All the Things We Never Knew Read Online Free PDF Page B

sunshine.
    David’s mother met us on the front steps and shook my hand warmly. “Well, your legs go on forever, don’t they?” she said, smiling.
    â€œIt’s really nice to meet you,” I said. Seeing Alice in her proper white slacks, silk tank top, and sensible flats, I wished I’d trusted my own instincts about what to wear when you meet someone’s parents for the first time. A printed red-and-white scarf was tied Jackie O–style on her head, and she wore no makeup. She was stunningly beautiful, even in her mid-sixties.
    David’s father came to the door and smiled a grin so contagious I couldn’t help but chuckle— So that’s where David’s charm comes from , I thought. “Shee-laa,” he cooed. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Lew’s blue eyes twinkled in the summer light; his skin was moist and thick, with few lines, even though he was deeply tanned. He had a full head of thick silver hair, the color many older people try to replicate in the salon after they’ve given up on blonde or black or auburn. His short-sleeved shirt looked casual enough, but a fiery red ascot peeked out at the top of his neckline, throwing the whole look off. Wow, what a character.
    â€œCome in, come in,” Lew said. “You must be parched. What can I get you?”
    We settled in the living room, designed with the most basic of pieces: a couch, two chairs, a nice Persian rug, a couple of lamps, a coffee table, and a bookcase. No nonsense. Alice stirred iced tea in the kitchen while we chatted. They’d moved all over the world, Lew said. This last move was from Italy to Victoria, B.C., the midway point between Portland and Montreal. I tried to calculate mileage as a reason for settling down somewhere; it seemed as good as the next.
    â€œDavid says you are a journalist. What newspaper do you write for?” Lew asked.
    â€œOh, I don’t write for newspapers anymore,” I said. “I’m in television.”
    â€œMm.” Lew’s look turned. “There is nothing as valuable as the printed word, as far as I’m concerned.”
    â€œAgreed,” I said, trying to cheer him back to the jovial point where we’d begun upon our arrival. “But television is about writing, too.” I started to explain my belief that the best stories married strong writing with powerful imagery. He stopped me midway through my sentence.
    â€œTelevision is a scourge on our society,” he said bluntly.
    I recoiled. David looked amused by the exchange; he’d warned me his dad was moody, charming, and complicated. I’d seen all of it in the course of twenty minutes.
    â€œI think I’ll freshen up,” I said. “David, would you show me where we’ll be staying?”
    Alice interrupted, standing and blocking my route to the hallway. “David will stay in here,” she said politely, pointing to a small den with a foldout bed. “And you can take the guest room.”
    â€œYes, yes, of course.” I blushed.
    I surveyed the guest room Alice showed me. A Bible lay on the bookstand with a proper reading light and a bookmark midway through the pages. The single bed was covered with a lace bedspread, something my grandmother would have approved of. A portrait of Jesus hung above a chest of drawers, his face flooded with light and grace, his long hair cresting at the top of a white gown. He looked beautiful, I thought—and like Jim Morrison.
    David had never mentioned that his parents were so religious. He called himself “a screwed-up Catholic schoolboy” when we talked of his private education and the mind-numbingly long Sunday services. I had followed the lead of my parents who, while deeply spiritual, had never really attached to the religion that dominated our state, Mormonism. I unfolded my clothes and placed them carefully in a chest of drawers. The top drawer had been cleared for my