“I like to think they were,” Andrew said.

“But your father … Did he look like a white man? A black man? Did you ever wonder …?”

Andrew had only a few photographs of his parents. His mother was a blond Norwegian beauty, square-jawed with a determined light in her eyes. She was the one who had managed both the business and family, and she was a strict disciplinarian. His father, the son of this soldier the Larrabees had shown him, had been swarthy and tall, with upright military posture despite his lame leg, but had he looked like a man of color? Not to Andrew. To Andrew, he’d simply been a beloved father.

“I didn’t wonder,” he said. He handed her an envelope sealed with a length of waxed twine. “My father had so few keepsakes. We have his parents’ marriage certificate. And the first actual photograph he had of himself is this one—with his draft registration card from 1917.” He gave her the picture of his father, Julius, handsome and sober in the uniform of the U.S. Army Ambulance Service. “You can see what he selected in the Race category on the draft registration.”

She studied the card. “The options are White, Negro, and Oriental. And he selected White. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he opted to declare himself Caucasian to avoid dealing with prejudice. I wish we knew more about him.”

“As you know, he was orphaned at the age of seven in the great earthquake and fire, so there are no photographs of him as a child, only the sketches of him made by his mother.”

Natalie’s eyes flew wide. “There are sketches? She made sketches?”

“We found them in the basement when the water heater was being replaced. It seems my grandmother was quite a fine artist. She kept illustrated journals as well, but I don’t know what became of them. Blythe put them away to organize someday.” Then doubts crept in. “Perhaps it was my mother who had the journals.” The fright darted at him. Why couldn’t he remember? What couldn’t he remember? He felt it again, the yawning gap of memory, now filled with searing grief.

“I’ll see if I can find them,” Natalie said quietly.

She placed the card in the envelope with the marriage certificate. There were old newspapers and clippings as well. “Did you go through these other papers?”

“Blythe and I planned to do that together.”

Natalie’s eyes were as wet as the morning dew. “I have an idea. How about you and I read everything together?”

He smiled past the grief. What a blessing it was to have his granddaughter. “I’d like that, Natty-girl.”

15