Victor saw only their vulnerability, as they clung to each other like scared little girls. They would never be able to stand on their own. Rachel had ruined them. He’d seen enough and walked away, wondering exactly what he would have to do to turn them from pussy little boys into the men they needed to be to make it in his world.
Soon he heard the hushed voices of the help, and the hurried steps in the entry hall of children he had never spoken to. His driver came into the room, his chauffeur’s cap in his hands. “Your grandsons are here.” Harlan wasn’t a huge man, but he was stronger than an ox and looked a little like one. He was an ex–middleweight boxer with a flat, broken nose and porcelain front teeth Victor had paid for. “Do you want me to take the boys upstairs?”
“No. I’ll be out in a minute. They didn’t give you any trouble?”
Harlan shook his head. “They sat in the backseat whispering about riding in the limousine. Thought it was pretty special.”
“Is the MG back from the paint shop?” Victor asked.
“Yes sir.”
“Check the paint job on the running boards and the hood.”
“I checked it this morning.”
“Good.” His son had loved the MG, but that had been back in the days before Rudy threw the car keys at him and walked away from everything Banning. “Let the boys wait in the entry for now,” Victor said evenly. “I’ll be out soon.”
Harlan left, and Victor poured a scotch, wanting to be somewhere else—a sweeter time—the few in his life he could count on one hand. Under his feet, the wood floor creaked, and he looked down at the hairpin edges of a trapdoor to the fallout shelter, something his architect insisted he needed. But it was a useless hole in the floor that did nothing to protect him from the real fallout of his life: his son had died hating him. A scotch didn’t help. Mistakes wouldn’t dissolve in alcohol—although Rudy had certainly tried. So Victor remained there, his feet on the cracks of the trapdoor, a useless drink in his hand, facing the largest ocean in the world and the worst of his sins.
Cale Banning stood with his older brother in the hallway of a strange house, in a strange neighborhood, waiting to meet a stranger—the grandfather he’d never known he had until a few hours ago. Their suitcases and toys were piled up in the hallway, stacked in a hurry and looking as confused as he felt. He tugged on his brother Jud’s shirt. “How come I don’t remember this grandpa? Why wasn’t he ever around? Didn’t he like us?”
“Who knows?”
Cale stared at their things and thought they looked like they didn’t belong there.
Jud sat down on the stairs, his elbows on his long skinny legs, his hands hanging between his knees. “I remember his car,” he told Cale. “I saw it drive away from the house a few times.”
“Did you ever see him?”
“No.”
Cale searched the hollow room for something familiar. High on the wall above the staircase was a window of colored glass, like in church. “Look up there.”
“I saw it,” Jud said distractedly. “It’s one of Mom’s paintings.”
Cale studied the painting hung near the stained-glass window; it was huge. Once, when he’d asked his mother why she painted so big, she told him large canvases had bigger things to say, and he wouldn’t understand until he was older, so he should ask her again when he was Jud’s age. He looked at Jud. “Do you know why Mom painted big pictures?”
“No.”
“It’s supposed to say something.” Cale studied the colors of red and blue, green and yellow slashed across the painting above him. Her studio had never been off-limits. She usually smelled of something called linseed oil and her clothes were covered in paint splotches that made about as much sense to him as the paintings did. But inside her studio, the two of them would drink bottles of Coca-Cola, eat egg salad sandwiches and Twinkies, and she would talk to him while she painted with huge long strokes of color that involved her whole body and seemed to make sense only to her. As she stood back and away from her work, she told him there were messages in art about life and the way people thought and felt, that sometimes the messages were hidden, secrets only some had the eye to see, but the soul of the artist was always there if anyone chose to look close enough.
“Jud? What does a soul look like?”
His brother looked at him. “You’re weird.”
Cale sat down and rested his chin in his hands. “I miss her.”
Jud didn’t say anything, but slid his arm around him, so Cale leaned against his shoulder, because if his parents were really dead, then Jud was all he had left.
When he glanced up, a man stood off to the side. His father’s father was tall and looked a little like his dad. But his hair was a mix of blond and brown and gray. He was looking at him with an unreadable expression. Cale straightened. “Why did you bring us here?”
Jud stood up so fast it was like he had a fire in his pants.
But their grandfather remained silent.
Why didn’t they know him? Why didn’t he say anything? Why did their mom and dad have to die and leave them with no one but him? Cale wanted to hit something, maybe this grim-faced man who stood away from him. “How come I don’t know you? Are you really my grandpa?” Cale took a step.
Jud grabbed his arm and hauled him back. “Stay here.”
“You’re Cale,” his grandfather said finally.
Cale stood in the taller shadow of his brother. “Yes.”
“And you’re Jud.” His grandfather shook his older brother’s hand as if he were a grown man, but didn’t offer to shake Cale’s. “Come with me,” he said to Jud, then went out the front door with Jud following.
Cale was his grandson, too, so he ran after them, dogging his brother, who was beside their grandfather. Cale ran past both of them and turned, half-running backward in front of his grandfather. “Where are we going?”
“To the garage.”
“Why?”
“I want to show your brother something.”
He wanted to show Jud but not him. “What?” Cale asked.
His grandfather kept walking.
“What do you want to show him?” Cale stayed ahead of him because he was afraid if he stopped now his grandfather would walk right over him. “You don’t like me,” Cale said.
His grandfather looked at him. “Does it matter if I like you?”
“Yes,” Cale said.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my grandfather. It’s your job to like me.”
He laughed then. “Good answer, Cale.”
For just a second, Cale thought his grandfather might like him after all.
“What makes you think I don’t like you?”
“You won’t talk to me.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“So you think that you have to do something wrong for someone to not like you?”
Cale knew sometimes people had no reason at all not to like you. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.
“Think