“How can you concentrate on work?” she asked as she came into the room rubbing a towel over her wet hair. I had to marvel that even in my old chenille bathrobe, she looked like a party girl.

And since I was closer to her than I was to my own two sisters, I didn’t mind confessing, “I’m working so I can keep from seeing him dying over and over again in my mind.”

“Oh, honey.” She gave me a tight hug. “Keep working, then. I’ll just wander.”

“Help yourself to wine if you want.”

She disappeared down the hall and was back in two minutes with glasses for both of us.

“Your place is great,” she said as she strolled through the room, moving from window to window to check the view from the sixth floor of what was formerly a corset warehouse, now converted to trendy artists’ lofts.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” I glanced around with more than a little pride. I’d fallen in love with the place six months ago after I’d decided to concentrate on my own book restoration and conservation business. The wa-a-ay South of Market Street neighborhood was, hmm, eclectic, as my mother would say instead of admitting it was downright scary and no place for her daughter to live.

Despite Mom’s fears, I’d taken the plunge and was now the very proud owner of one-eighth of the top floor of the six-story brick building. The open, sunny, warehouse-sized front room was perfect for my studio. It was filled with all my book presses and worktables and benches and tool racks and leather rolls and supply cabinets and bookshelves, along with an office desk and chair.

My living area in back had massive skylights, lots of windows, a huge bathroom and a view of the bay so breathtaking it made the slightly seedy environs and semiweekly frantic phone calls from my mother completely worth enduring. Add a mere six-block walk to the Giants’ ballpark and that was enough to sway my father’s opinion in my favor.