“My grandfather bought the original door hardware for 412 Maple right here in this shop back in 1994,” I said.

The clerk stopped, his fingers resting on the register keys.

“You’re Arthur Miller’s granddaughter?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” I said.

“He spent three days in this store picking out the clear heart redwood for that front porch frame,” the clerk said as he counted my change out onto the glass.

“It’s solid, steady, and paid off in full.”

“It is,” I said, picking up the brown paper bag with the locksets and screws.

By two in the afternoon the front door of 412 Maple Street stood wide open to the cool autumn breeze.