Chapter 9
Sometimes it came from Mrs. Alvarez, Arthur’s housekeeper, who claimed she had “accidentally cooked too much.”
Grace never believed her.
Neither did I.
But she stopped sending it back.
On Saturday, Grace finally let us return to Arthur’s garden.
She came with us.
“I’m supervising.”
“You’re supposed to rest,” I said.
“I can supervise sitting down.”
Arthur had placed a chair beneath the maple tree before we arrived.
Grace stared at it.
“He knew you were coming,” Annie said.
Grace muttered something about difficult old men.
Arthur appeared on the porch.
“You’re late.”
“It’s nine o’clock.”
“You said nine.”
“It is exactly nine.”
His eyes moved toward the chair.
Grace noticed.
“So you admit you expected me?”
“I understand probability.”
Grace almost smiled.
Almost.
We worked for three hours.
Arthur paid us in food, as originally agreed, though somehow the “leftovers” included fresh bread, vegetables, milk, eggs, and enough chicken for several dinners.
Grace objected.
Arthur claimed his refrigerator was too small.
His refrigerator could have held ours twice.
But Grace let it go.
Something had shifted between them.
Not trust.
Not yet.
More like a temporary ceasefire.
Over the next several weeks, we returned every Saturday.
The garden slowly emerged from beneath the neglect.
Stone paths reappeared.
Flower beds found their edges.
Annie discovered little metal labels identifying plants Eleanor had chosen years before.
Arthur remembered almost all of them.
“Peonies there,” he said one morning.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Eleanor planted them.”
“You remember every flower?”
“No.”
He paused.
“Only hers.”
Grace heard him.
Her expression softened.
Arthur never mentioned the old company dispute while Annie was around.
But once, while she was helping Mrs. Alvarez make lemonade, I heard Grace and Arthur arguing quietly near the greenhouse.
“You should have told me,” Grace said.
“I tried.”
“You sent checks.”
“I sent letters.”
“Letters with checks.”
“I thought practical help would be more useful than explanations.”
“That was the problem.”
May you like
Arthur’s voice dropped.
“What was I supposed to do? Appear at your door after the funeral and tell a seventeen-year-old girl that her father had been right about things I had spent years believing he was wrong about?”
