Kira stared at the bronze casket, an arrangement of yellow roses and lush green leaves draped over the top.

“Would you like to say a few words about Papa Moretti before they start the closing hymn? This is your last chance.” Mom’s voice had come out urgent and pleading. Maybe she really did know how much he meant to Kira. At least someone did.

“I think so,” Kira said with a nod. Moments before, Dad had delivered a flawless retelling of Angelo Moretti’s life at a glance. Marissa, Kira’s poised-even-in-mourning sister, talked of her admiration of his many accomplishments. His pastor was next. When they opened remarks to the congregation, a few of his neighbors walked up to the podium to speak of what a great man he was. They were heartfelt comments, and all of them were true, but Kira had something of her own to share. Something that—in her mind—set this beautiful soul apart from the rest of the world.

She gulped hard, steadied herself with a grip on the pew, and shuffled around the row of stocking-covered knees. A potpourri of perfumes wafted from the row where Papa’s sisters sat, dabbing at their faces with gnarled tissues. Seven long strides took Kira to the pulpit. She wobbled just once, which was good considering the size of her heels.

Kira licked her lips and cleared the tears from her throat with a forced cough. “Um … so I’m not going to sound as eloquent as everyone else,” she admitted with a shrug. “But in my defense, I’ve never taken a public speaking class the way Marissa has. Aunt Tullie claims she hasn’t taken a class either, but I can’t help but think she’s lying after that prayer, because … that was something else.”

The faces in the crowd were blank and lifeless, like paper dolls. Mom pulled the net of her black funeral hat over her eyes. Dad put his head down. Kira knew what he was thinking: Why can’t Kira just stay in the shadows? As unintentional as it may have been, Kira has muddied the Moretti name. Why insist on showing her face?

She dropped her gaze to the wood grain of the pulpit, running her thumb along the edge as she continued. “No one had a sense of humor like Papa Moretti. Some of you mentioned that already. He used to say to me, Hey kid, when you going to grow already? I swear each time I see you ya shrink.”

Two distinct courtesy laughs floated over the pews. A fresh sweat broke across Kira’s brow. “But really,” Kira continued, “the best thing about him was that he had a way of making everyone feel special. No, not special. It’s …” Heat filled her face. She knew there was a better word. She could picture Grandpa saying it now as they sat at the diner across from his studio, dipping hot fries into creamy milkshakes.

“Exceptional—that’s what I was looking for. He had a way of seeing the best in everyone, even the screw-ups. I ought to know. But I think that’s what made him such a great photographer, you know? He looked at someone, and he could see their real beauty. It’s one of the first things he taught me when I got my camera. During the time I spent with him at his studio, I watched him direct people with such precision. A slight tip of the head. Lift of the chin …”

Kira lost that thought as the piano player, who worked for the funeral home, crept slowly toward the piano in her sweater dress and winter boots—boots that let out a whistle as they scuffed each other in stride.

“Oh, looks like they’re cuing the music.” She shot the piano player a teasing grin, but the woman didn’t look up to catch it. “I know Grandpa saw good things in me, too. He told me all the time, but I could see it in his face, too. The way he looked at me, like he actually admired me.” She gulped hard once more and turned to the box where he lay. “Papa, I never did anything to earn that admiration. I never gave you a reason to call me exceptional, but I promise that someday I will.”

Kira’s promise stuck with her while she mouthed the hymn, her voice too raspy to actually sing aloud. At the graveside service, as she peeked into the six-foot hole beneath the suspended casket, that promise began to haunt her. She wanted nothing more than to finally become worthy of Papa Moretti’s faith. But she’d wanted to do that while he was alive. It just hadn’t worked. Deep down, he had to secretly agree with the family consensus: Kira was flighty, flaky, and was too distracted to stick with a task long enough to succeed at it. Still, even if her grandfather did agree, there was one distinct difference in his perception: while Kira’s family was convinced that things would never change, Papa Moretti had remained positive that she could—and would—surprise them all.

A soft burning swelled in her heart. Not a mean heat, just a gentle warmth that assured her she could do that very thing.

Please … show me how I can keep that promise. Show me how I can prove them wrong, and prove you right.

* * *

Kira sat in a daze, eyes open wide but not seeing at all. And she wasn’t the only one stunned. Whispers rose from behind.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Marissa mumbled.

“Yes, there has to be some sort of mistake.” Aunt Mable sounded baffled.

“It’s not a mistake,” Marissa assured, her hushed voice thick with irritation. “Kira’s the only one who doesn’t have a life. No one else could up and leave everything behind.”

“Excuse me,” the portly, red-faced executor said. The man, who insisted on being called Mr. Executor, wore a sweater with a white collared shirt beneath and a sports coat on top of it all. Must not be from Nevada.

Gramps’s lawyer, Mr. Holden, who sat next to the man at the desk, nudged a pair of gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose with a clenched fist. “Angelo insisted on this formal reading because he wanted to avoid a family dispute. Please listen to the stipulations accompanying the studio and duplex, as it might answer some of your questions.”

Kira lifted her shoulders. Somewhere along the way they’d started to droop.

Mr. Executor ran a pointed finger over the page. “Let’s see … where was I? Ah—Starting back at the top of paragraph twenty-four, page six: ‘I leave Studio Click, the photography studio at 726 Main, Cobble Creek, Wyoming, to my granddaughter, Kira Moretti, as well as the duplex on 375 Chapel Street. Kira is the only family member who’s expressed a desire to live in Cobble Creek and run the studio. In addition, Kira has shown a natural interest and talent for the craft from a young age, which she amply demonstrated during her recent preliminary stay.’”

The Executor peeked up to meet Kira’s gaze, proving he knew who she was. Mr. Holden did the same before turning a scrutinizing gaze to the others, seeming to challenge them: speak now or hold your peace for good. Packed among her aunts and great-aunts, each donning their Sunday best, Kira stayed silent, hoping they couldn’t detect the enormous knot of regret building within her. f time machines existed, Kira would score one for herself and set it back to the preliminary stay Gramps referred to in his statement.

The two men dropped their gaze back to the legal-sized stack of papers.

“It goes on as follows,” the executor said. “‘I’ve lived a frugal life, saved up my retirement funds, and pursued something I loved even more than financing, imagine that. I’ve left you all equal shares—all but Kira. But if for any reason she chooses not to take over the studio and live in and manage the duplex in Cobble Creek, both properties are to be sold to the highest bidder. Kira will take a cut equal to the thirteen thousand dollars the other family members received and any further profits will be split between the church at the address stated below and the National Cancer Foundation.’”

The hush had died down long ago. It remained quiet as Mr. Holden pinched the wire rim of his glasses and wiggled them off his face. “I’m sure you all understand the reason he chose to do it this way, but if you don’t, I’ll spell it out for you.” His narrow face turned severe, the sharp angles looking angry as he glared over the nervous huddle. “He didn’t want you harassing Ms. Kira or waiting for her to fail so you could all take a bigger cut. He was too nice to come out and say it, even to me, but that was his concern.” He looked from one face to the next before nodding toward the stack on the desk once more. “We’ve got a few more things to take care of, and then you’re all free to leave.”

Thoughts of a whole new life poured into Kira’s mind. It was like the time she’d fallen asleep in her bed and woken up to find her parents had packed her and Marissa into the minivan at night. They’d driven all the way to Magic Land, a theme park she and her sister had been dreaming about since they could speak.

Kira hadn’t known it was coming, and she was definitely excited about it, but a hint of fear lingered among the thrill. Back then, Kira was scared of the Coaster Kong. Here, among the hushed, doubting tones of her family, the fear was obvious: failure.

But this time, Kira wouldn’t disappoint. With the opportunity before her, Kira’s prayer circled through her mind once more. Help me prove that Papa Moretti was right to trust me. Help me to clear the Moretti name.