“No offense.”
“Some taken.”
She smiled.
Then her tone changed.
“But mostly she kept it because of Evelyn.”
Dad went still.
Anna continued.
“My grandmother knew what happened.”
“With the baby?”
“Yes.”
Dad lowered his eyes.
“She knew Evelyn might need somewhere to put her grief.”
No one spoke.
The garden moved around us.
Beans rustled.
Someone laughed near the tomatoes.
A cardboard box collapsed and had to be taped.
Ordinary sounds.
Anna looked across the rows.
“Grandma said some people pray in churches. Some people pray while kneeling in dirt.”
Dad stared down at his hands.
“She never said that to me.”
“She probably figured you already knew.”
I asked Anna about the deed.
She nodded.
“The land came to my father. Then to me.”
“So you own it.”
“Apparently.”
Brent looked toward his house.
“Part of my garage might be on it.”
Anna laughed.
“Then I suppose I own a very inconvenient corner of your garage.”
