There was one of Dad and Aunt Tammy as kids, double exposed so that their faces appeared to be echoed inside each other’s. One shot of Grandpa and Dad, when Dad was a teen, both looking directly at the camera with exactly the same curious expression on their faces. And a self-portrait of my grandmother, taken when she was much younger, her reflection floating in a window.

I heard Dad and Joan and Analemma coming upstairs, and Joan called, “Come and have lunch.”

Analemma dashed into the guest room and bumped my hand with her wet nose. “You want me to come?” I said, rubbing her ears with my fingers. She gave a soft woof, so I followed her out into the living room.

Dad had left his suitcase by the cold woodstove across from the purple velvet sofa. In the kitchen, lunch had been laid out on the round wooden table: a big bowl of salad with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, a take-out rotisserie chicken, a loaf of sourdough bread, and a pitcher of iced tea.

“Help yourself to food and let’s go sit on the deck,” Joan said, taking out plates and silverware.

I had only eaten a stale bagel on the plane, and as I watched Dad cut into the chicken, I realized I was starving. I piled salad and chicken onto a plate and tore into the bread, and Joan gave me a glass of iced tea. I took my lunch out to the deck, which opened off the kitchen and had a view of the Marin Hills through the trees. Gently rolling golden-brown waves beneath a powder-blue sky. It was warm but not too hot, and the air was dry. Northern California summer.

“Matty, you sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer?” Joan asked as she sat down.

“Sorry, I can’t,” Dad said between bites of his salad. “The timing has been difficult this year.”

He was being diplomatic, but I knew it was my fault.

“I have to get some work done today, too,” he said. “Do you mind if I use your studio to write?”

Grandpa had built an art studio for my grandmother on the highest part of the property, so that she could get as much natural light as possible. But after Grandpa died, she had moved most of her work into the house, into his office, which was on the third floor along with their bedroom.

“I haven’t been in there for a while,” Joan said. “It’s probably covered in dust.”

“I don’t mind the dust. I just need a room.” Dad took a swig of iced tea and looked at me. “Ari, you need anything else before I get to work?”

“No.”

“We can talk about your plans for the summer,” Joan said.