From the coast we drove, skirting the Presidio before heading south through the Castro and then up Twin Peaks, the fog rolling in and over the boob-like hills as we approached, the sky a stunning blue behind us. If the situation weren’t so dire, it might’ve actually been a perfect day in San Francisco.
Ralph pointed first, all lackluster-like. “Home sweet home,” he droned.
I stared up at the striking and massive Victorian looming in front of us. “That’s where you live?” I asked.
“Family home,” Steven replied, “but yes.”
I shook my head. “You must’ve saved a boatload of orphans in a past life, and kittens, and a nun or two who were tending to both kittens and orphans.”
He shrugged and pulled in through the gate, which he’d opened electronically. “Well, I do like kittens.” He chuckled.
