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by. One woman appears in most of them, successively older in each shot. The person in front of me steps away, and I step up to see the woman in the photographs smile at me. She must be in her late sixties now, but it's clearly the woman in the photographs.
    "Good morning," she says. She's tall, with iron gray hair clasped up in a bun, wearing an apron, with eyes I can immediately tell have seen more than I can even imagine. She's what you might call a 'silver fox', elegant and beautiful, and it's hard to imagine her in some of the outfits shown in the photographs.
    "Hello! I'm new in town. Just here for the day. Can I have a big coffee and your most nutritious bun?"
    "Sure," says the woman, turning to the coffee urn. "What brings you to town? Most folks come in the spring to see the bridge of flowers."
    "The bridge of flowers?" I get a rather fanciful image in my mind. "No, I'm in town to do a little research. To be honest, I'm a reporter with the Boston Globe ."
    The woman turns and hands me my coffee, and then walks around the counter to the right, where she draws out a whirled sticky bun covered in nuts. "A reporter? What story are you covering?"
    I draw out my wallet and hand my credit card to the lady. "Well, it's an old story. Nothing scandalous, I don't think."
    "Research, then?" The woman swipes my card and hands it back to me.
    "Yes. I'm writing a profile on an Alexander Adams." I watch her face carefully. She doesn't betray a thing. "Does that ring a bell?"
    "Maybe." She's not unfriendly, but I can tell she's not going to spill the beans that easily.
    I draw out my phone and show her a photograph of Alexander. I watch her face even more carefully, and am rewarded with a slight widening of her eyes. She recognizes him, and is slightly surprised to see him at the same time.
    "He's running for mayor of Boston. A dark horse candidate. I just want to learn a little more about his past to inform our electorate about whom they might be voting for."
    "I see," says the woman. She crosses her arms over her chest and studies me openly. "What did you say your name was?"
    "Myra Cole," I say with a smile, then put my phone away and extend my hand.
    "Helen," she says, shaking my hand with a firm grip. "I'm the owner. What's your angle on the story?"
    "No angle," I say, sipping my coffee. "Mmm, that's good. I just want to get to the truth. I -" I glance guiltily behind me to where a line of customers has formed. "Oh, I'm sorry."
    Helen considers me and then nods. "Why don't you come back in fifteen minutes? I'll step out from behind the counter and we can talk."
    "OK, that would be great. Thank you!"
    I step aside, smiling apologetically at the old man who frowns at me, and after a moment decide to explore a little more outside. The cold air is bracing, but the sun warms my face, and a bite from the bun gives me a little thrill. Why don't I get out of Boston more often? Oh, yeah. I work like a crazy thing. That's why. Still, today feels almost like a vacation, and I'm determined to enjoy myself. I won't let thoughts of my train wreck of a dinner last night ruin my mood. Ruining my night was quite enough, thank you very much.
    I walk down Bridge Street, peering around curiously, trying to imagine Alex walking around here as a kid. Did he stop at this drug store to hang out by the soda fountain? Did he stop into this old toy store? It's hard to imagine him as a kid. He just seems too capable and mature to have ever been a little kid.
    I draw closer to the river and pause as I see that there are actually two bridges. One is a broad metal trestle bridge with wooden boards the traffic rumbles over, and off to the side is a foot bridge covered in dead plants and bushes. No, not dead, just pruned back for the winter. That must be the bridge of flowers. The river rushes past below, ice cold and dark green. That'd be the Conway River, I tell myself, recalling the map. To one side is a tourist board with white writing on a green background,