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We leave the busier street and turn onto a quieter block. Older houses sit close together, porches small and tidy, yards trimmed but not precious. Big trees lean over the road, making tunnels out of shade and gold light.

Then I see it. A white BMW parked under a tall old tree.

“This is me,” Paul says.

I look at the BMW and try very hard to be supportive. I don’t think about Paul pulling away. I think about his poor dogs alone in that mansion, waiting for whatever bougie dog food he keeps stored in the fridge.

“It’s very shiny.”

Paul laughs, then walks right past it, up the short path toward a house.

The house is modest. Two stories only because the back rises higher than the front, camelback style, narrow but sturdy, freshly painted a warm cream with dark green trim. Two planters sit on the small porch, new flowers bright against the steps. Nothing about it announces money. Nothing about it asks to be admired from the street.

Paul steps onto the path, then turns to face me. He takes my other hand too, both of mine held in both of his, and tips his head toward the house behind him.

“This is me,” he says again.

“No more mansion?”

He shrugs, but his eyes are bright. “The new me prefers a two-bedroom.”

I look past him again.

Curtains in the front window. A small patch of yard.

Normal.

I step closer. “Want to show me?”

Paul’s smile warms.

He starts walking backward, pulling me with him. “You’ll love my new art.”

I narrow my eyes. “More body parts?”

“No body parts.” He reaches the porch step and pulls me up after him. “Dogs, mostly, and flowers.”

From inside the house, something barks, then another something barks, and then both somethings lose their entire minds.

Paul laughs, bright and easy, and reaches for the door.

Chapter forty-six

Soft Opening

Paul

By four o’clock, the line for free pizza has reached the sidewalk and started toward the park.

Tomorrow is the official opening. Today was supposed to be a soft preview for the neighborhood, but soft is a lot harder than any of us imagined.

Clint’s back in the kitchen, shoveling pizzas in and out of ovens. Linda’s monitoring the buffet line and shouting back orders quicker than they’re coming out.

I stay outside in the late June heat. Clint’s tried to wave me in three times, but this is his. I’m happy to hang with the rest of the neighborhood, watching the smiles on everyone’s faces. And they are all smiling, from the first cheesy bite to the last nibble of crust.

A kid sitting on the corner licks his fingers, then begs his dad for another trip through the buffet line, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief.

I lean against a tree along the sidewalk with Baxter and Barret at my feet, their noses working the air with deep focus.