Chapter 9
Summer brought a heat wave, two broken garden sprinklers, and a call from my father at six in the morning.
“I’m at the market,” he said. “Ruth’s roses are here.”
“Dad, roses aren’t usually at a grocery market.”
“These are from a local nursery. The woman says they’re the same kind.”
I went to meet him.
He was holding two small rose bushes and arguing with the seller about whether they needed full sun. We bought both and spent the morning planting them along the back fence.
“Ruth would say they’re too close together,” Dad said.
“We can move one in the fall.”
“She’d make us do it today.”
“She’s not here to supervise.”
He smiled, then grew quiet.
I knew what he was thinking. We both missed her in different ways. She had been his sister and the person who made me feel rooted when my parents’ marriage ended.
“She knew you’d take care of this place,” he said.
“I’m learning.”
I had started using the house for people I loved again. Priya came most Fridays. Dad dropped in whenever he claimed the market had a bargain I needed. Nathan visited for coffee once in a while and never brought a document unless I asked for one.
I had also begun working at the community center where Ruth used to volunteer. I helped people sort paperwork, find the right office to call, and ask questions when a form frightened them.
I was no lawyer. When someone needed one, I said so.
Most days, they needed another person to sit beside them long enough to begin.
Ethan’s final repayment was due in autumn. He was making each scheduled payment. He had found steady work at another company and was keeping his visits with Oliver.
I learned those things from Helen and, occasionally, from Lauren. I no longer checked because I feared he would surprise me. The information came when it was relevant, and I let the rest of his life be his.
One afternoon, Lauren asked whether she could speak with me at a café.
Oliver was at Tessa’s house. Lauren arrived carrying a small box.
“I found these when I moved,” she said.
Inside were photographs of Ruth’s kitchen before the renovation. In one, I stood on a stepladder holding a paintbrush. Ethan was below me, laughing because I had put a blue streak across my forehead.
“I thought you should have them,” Lauren said.
“Thank you.”
She stirred her tea without drinking it.
“Ethan asked if we could try again,” she said. “I told him I’m not ready.”
“That’s your decision.”
“I wanted to tell you because he said he was afraid you’d hear it from Margaret and think I’d believed everything all over again.”
“I don’t think that.”
She looked relieved.
“I’m trying to see what he does over time,” she said. “He’s good with Oliver. I still don’t know whether I can trust him as a partner.”
“You don’t have to decide for Oliver’s sake. You can both care for him from separate homes.”
“That’s what Tessa says.”
“Tessa sounds wise.”
“She is. She also makes me wash every bottle before bed.”
We both smiled.
Then Lauren’s face became serious.
“I owe you another apology. I stood in your doorway and let Ethan offer you money to leave. I knew it was cruel. I stayed there.”
“I remember.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I believe you.”
She waited, perhaps expecting more.
“I hope you build a good life with Oliver,” I said.
“I hope you keep yours.”
When I got home, I placed the photographs in Ruth’s album. I did not tear Ethan out of them. Those years had happened. I had been happy in some of those moments.
I could keep a picture without wanting the marriage back.
In September, Margaret called to ask whether I would meet her for lunch. It had been months since her letter.
I chose a small restaurant near Dad’s house.
She arrived early and stood when she saw me.
“You look well,” she said.
“I am.”
We ordered soup. Margaret told me Oliver had learned to clap. I told her about the roses.
Then she set down her spoon.
“I used to think loving Ethan meant believing his version first,” she said. “I made everyone else prove they deserved to be heard.”
“It hurt me.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know whether we can be close again.”
“I’m not asking you to pretend we are.”
We finished lunch talking about ordinary things. When we parted, I accepted a brief hug.
That was all I wanted to give. Margaret seemed to understand.
On the first cool evening of autumn, I found one of Ruth’s roses blooming against the fence. I took a picture for Dad.
He called immediately.
“See? We planted them perfectly.”
“They’re still too close.”
May you like
“Then don’t tell Ruth.”
I stood in the garden laughing, with my own key in my pocket and the house lights glowing behind me.
