It looked impossibly fragile.
She carried it in her hand luggage for the rest of the trip.
That evening, the group ate together around a long wooden table.
Linda sat between Patricia and Gerald, a sixty-five-year-old retired history teacher from Seattle.
Gerald seemed incapable of visiting a historical place without explaining it.
Normally, Linda might have found that exhausting.
Instead, she loved listening.
Gerald talked about trade routes, medieval architecture, family businesses, and the centuries-old purpose of Christmas markets.
His enthusiasm was contagious.
Eventually, Linda said:
“You must have been a good teacher.”
Gerald shrugged.
“I was adequate. I improved for thirty years and retired before I had time to get worse.”
Linda laughed.
“Do you miss teaching?”
“The students. Not the institution.”
“What do you do now?”
“I read. Travel when I can. And fail repeatedly at gardening.”
“My husband loved gardening.”
“Was he good?”
“Very.”
Linda smiled.
“I could kill almost anything. Paul could grow almost anything.”
“What happened to the garden after he died?”
“It’s still there. I maintain it badly. The perennials return because they’re stubborn. I gave up on annuals.”
Gerald looked down at his wine.
“My wife had roses.”
Linda looked at him.
“I killed them the first year after she died.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Six years.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
