A noise behind Iris got her attention. And then a voice. “Don’t pay any attention to Mrs. Kostas … often cranky midweek.” An elderly man in a red baseball cap had come just inside the door, half inside, half out. “Isn’t that right, Megaira?”

“Ah, áfisé her ísihi!” She took a ten-dollar bill from Iris and placed the postcards on top of the newspaper.

“You got that right, though, ma’am.” The man smiled. “It’s an unusual name, but a nice name.” He glanced at Megaira. “And TSP’s got a nice long history, too. Titus wasn’t a bird, a sparrow, you know. He was a great man. And once upon a time, before the park was named after him—in honor of his teaching tennis to poor kids—Salvation Army had a home for unwed mothers and—”

“Hey, Amos, old man … you want something?” Megaira interrupted.

“Just the Globe today, Megaira. Read about my Sox beating Baltimore.”

“Two dollars, then. And go away.” Despite herself, Megaira Kostas had softened in response to the Red Sox fan, and her downturned mouth evened out. Iris was reminded of home, of standing in the post office listening to Tommy Ryan when he’d be collecting the post from Josephine and she’d be giving out to him because he was five minutes late. And Tommy would laugh and say something that made Josephine bark even louder. The world is small, Iris thought. And, maybe, not always, so foreign.

Amos smiled and did a neat pirouette. “As I was just saying,” he said, lowering his cap and looking sideways from beneath it at Megaira, “we’ve got community gardens and of course tennis courts and—”

“And as I was just saying, Amos, you want something? Else?”

“No. You know, I guess I don’t.” He winked at Iris. As he began to saunter away he turned, “And if you’re interested, it being a summer Friday, there’ll be jazz tonight in Titus’s park.”

“Amos! Scat!”

Amos tilted his head and was gone. From outside, Iris heard him sing, “Nothing but bluebirds … be dee and doo da bah…”

“Someday that man might buy more than the Globe,” Megaira said.

Movement from the dark windows across the street caught Iris’s attention. She hurried out.

“Hey, lady? Your Globe!” Iris heard the woman yell after her, but she didn’t turn back.

She crossed the street, climbed the steps, and this time she absolutely hammered the door knocker. The door was opened sharply by a man of about sixty, nearly bald, in a white shirt. His trousers, shoes, and belt were black. “We’re closed, lady,” he said point-blank and more than a little annoyed. But Iris was fired up now. Something about the baseball fan had sparked her courage. She walked past the bald man into the restaurant and didn’t look back until she was well inside.

“When do you open, then?”

“Didn’t you read the sign? We’re open for lunch on Saturdays and for Sunday brunch,” he said. “Today is? Friday. You can come back for dinner. Open at six.” He turned his eyes to the door.

She’d missed the sign. Iris reached for the top of the nearest chair. Suddenly she thought she was going to faint. Her courage hadn’t lasted but a minute. She tried to steady herself but her eyes were dizzy, taking in the tables covered in white linen, each with a tall vase of single flowers, cosmos maybe or daisies. Suddenly she couldn’t remember what they were called even though she knew well their name. The tables were swimming and Iris’s legs were feeling limp. “I think I … could I sit down?”

The man moved toward her. “Hey. Hey! Okay, Look, here,” he said. He pulled a chair away from the table and Iris slid into it. When Iris was seated he rushed through a swinging door. A pulse thumped along the side of her neck. Her head felt light. A mixture of humiliation and panic seized her. If Hilary Barrett was here, was Iris going to collapse at her feet?

The man reappeared with a glass of water. “Now. Here, drink this. Slowly.”

Iris sipped. “I’m sorry, I’ll be all right in a minute.” She steadied her hands on the table. He looked down at her. “No, really. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Take your time.” He stepped away, straightened a few tables, turning his head now and again to look at her. His shoulders were hunched as if too used to bending, like a gardener, Iris thought. With the sleeves of his shirt rolled up just past his wrists, he lifted a napkin from a willow basket and folded it into a fan.

Iris breathed in slowly and imagined white light from the tablecloths filling her chest. She breathed out and imagined it turning gray and smoky and dissolving into the dark walls of the restaurant. Somewhat composed, she said, “The lady in the little shop across the way said you opened for lunch.”

“Megaira? She doesn’t know anything. We open for lunch, like I said, like the sign says, but not on weekdays. If you’re looking for a nice place there’s one over—”

“No, I’m not actually.”

The waiter crossed to a tall cabinet and pulled some napkins from a drawer.

“I’m looking for someone.”

He didn’t respond. He kept his head down and brought some of the fanned napkins to the table beside her. She wasn’t sure he’d heard her.

“I don’t want lunch. I’m not hungry.”

He stopped folding and moved nearer.

“I’m actually looking for someone.”

“Aren’t we all, lady?” A kind of impatience was gathering and she felt ready to burst.

“I’m looking for Hilary Barrett,” she blurted.

Having said it—the name out loud—was like some deep secret was finally revealed. But with the revelation something had to happen, either the world would stop spinning and one of its doors would spring open and maybe she wouldn’t have to look any further and she could keep her promise and everything would be just the way Luke wanted it. Or …

“Hilary Barrett,” she said again.

The man thought for a moment. (Or so Iris thought.) He looked at her with narrowed eyes, then over her right shoulder, as if he was remembering something or was he looking where Hilary was about to enter. Iris couldn’t breathe.

“I knew a Hil—”

She gasped.

He came and placed his hand on the table. When he’d leaned in, Iris saw the hearing aid behind his left ear. “You sure you’re all right.”

“Yes. I’m fine. I’m fine.” Instinctively she placed her hand on her breast. “You said you know a Hil—”

He straightened up and took one step back. “Well … I … what do you want her for?”

“It’s … personal.” Iris stood up. Face-to-face then with the person who might be one degree of separation from her daughter’s birth mother, she suddenly could think of nothing more to say. Her mind went blank. So she extended her hand as if presenting herself. “I’m Iris. Iris Bowen. From Ireland.”

It took a moment for the man to smile. But he did. Wrinkles creased in his tanned face. “Thornton Pletz. Polish. Shortened on the boat from ‘Plezinski,’ a generation back.” He took her hand. “You’re a long way from home.”

She looked out the window just as a bird swooped from a rooftop. “I am.” Iris paused a moment. “About Hil…” She half stumbled on the name. “Hilary … where do you think I might find her?”

“Ah. You see…” Thornton Pletz said. “I don’t, is the answer.”

“Is … is she the owner?”

“Owner? Of Botolph’s? No, ma’am. She’s not. I’ve been here since the restaurant opened. Let me think. Fifteen or so years ago.” His brows lowered.

“But she used to live here … at 99 St. Botolph Street!” Iris reached into her purse for the envelope. She showed it to him. “This is her handwriting. See…? See the return address?”

Thornton fingered the worn envelope carefully, as if it were a thin piece of cracked porcelain that had been glued back together. His brows lifted. “Barrett? It says…”

“Barrett, yes, Hilary Barrett, that’s right.”

“Sorry. Barnett, Barnett. I thought you said Barnett.” He pointed to his ears. “Sorry, ma’am, I’m a little hard of hearing. I once knew a Hilda Barnett. I thought it odd you asking me that. About Hill. She’s in Pittsburgh now.”