“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.”
