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Heights to pick up my ex-stepson, Caleb, whom I had talked into joining me, my dad, and our friend Stan at Garfield Lumber’s annual barbecue.
    “I don’t know why I have to go to this lame barbecue,” grumbled the seventeen-year-old. His chestnut hair fell so low over his forehead it almost covered his near-black eyes, which was probably the idea. I tamped down the urge to brush his hair back so I could see his expression.
    “It’s . . . fun,” I said. Which was sort of a lie. “Anyway, it’s tradition.”
    “Not the same thing.”
    The truth was, Garfield Lumber’s operation was old-school. The nails were kept in the same bins they had been in since 1929; the long wooden counter was scarred and gouged; the slower-selling items on the shelves acquired a thick layer of dust. And if you stepped into Garfield without knowing what you were doing, the staff could be downright rude. There was no Helpful Hardware Man here. “Don’t Waste My Time” was Garfield Lumber’s unofficial motto. If you valued your life and all your body parts, you didn’t mention a certain huge store that catered to the DIY crowd.
    On the other hand, once they got to know you, the folks at Garfield would go the extra distance to make sure you had what you needed to get the job done right. In a rapidly growing and ever-changing region like theBay Area, Garfield Lumber was untouched by trends and entirely predictable.
    I loved it. Probably because it was a place I always had been—and would always be—“Bill’s girl Mel.”
    “You have to eat,” I continued. “Right?”
    “Stale hot dogs? Oh, yum,” Caleb said in a snarky tone that reminded me a little too much of myself.
    There was no denying the barbecue was no great shakes; at Garfield Lumber, even their hot dogs tasted like they’d been around a while. But no one seemed to mind. It was a rare chance to mill around with folks who were normally in a rush, to chill out and knock back a beer or two while swapping jokes, tales of construction mishaps, and the occasional bits of delicious gossip.
    “Besides,” I said, “it’s important to Dad. He wants to show you off, introduce you to his friends.”
    That got him. Caleb was sullen as all get-out lately, but my dad’s opinion mattered to him.
    It had taken a while, but my dad had finally welcomed Caleb into the Turner clan. I had married Caleb’s father, Daniel, when Caleb was five and had been his proud stepmother for eight years. I adored him, and the hardest thing about leaving Daniel had been accepting that I would no longer have any legal ties to Caleb, who felt like my own son. My heartbreak was lessened when I realized that Caleb was as loath to give me up as I was to let him go. Caleb’s mother and I had always gotten along well, and she was happy to allow Caleb to spend time with me when she had to travel for business, especially because Daniel’s new wife was not enthralled with the idea of being a stepmother. Now that Caleb was seventeen—a difficult age—I was in the peculiar position of being able to speak to him not as a parent but as a trusted adult one step removed.
    We headed over the Bay Bridge, which connected San Francisco to Oakland and the East Bay. The bridge consisted of two spans that met at Yerba Buena Island, and the eastern section was brand-new, the old one having failed in the last serious earthquake to hit the area. Its single tower soared skyward in a dramatic sweep.
    I enjoyed the novelty but held my tongue. The last thing Caleb wanted to talk about was architecture.
    “So we’ll pick up Dad and Stan at the house and then head on over to the barbecue. I’ll take you back after, or your dad says you can spend the night if you want.”
    “Whatever.”
    But his interest was sparked when we turned the corner onto the street where I lived in an old farmhouse with Dad and Stan.
    “Who’s
that
?” asked Caleb, nodding at a shiny black stretch limousine parked at the curb.
    One didn’t see