“Mom,” Brent finally said. “I’ve got four empty bedrooms. And a garden that needs somebody who knows what they’re doing. Please.”
She moved in the week before Thanksgiving. She has the bedroom with the window that looks out over the garden.
Every morning now, there are two people on that deck. Brent with his coffee. June with her tea. Looking down at the garden. Not frowning anymore. Pointing at things. Arguing about where to put the tomatoes next year.
Brent comes on Fridays now.
Not every week. He’s got his company, and sometimes he has to travel. But most Fridays, at a quarter to four in the morning, there’s a knock on my father’s back door, and Brent is standing there in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans with dirt on the knees.
He drives now. Dad sits in the passenger seat and gives directions. Brent carries the boxes up the stairs. All three flights. Dad lets him.
