Page 13 of You, with a View

“You got it.” I scramble for a pen in the desk Mom keeps in the room. “What’s your address?”

He rattles it off, and for lack of any paper around me, I transcribe it onto my leg. It’s in Novato, which is about fifteen minutes north of Glenlake.

“Perfect.” I stare down at the address on my goosebump-textured skin. “I can’t wait.”

My mind swirls with questions after we hang up. Has he been here this whole time? If so, did Gram know? Did they speak at all after Paul sent that letter, or has it been over sixty years of silence?

The questions don’t end. Not for the first time, I wonder how long it will take until I’m satisfied by the answers.

I wonder, too, what will happen if the answers aren’t enough.

Paul lives in a small ranch-style house on a quiet street shaded by oak trees. I pull up to the curb and sit for a minute, the car engine ticking in the silence.

I chose a dress since it’s unseasonably warm for April, but now I feel overdressed and awkward. Though Paul has proven to be the nicest man ever, I’m nervous to see him.

There’s another feeling, too, and my chest ticks like the cooling engine of my Prius. With the departure of Gram, I’m left without any grandparents at all. Grandpa Joe left us five years ago, and Mom’s parents died when I was a kid. An entire generation who won’t witness all of my future memories. I’m too young to have lost them all, but it is what it is. And yet here’s Paul, a grandparent himself, inviting me into his life like I didn’t barge in demanding answers to questions that may be painful for him. Inviting me into a space that’s been empty for the past six months.

Maybe that’s what it is—having something halfway and knowing it’s not really yours.

I hope Theo knows how lucky he is.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and grab my bag from the passenger seat, looping it over my shoulder as I make my way up to the driveway. There’s a Hyundai SUV parked there, along with the most beautiful soft-top Ford Bronco I’ve ever seen.

“Go, Paul.” I stop at the driver’s side door to peek in. The exterior is a sexy cherry red, the seats a buttery brown leather. The interior is spotless save for a water bottle in the cup holder and a bag of soil on the floor of the backseat.

I squint at it, then down at my dress with tiny flowers dotted all over it. It’s garden inspired, sure, but I hope Paul’s not going to put me to work. I have whatever is the opposite of a green thumb.

With one last lingering look at the car of my dreams, I make my way up to the front door. A generic-looking welcome mat lies in front of it, but otherwise the porch is empty. I frown, looking around. Given the soil in his backseat, I’d take Paul for a plant guy, but it almost looks like he just moved in.

It takes a few moments after my jaunty knock before the door swings open to Paul, who’s wearing an adorable cardigan, pristine white Converse, and a wide smile.

He steps back to make room for me. “Hello, Noelle, dear! You’re right on time, come on in.”

Whatever nerves I felt disappear in the path of his sweet warmth. “Thanks, it’s great to see you again. I was just admiring your Bronco.”

His white brows pull together in confusion, then smooth out. His reply is a beat late, but no less friendly. If anything, he kicks it up a notch. “Ah, yes. Are you hungry? I thought we could eat first, then I have some things to show you.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I say, hanging my bag on the coatrack in the foyer.

He leads me through the living room, bright and gorgeously furnished in a midcentury style. It’s the type of interior design my dad, an architect, would drool over. I slide a look at Paul, wondering who this guy is, but my gaze snags on a wall made up entirely of framed pictures.

I stumble to a stop. Paul hears the commotion and turns, eyes widening. “Are you all right?”

“Just got distracted by these photos.” I step closer to get abetter look, devouring each one. The composition is stunning; the use of texture, of color, or the lack thereof—every photograph makes my chest ache and my index finger itch.

It’s only when I get to a black-and-white portrait of a young Theo that I realize who the photographer is. Theo’s standing in front of a bodega in what looks like Manhattan, grinning down at a handful of candy clutched in his fist. His knees are knobby and darker than the rest of his skin, as if there’s dirt on them. His hair is curlier than it is now, wild on top of his head. He’s in his own little world, about to indulge in all that sugar.

This portrait is a declaration of love. Showing joy for the sake of it, beautiful and uncomplicated and sitting in the palm of a little boy’s hand.

I turn to Paul. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his slacks, his head tilted as he watches me.

“You’re a photographer.” He dips his chin in acknowledgment and my heart presses against my ribs, desperate to get back to the beauty of the photos. “You’re incredible.”

“Thank you,” he says with a small smile. “I was lucky enough to make a career out of it. These are some of my favorites, but not all of them.”

I point to little Theo. “I can see why this one is.”

He takes a step closer. “How?”

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