Chapter 20 Grady #2
Madison bounced on the seat, clearly excited to tell her mother about our finds. “I got rain boots with dogs on them and sparkly pink shoes. I can’t wait to wear them to school.”
“What about you?” Esme asked Robbie.
“Although they’re not real Italian leather like I will have someday, I found a perfectly reasonable substitute.” Robbie lifted his leg to show her the loafers.
“Huh. Okay. Well, they’re … sophisticated,” Esme said.
“Grady was worried I’d get picked on for wearing them, but we came up with a solution.”
“Which is?” Esme asked.
“Which is I will wear them only to my STEM school and out to nice places. Other times, I’ll wear my black sneakers.”
“Good plan,” Esme said, turning back to the front. “I’m starving. Are we going to dinner now or do we have more shoes to shop for?”
“We’re done shopping for the day,” I said, pulling away from the curve.
I drove us to Marco’s Pizza at the edge of town.
Marco’s made the best pizza in Willet Cove and had red-checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles and an old school jukebox that only played music put out before 1995.
We found a booth in the back, with Trevor settling under the table.
Within minutes, Marco appeared to take our order.
Short and stout, with a gap-toothed grin, he had the energy of a twenty year old, despite being in his sixties.
“Hey, guys,” Marco said. “What can I get you?”
“I want a pizza with pineapple on it but my brother finds that baffling, so he wants something else,” Madison said.
“Well, fortunately for you, we have all kinds of pizzas.” Marco smiled as he poured us glasses of water. “Do you know what you want besides pineapple?”
“We’ll take a Canadian bacon and pineapple,” I said. “And one of your meat lover’s.”
“And a salad to share,” Esme said.
“Also, this is a celebration.” Madison beamed.
Marco raised an eyebrow. “What are we celebrating?”
“Grady’s going to be my dad,” Madison said. “And I got three new pairs of shoes.”
Marco looked at me. I shrugged, flushing. He broke into a grin, clapped me on the shoulder. “Good for you.”
“Can we have root beer?” Madison asked, moving along to the next subject.
Esme nodded. “Yes, a small pitcher of root beer for the kids.”
“And glasses of your house red for those of us over fourteen,” I said.
“Drinks are on me tonight,” Marco said. “As a way to congratulate you on your happy news. You make a beautiful family.”
“Thanks, Marco,” Esme said. “That’s very kind of you.”
A busboy brought over some crayons and a coloring sheet for Madison. Soon, we had our drinks.
“So, I’ve been doing some thinking.” Robbie unzipped his backpack and pulled out a folder. A printed folder. With tabs.
“First.” He opened to the first tab. “I thought I would share the compatibility analysis on you two.”
“Oh dear,” Esme said.
“As you know, the algorithm I built for the Second Chance app evaluates partners across a broad range of compatibility metrics. When the app matched you with the doctor, the compatibility score was quite high.”
“I remember,” Esme said.
“What I didn’t share at the time, because the data wasn’t requested, was that I also ran Grady’s profile through the algorithm.” He laid a printed spreadsheet on the table. “Your compatibility score with Grady is ninety-nine point seven percent.”
“Ninety-nine point seven.” I looked over at Esme, squeezing her hand under the table. “That’s pretty good. But I could have told you that without a spreadsheet.”
“I’m confused by the three point deficit,” Robbie said. “But be that as it may, you have found your nearly perfect match.”
“Again, I could have told you that,” I said.
Madison, who had been coloring through this exchange, looked up. “Can I see the spreadsheet?”
“It wouldn’t be meaningful to you without understanding the underlying methodology,” Robbie said.
“Is there a chart? I like charts. Especially ones that look like a pie,” Madison said.
“Yes, I’m fond of those myself.” Robbie turned to the second page. There was indeed a pie chart comparing my compatibility score with Esme’s in green.
“Green means good,” Madison observed.
“Green means optimal,” Robbie corrected.
“Thank goodness we have that cleared up,” Esme said.
“There’s something else I wish to discuss,” Robbie said, turning to the next tab in his folder. “And that’s about our housing situation.”
“Um, okay?” Esme said, grimacing.
“Our current apartment is approximately eight hundred and fifty square feet. This accommodates two bedrooms for three people, insufficient workspace for a home office, and zero outdoor space for Trevor. If Grady’s going to be part of this family unit, the current living arrangement is inadequate.”
“Robbie, we can talk about this another time,” Esme said.
“Mother, I mean no disrespect, but there is no better time than the present. I’ve identified six properties currently listed in Willet Cove that meet our requirements.
From what I understand, it is a difficult and competitive process to secure a home.
” He produced a second spreadsheet. Each listing had a photo, address, square footage, price, and a column labeled “Robbie’s Assessment” with ratings from one to ten.
“You’ve been on Zillow,” Esme said.
“Zillow, Redfin, and two local real estate sites. I cross-referenced for accuracy.” He pointed to the top listing—a shingled coastal home on Driftwood Lane with blue-gray shutters, dormer windows, and a wide front porch.
Even in the small photo, you could see wildflowers growing up to the front steps.
“This one is my recommendation. Four bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, and it’s on a quiet lane that dead-ends at the property.
The kitchen alone is roughly the size of our entire apartment. ”
“That can’t be right,” Esme said.
“Double-height ceilings, a center island, and a wall of windows facing the ocean. I’ve cross-referenced the listing photos with the square footage data.
It’s accurate.” He tapped the photo. “The fourth bedroom could serve as a dedicated workspace for my projects, which would free up the kitchen counter you’re so keen on keeping clear of clutter. ”
“You’re not getting an office,” Esme said. “You can work in your bedroom.”
Robbie’s eyebrows raised, but he nodded and made a note in the margin.
“Very well. Additionally, it has a garden where Mother can finally grow flowers and perhaps vegetables if she wishes. And as if that weren’t enough, there’s a mature apple tree, which serves two purposes.
The making of apple pie and the host for a wooden swing for Madison. ”
“Yay,” Madison said.
“But the primary reason for my recommendation is the ocean view.” He glanced at me.
“I understand this is important to Grady. The property sits above the beach with an unobstructed sight line from the kitchen, the primary bedroom, and the back garden. Given that Grady has oriented his entire life around proximity to the ocean, it seemed prudent to prioritize this feature.”
I looked at the small photo on Robbie’s spreadsheet. A gray-shingled house with a porch and flowers and the ocean behind it. It looked like a place where a family could be happy.
“The asking price is within a reasonable range given the inheritance,” Robbie said.
“I’ve prepared a cost analysis factoring in mortgage payments, property taxes, insurance, and estimated maintenance costs.
We could also retain the apartment above the shop as a workspace or potential rental income. ”
“You’ve thought of everything,” I said.
“That’s what I do.” He paused. “Third item.”
“There’s more?” Esme asked, sounding tired.
He turned to the final tab. “I have a thought about how I might help Grady with the Harborlight Foundation.”
“You know about that?” I asked.
“Mother informed me about it this morning,” Robbie said, looking at me.
“After discovering your association with it, I subsequently researched the foundation through public records. The scope of your operation is limited by your current infrastructure. Specifically, your intake and referral process relies on word of mouth and a single phone line. This is inefficient.”
“It’s the best I could do with the budget at the time,” I said.
“I understand. But as you pointed out earlier to Madison, the budget has changed,” Robbie said.
“I can build a secure digital intake system. Encrypted, anonymous, accessible by phone or computer. It would allow women to request help without having to walk into a physical location, which I imagine is a significant barrier for many of them. I can also build a referral network that connects with other organizations in Northern California. Currently you serve approximately one woman per month. With a better system, you could increase that capacity significantly without a proportional increase in cost. Which serves several purposes, the most obvious being the women you help. But it also gives you a way to continue to work through your own trauma surrounding your father’s actions.
Mother often tells me that, if I am feeling sad, the best way to assuage it is to do something for someone else.
Although I don’t always take her advice, I feel certain that this foundation is the perfect example of exactly that. ”
“Robbie,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “On behalf of the foundation, I thank you.”
He nodded briskly. “Good. I’ll have a proposal for you by next weekend. I’ll need an understanding of your privacy protocols.”
“That can be arranged,” I said.
“This is a better use of your time than the compatibility spreadsheet,” Esme said.
Robbie looked affronted. “Mother, how can you say that? It has given us important data that it seems our flawed human brains cannot always process. But that’s neither here nor there, although it’s mildly insulting given how much time I put into this matchmaking endeavor.”
“There’s still Delphine and Seraphina,” Madison said. “You can’t forget about them.”
“Not to worry, little sister. I have my ways.”
“This is a tremendous amount of work you want to take on,” I said. “Don’t forget you’re a student first.”
Robbie tilted his head, looking straight at me. “Grady, you’re sending me to the program at USC. My mother taught me to always give back as much as you take. I’d like to do this for you. Think of it as a father and son project.”
Our pizzas and salad arrived then, which was fortunate because I was about to start weeping right then and there. While we each reached for a piece, Esme gave us each a portion of the family-sized salad.
“Can I be in the wedding?” Madison asked, between bites.
Esme looked at me. I looked at her. Under the table, her hand was still in mine.
“We haven’t set a date yet,” Esme said. “Nor have I been officially asked.”
“But there will be one? A wedding?” Madison asked.
“Yes,” I said. “There will be a wedding. But I have to ask your mother properly first.”
“I can’t wait to wear my sparkly shoes,” Madison said.
“I have read that women find the proposal moment important,” Robbie said. “Although, it’s what comes after that matters more. Our father proved that to be true.”
Esme and I exchanged a glance.
“How are you feeling about your dad?” I asked. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”
Robbie blinked. “As in?”
“Your mother remarrying is a big step for all of us,” I said. “If there’s anything bothering you, please share it. If we’re to be a healthy family, we must communicate freely. About everything.”
“I agree,” Esme said.
“I see.” Robbie took a sip of his soda, forehead wrinkling in concentration.
“Our biological father is not here and has not been in any significant way for as long as I can remember. On the other hand, Grady, you have been a solid and loving presence in our lives from the first day we met you. I believe that’s all there is to say about the situation. ”
“Does it hurt you? About your dad?” Esme asked.
“Not really. It hurts me that he’s treated you poorly and made life difficult by not paying child support. But as far as I’m concerned, Grady has filled whatever space our father left. Spaces that have nothing to do with money.”
“Well, all right then,” I said, chuckling. “I guess we better call a realtor about that house.”
Robbie smiled serenely, folding his hands on the table. “Excellent. But we should also look at the other five choices. I am not often wrong, but there is always room for a margin of error.”
Esme’s phone made a buzzing sound from inside her bag. She reached for it, her expression dimming. “It’s my mother.”
“You should talk to her,” I said. “And tell her plans have changed.”
“I’m going to take this outside,” Esme said.
“Good luck,” I said, slipping out of the booth to let her out.
“Hey, Mom,” Esme said as she was walking away from the table.
Robbie and Madison had gone quiet. But once Esme was out of earshot, Robbie leaned over the table and said in a quiet voice, “Sunflowers grow much better in Willet Cove than Seattle.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I said.