedation as he needs.”

Only two weeks’ worth, as it turned out.

The doorbell rang. Jordan went down, greeted more well-wishers, took another casserole into the kitchen. Every surface was already overflowing with casseroles and potato salad. Go away, all of you, and take your food with you. But these people were here for her father, she reminded herself. Rare book dealers and auction house owners; neighbors and church acquaintances; a cluster of fellow antiques dealers come from New York with hearty booms of “Fine fellow, Dan McBride. A thing like this happening, such a careful man . . .”

Garrett’s voice in her ear as he wrapped her in a hug. “How are you?” I don’t want to be hugged, Jordan wanted to cry, I don’t want to be asked how I’m feeling. I want to be left alone—but that wasn’t fair. She made herself hug him back, trying not to feel smothered.

“You poor dears,” a neighbor clucked. “Jordan, you poor child, not having your father to give you away at your wedding—”

Jordan’s hand stole up to the Lalique pearls at her ears. Given for a wedding, worn for a funeral. Garrett, seeing she wasn’t going to speak up, said, “The wedding’s been postponed till next spring.”

A sudden explosion of tears at the other end of the parlor. Ruth’s voice, so unexpected because Ruth never had tantrums. “—she wants to come in!” Pink-faced and tearful, wrenching at the door to the back bedroom where Taro whined and scratched, locked up for the afternoon. “I want my dog—” Her voice scaling up to a wail, as Anneliese cut swiftly through the crowd and took her by the wrist.

“It’s time you went to your room, Ruth.”

“Not without my dog,” Ruth shrieked, yanking away.

Jordan shook off Garrett’s arm and moved to scoop up her sister. “I’ll put her to bed, Anna.”

“Thank you,” Anneliese said in a heartfelt murmur, heading off an incoming batch of neighbors as Jordan carried Ruth upstairs. Ruth was sobbing, flushed from heat and emotion.

“It’s all right to cry, cricket. Just take off this heavy dress and climb in bed.”

“C-can I have Taro?”

“You can have anything you want, Ruthie-pie.”

Ruth and Taro were soon snuggled up together, Ruth’s swollen lids drifting shut despite herself. “Hund,” she whispered as Taro nuzzled her elbow. “Hübscher Hund . . .” Jordan paused as she pulled the bedroom curtains, disquieted. Ruth hadn’t lapsed into German for years.

“Thank you,” Anneliese said wearily as Jordan came back into the parlor. “I couldn’t think what to do if she started screaming.”

“She’ll sleep now.” Jordan rubbed at her eyes. “Ruth’s the lucky one, getting some peace and quiet. How much longer do you think this will last?”

“Hours.” Anneliese massaged her forehead. “Why don’t you sneak out for a while? Walk around the block, have Garrett take you for a drive.”

“I can’t leave you with all this.”

“Jordan.” Anneliese’s blue eyes were steady. “I would not have managed at the hospital those two weeks without you taking care of everything. Let me take care of this.” A small smile. “It isn’t so very hard, after all. Keep a handkerchief and a thank-you ready, and answer all questions with ‘A hunting accident, no one’s fault.’”

Jordan felt her eyes burn. “Anna—”

“Shoo.” Giving a small shove. “Go find Garrett. I’ll make excuses.”

But Jordan didn’t go find Garrett. She saw his broad shoulders across the room, and with a guilty glance she edged out of the parlor, grabbing her pocketbook as she wrenched the front door open. “Jordan dear,” a plump motherly-looking neighbor clucked, black-gloved finger poised over the bell. “I brought some lemon meringue pie, your father’s favorite—”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Dunne. You’ll find my stepmother upstairs.”

“There was such a nice article in the paper about your father, what a pillar of the community he was. A pity they got his dates wrong—”

“Yes, I saw.” It got her dad’s age wrong, it said Anna McBride was born and raised in Boston and not that she and Dan had met in Boston—“probably my fault,” Anneliese had said. “I was in such a muddle when I was being asked for the details.”

“You just take this pie, dearie, and I’ll whisk on up!”

For a moment Jordan stood on the doorstep with the pie in her hands. She wanted to dash down to the darkroom and hide until everyone went away, but Garrett was sure to come looking if she went there, and Jordan didn’t think she could take one more bear hug.

“You want a ride, miss?” The taxi driver who had dropped Mrs. Dunne on the doorstep leaned out the window of the cab.

“Yes,” Jordan said, half stupefied. “Yes, I want a ride. Clarendon and Newbury.”

IT WASN’T UNTIL halfway to the shop that she came out of her daze in the backseat and realized she was still holding a lemon meringue pie. She almost burst out laughing, or maybe burst out crying. Dad’s favorite. Jordan scrounged enough change to pay the driver and climbed out in front of McBride’s Antiques, pie dish still in hand.

The door had a black crepe bow on the knocker. Jordan tore it off, fishing her keys out of her pocketbook. The shop was dusty in the late-afternoon sunshine; it had been closed up nearly three weeks. Jordan flipped the sign to Open without thinking, setting the pie down on an antique ceramic birdbath, and wandered behind the counter. She traced her father’s initials in the dust, biting back an almost irresistible urge to call out—Dad?—because surely that meant the backroom door would open, and she’d see him there, smiling as he said What can I do for you, missy? All she had to do was call out. It hadn’t been him in the hospital bed. It was all a mistake.

The sob that broke out of her was huge and noisy, echoing in the tomb-silent shop. Jordan gripped the counter, welcoming the tears. “Jesus, Dad,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you buy the right shells? Why did you have to use that old gun instead of a new one that wouldn’t blow up in your face?”

The bell over the shop door tinkled. “Excuse me . . .”

Jordan looked up from the counter, heaving a breath around the solid wall in her chest. “What?” Through the blur in her eyes she could see a young man in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

“Do you work here, miss?” He closed the door behind him with another jingle of the sweet-toned bell. Her father had polished that bell every week, keeping it bright. “I’m here about a job.”

“Job?” Jordan echoed. She couldn’t seem to focus. She blinked hard, once, twice. Why did I come here?

“There’s a Help Wanted sign.” The young man jerked his thumb at the window. “I saw a German fellow last week as he was coming in—”

“Mr. Kolb?”

“Right. But he said I’d have to speak with the owners.”

Help Wanted. Her dad had put that sign up the week he died, looking for a clerk. Some suave fellow or pretty girl to work the counter. Jordan blinked again, focusing on the man standing on the other side of the counter now. Olive skinned, dark haired, lean, about Jordan’s height, maybe four or five years older. Anneliese wouldn’t like that loose collar, the rumpled dark hair without a hat. Sloppy, she’d say with that Germanic tut-tut.

“Anton Rodomovsky,” he said, offering his hand. “Tony.”

“Jordan McBride,” she replied, shaking it automatically.

“What position are you looking to fill?” he asked after a moment’s silence. “You’ve got your German fellow, what’s he do?”

“Mr. Kolb does restoration work. My father—” Jordan stopped again.

“So you need a clerk, maybe?” Tony smiled, lean cheeks creasing. “I know absolutely nothing about the antiques business, Miss McBride, but I can work a register and I can sell ice to Eskimos.”

“I don’t—know if we’re hiring. There’s been a death. The owner—” Jordan stopped, looking down at the dusty counter. “Try back next week.”

Tony looked at her a long moment, smile fading. “Your father?”

Jordan managed a nod.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

She nodded again. She couldn’t seem to move, just stood like a pillar in her ugly black dress behind the counter.

“There’s a pie in a birdbath over there,” he said eventually.