“I’m a man who knows better than to come home empty-handed when his wife sends him on a mission.” He leaned the lumber against the garden shed and crossed to where she knelt, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “How’s it coming?”
“Slowly.” She gestured at the bed she’d been working on . “The lavender goes here. I want it where guests can brush against it when they walk the path—that way they’ll carry the scent with them.”
Will crouched beside her, his knees cracking. He studied the layout with the same careful attention he brought to everything—the renovations, the furniture he built, the way he listened when she talked.
“You’ve really thought this through.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.” Tara pulled off her gloves, flexing her stiff fingers. “When Christina was in labor, I sat in that waiting room for six hours with nothing to do but worry and plan. I mapped out every plant, every stone in the path.”
“And now you have a granddaughter and a garden.”
“And a husband who hauls lumber in eighty-degree heat without complaining.” Typically, it was in the high seventies in the summer with a few days here and there in the eighties, but the folks who’d lived here all their lives told Tara this year was warmer than before with mostly eighties in the summer and a ninety degree day predicted later this week. Who would have thought that being up at three thousand feet in elevation wasn’t high enough to escape the worst of the summer heat?
Will’s mouth curved. “I complain. Just not where you can hear me.”
The days took on a rhythm. Mornings at the cottage helping Christina—holding Violet while her daughter showered, doing laundry, making sure there was always something in the refrigerator that could be heated up one-handed. Afternoons at the inn, where the final punch list seemed to grow shorter one day and longer the next.
And evenings in the garden, when the worst of the heat had passed, and the light turned golden through the trees. After dinner, she and Will would sit in the chairs he’d made out on the dock, enjoying the breeze off the lake. Some nights they’d walk around the lake, stopping by the waterfall, their favorite spot.
Tara planted the lavender on a Tuesday, setting each plant carefully into the holes she’d dug, tamping the soil around the roots. Lavender for peace, the old books said. For calm and tranquility. Patty had never been particularly calm or tranquil—she’d been loud and opinionated and the kind of person who started arguments at dinner parties just to keep things interesting—but she’d known how to make other people feel at ease. How to walk into a room full of strangers and leave with three new friends and someone’s phone number. There was only one Patty, and Tara knew she’d never find another friend like her.
By Thursday, Will had finished the frame for the second bench. The first one sat at the garden’s entrance, a simple cedar design with wide armrests where guests could set a cup of coffee or a book. This second one would go deeper in, tucked into an alcove created by the curve of the path, a spot for solitude rather than socializing.
“I was thinking about the table,” Will said, sanding the armrest smooth. The rasp of sandpaper filled the air, mixing with the drone of cicadas in the trees. “Maybe something low, so people can put their feet up. More like a coffee table than a dining table.”
“That’s perfect.” Tara could picture it—guests sitting here in the early morning or late evening, watching the light change over the mountains, feeling whatever they needed to feel without anyone watching or judging.
She’d wanted the garden to be a place for that. For sitting with grief or gratitude or both at once.
“The plaque came in,” Will added, not looking up from his sanding. “I picked it up from the engraver this morning. Didn’t want to say anything until you were ready to see it.”
Tara’s hands stilled on the seedling she’d been about to plant. “Where is it?”
“In the truck. Wrapped in a towel so it wouldn’t get scratched.”
She stood, brushing dirt from her knees, and walked to the truck on legs that felt slightly unsteady. The towel was soft, one of their old bath towels she’d relegated to the garage. She unwrapped it carefully.
The bronze was smaller than she’d expected, maybe eight inches by six. The letters were clean and simple, with no flourishes or fancy fonts. Just the words she’d chosen after changing her mind a dozen times.
In memory of Patty. Her absence is a shape the heart still holds.
Tara ran her finger over the engraving. The metal was warm from sitting in the sun in the cab of the truck.
“Is it okay?” Will had come to stand behind her, his hand light on her shoulder.
“It’s perfect.” Her voice came out rough. “I keep expecting her to call, you know? Even now. I’ll be doing something ordinary—folding laundry, making coffee—and I’ll think, ‘Oh, I should tell Patty about this.’ And then I remember.”
Will kissed her lightly on the cheek but didn’t say anything. He just stood there, solid and present, while she traced the letters again.
“The first year of college,” she said, “she was climbing out of a dorm window to escape a bad date. I was walking back from the library, and she nearly landed on top of me. Ripped her skirt on the windowsill. I helped her safety-pin it back together, and she bought me coffee to say thanks, and that was it. Thirty-five years of friendship, starting with a safety pin and a cup of terrible dining hall coffee.”
“She sounds like she was something.”
“She was.” Tara rewrapped the plaque carefully. “She would have loved all of this. The inn, family all together, Violet. She adored babies. She’d have been here every day, spoiling that child rotten, driving Christina crazy with unsolicited advice.”
She turned to face him, leaning into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and she let herself rest there for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of sawdust and clean sweat.
“She’d have loved you too,” Tara said into his shirt. “She’d have given you such a hard time. Interrogated you about your intentions, probably threatened you with something creative if you ever hurt me. And then she’d have pulled me aside and told me I’d done well.”
