“Is it working?”
“Not particularly.”
She smiled.
For the first time, I felt something startlingly familiar between us.
Not history.
Temperament.
That afternoon Dad walked Claire through the rows.
He showed her Mara’s marker.
“That row was your grandmother’s,” he said.
Claire touched the weathered wood.
“What grew here?”
“Whatever she told me to plant.”
“That sounds efficient.”
“She had opinions.”
“I’ve heard.”
Dad smiled.
The row currently held beans.
Claire crouched, picked one and snapped it between her fingers.
“She told Mom about Ruth Bell.”
Dad looked at her.
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“And the food boxes.”
Dad nodded.
“She never forgot.”
Claire studied the garden.
“Mom said Grandma always believed feeding people was her way of paying something back.”
Dad shook his head.
“Not back.”
“Forward?”
“Yes.”
Claire smiled.
“That sounds like Mom.”
From the neighboring yard came the sound of a screen door.
Brent stepped onto his deck.
