Weeks

A couple of weeks later I was in a large house on the outskirts of Los Angeles, lounging by the pool. My grandmother lounged next to me, in a one-piece suit with a large straw hat over her face.

“It’s important to stay out of the sun, honey. It’s a killer,” she said as she sipped at a rum and Coke.

“I know, Grams.” I smiled at her, my own straw hat hiding my face entirely. “I don’t want freckles, and I get them if I’m out in it too much.”

“It’s that ginger gene from your grandfather’s side. Your poor dad had it bad. I used to slather him in sunscreen and keep him in long shirts, even when the world was telling us to absorb as much sun as possible and try to turn our skin into leather. I never did think it was good.”

She was a humorous woman with a lot of love to give. I’d forgiven them for the silent years when she explained how devastated losing my dad had been for them both. The pain that was still in her voice when she talked about him, told me all I needed to know. I could only