ranged from ten minutes to two hours. Luis was a commercial photographer, divorced but friendly with his former wife and childless, who’d spent twenty years photographing Southwestern architecture and craftspeople. Our teaching room interested him. RentApartments
“Don’t make it sentimental,” he warned. Dad sounded indignant.
“It won’t be.”
“You are turning Granddad’s old property into a woodworking school.”
“Partly.”
“That is extremely sentimental.”
Dad stared at us in disbelief.
“Your uncle is annoying.”
Luis answered loudly enough for us all to hear. “I heard that.”
Three months later Luis came to Carmona. Dad denied being nervous while reorganizing the shop twice and changing shirts. Mom insisted on blue.
“Blue looks better.”
“I’m seventy-two.”
“Blue still looks better.”
Luis arrived in a weathered silver station wagon with two camera bags and a suitcase. Dad’s eyebrows made him instantly recognizable. Dad came down the path to meet him. Neither rushed, wept or
