“He doesn’t seem to like the garden much,” I said to Dad once, watching Brent through the kitchen window.
Dad shrugged.
“Takes all kinds,” he said.
I’d only talked to Brent once before the letter came.
It was back in June. I was out in the garden helping Dad pick the first strawberries of the summer. Brent came out onto his deck and stood there watching us. He was maybe forty-five. Tall. Fit, in the way of a man who goes to a gym and pays someone to tell him what to do there. Good haircut. Expensive watch that caught the sun.
Dad straightened up from the strawberry patch. He wiped his hands on his overalls and walked over to the fence.
“Morning,” he called up.
Brent looked down at him. “Morning.”
“Arne Lindqvist. I’ve been meaning to come over and say welcome.”
“Brent Hollis.”
Dad held up a little green cardboard pint basket, the kind you get at a farmer’s market. It was full of strawberries. Bright red, still warm from the sun.
