“He taught you that,” I said.
“On this step. When I was nine. I used to think it was a trick.” She was crying without making any sound. “He never once got the Fords wrong.”
“He got a Chevy wrong the third Sunday I was here. Sulked for an hour.”
Kiara laughed, wet and surprised.
“He’d never have admitted that to me.”
“He didn’t admit it to me either. He said the Chevy was ‘running a Ford engine, probably.'”
“That’s — yes. That’s exactly what he’d say.”
“But there’s one I think you need to hear before anything else. Sunday thirty-one. It’s your aunt on the phone.”
She looked up.
“And then there’s a lawyer who needs to talk to both of us, because your grandfather left this house to the two of us together.”
“Together?”
“‘One by bl*od,'” I said, “‘and one by Sundays.'”
Kiara Booker laughed.
