“William?” she said after a minute during which I’d sat in silence. “Are you... You’re mad. I’m so sorry. I just thought—”
I’d met her eyes, my own filled with tears, and reached for her hand.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”
Over the years, that little bit of glass had found itself in the silliest places. A plant pot, an Easter basket, a candy dish, beneath the Christmas tree, out in the yard, brought there by our old dog Charmer. It once went on vacation with us to Hawaii, a road trip down the Oregon coast, and had even made it into the pages of one of Olivia’s early books.
And now it was in my granddaughter’s hands as she stood in the doorway of my office, watching me.
“Were the flowers special to Gran for some reason?” she asked, smoothing a long, slender finger over the top of the clear dome of glass. “I just realized I’ve never seen bluebells anywhere else in the house. Did you pick them for her?”
“No,” I said, reaching my hand out and smiling as she handed it over. “And this wasn’t hers. It’s mine.”
Her mouth opened as if to ask more, but I cut her off, the scent of food wafting down the hall toward us.
“Your mom cooking?”
“Lasagna. You won’t go hungry for at least another week.”
“Thank God. I was starting to worry.”
We laughed. Every week Lizzie came over and made a week’s worth of food, claiming it was an accident.
“How does one accidentally make enough food for a small squadron?” I’d ask, but she’d just shrug and get back to work.
The doorbell rang then and Emma pushed off the door frame.
“I’ll get it,” she said. “Probably the guys coming to pick up the books.”
As she wandered off down the hall, I slid the glass sphere into the pocket of my sweater and pulled the lid off the box of photos.
“Here goes nothing,” I said to myself as I grabbed the first envelope.
The photographs inside were from one of her last in-person events. There she was sitting on a tall stool, one of her author friends beside her on another stool, microphones in their hands. There she was signing books. Laughing with a reader. Giving the photographer a silly smile as she posed with a wall of her books the bookstore hosting her had thoughtfully displayed. There she was with me, her head resting against my chest, me proud as anything as I held her latest novel up. Her and Lizzie. Her and Emma. Her and—
“Grandpa?”
I startled, not because I was surprised by the voice, but because of what she’d called me. Emma didn’t call me Grandpa unless something was amiss.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, meeting her eyes and noting the little crease between her brows.
“There’s someone at the door for you. A woman.”
I sat for a moment more, watching her, and then got to my feet. As I passed her in the doorway, she reached out and squeezed my hand.
“Love you, kiddo,” I said, kissing her forehead.
“Love you, Old Man.”
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I grasped the glass piece I’d forgotten was there and then reached for the handle of the front door and pulled it open, finding myself staring at a face that looked strangely familiar, though I was positive I’d never seen the woman before.
And then I noticed her eyes. A shade of pale blue reminiscent of another time, long ago.
Neither of us said anything for a long moment, and then I chuckled, embarrassed at myself and my lack of manners.
“I’m sorry,” I said and shook my head. “Can I help you?”
A breeze lifted her shoulder-length blond hair, blowing it gently around slender shoulders. My breath caught as a memory tried to force its way forward.
