He raised his eyes slowly, his pale blue gaze settling on my face before he nodded toward the empty folding chair across from him.

“Amy,” he said in his slow, low voice.

“Your grandpa used to sit in that very chair every third Tuesday of the month.”

“I need to talk with you about opening morning,” I said, pulling out the chair.

“And I need to talk with you about Arvid’s ridge.”

He folded his hands low in front of his belt, staying as still as a stone while I sat.

I told him about the green canvas ledger on my kitchen table, and how Arvid had kept thirty years of names written in blue fountain pen.