Page 71 of The Photograph

Alex bends down to fuss with the dogs so I can’t catch his expression.

But his grandma laughs and says, “Yes, I can see that—a gorgeous young man like you.”

“Nana!” Alex says, but she just chuckles.

“I might be old and going blind and deaf, but I can still recognize an attractive man when I see one.” She pats my arm.

Right then and there, I decide that I love Alex’s grandma.

I look back up the corridor at the Persian carpets and the ornate side tables. “This is a stunning home you’ve got here, Mrs. Sachs.”

She blinks watery blue eyes at me and then glances around. “This place has been in the family for decades. I’ve lived here all my life. I grew up here.”

Greenery abounds outside the windows as we head into a corner room, and you’d think you were in the middle of the country if it wasn’t for the beautiful Manhattan skyline shimmering beyond the deck.

“Oh wow,” I say, unable to contain myself. “That’s such a long time to live anywhere. People don’t do that nowadays, do they?”

Ugh. Now I’ve stuck my foot right in it. Where is my filter? But she just beams at me.

“Yes, and is that a good or a bad thing? In the old days, stability was highly regarded because everything was so uncertain. The war, people dying … We lost an awful lot of young men. They went off to fight in Europe and the Pacific and never came back. People wanted normality. But now everyone wants change: change this, change that. I can’t decide what I think about it.”

Oh my God, I think I’m in love with Alex’s grandma.

“Now then,” she says, folding her arms over her round stomach and turning around to the pair of us as Betsy skitters around our feet butting my leg. Ivor waddles over to sit on a rug in front of the fireplace, where a real fire is dancing in the grate. That dog is the smart one of the two of them. “Would you boys like afternoon tea?”

Afternoon tea?“Sounds wonderful,” I say, as if I knew what it was, and she leans over and rings a little bell. I stare at the little brass item. The only other time I’ve seen something like that is in a movie from the 1930s.

Suddenly, a middle-aged woman appears in the doorway beyond Alex’s right shoulder.

“This is Anna. Anna, this is Des, a friend of Alex’s.”

Anna beams at me as Alex steps over to her and gives her a hug.

“How are you?” he mumbles into her hair.

“I’m all right, thanks.” She nods, arms coming up to pat his back.

“How’s Johnny?”

“Doing okay, Mr. Alex. Thank you so much for asking.”

“Could you serve afternoon tea, Anna, please?” Alex’s grandma says.

Anna nods and smiles and heads back through the doorway she appeared through, and Mrs. Sachs shuffles over to the cream sofa in front of the fire and turns around, gingerly lowering herself as Alex rushes to help her, propping cushions behind her back.

“Thank you, dear,” she says, as he sits down on the sofa perpendicular to hers. “Anna’s coping better,” she whispers to Alex.

Some gossip? My ears are flapping.

Alex gestures at me to sit, and I sink down next to him. “Her son Johnny got into some trouble, so Nana helped her out a bit,” he says.

She tuts. “Such an awful court case for that poor boy.”

I have the feeling Mrs. Sachs might be a pushover in a number of things—perhaps with young men? The idea makes me grin.

“He was in an accident. Some driver went after him for damages for personal injury,” Alex adds.

I grimace at this. Having a car in the city is a nightmare.

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