She set it in the hole, packed the soil, moved to the next one. Around her the conversation drifted — someone’s daughter was getting divorced, someone else’s grandson had gotten into Berkeley, the new restaurant on Forest Avenue was overpriced and the portions were “insulting.” Margo contributed the appropriate sounds at the appropriate moments. Mm. Oh. That’s nice. How wonderful.
The petunias went in. Row after row. Purple, white, purple, white. Nancy brought lemonade. Eleanor told a story about Vivian’s cat that involved a plumber and a decorative gourd. Nadine arrived late wearing a hat the size of a satellite dish and carrying a bag of fertilizer she’d brought from home because she didn’t trust Nancy’s brand.
It was fine. All of it was fine.
At two-thirty Margo stood, brushed the dirt from her knees, and told Eleanor she had a headache.
“Already? We haven’t done the marigolds.”
“The marigolds will survive without me.” Margo stripped off the gardening gloves and set them on Nancy’s stone wall. “Thank you, Nancy. Your koi look healthy.”
“Chester’s been sluggish,” Nancy said. “I’m worried about his digestion.”
“I’m sure Chester will rally.” Margo collected her bag from the porch chair and walked to the street before anyone could suggest she stay for the marigolds, which would lead to stayingfor more lemonade, which would lead to staying for Nancy’s guided tour of the raccoon damage behind the shed. The raccoons had names. Margo didn’t want to learn them.
She drove home. The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that presses on your ears when you’ve spent fifty years in a kitchen where the grill ticked and the coffee maker hummed and someone was always talking.
She put her bag down and stood in the hallway. The studio was to the left. The kitchen was straight ahead. Clean counters, empty chairs, a coffee cup in the sink from this morning.
The phone rang.
She crossed to the kitchen and picked it up without checking the screen. Only four people called her landline, and three of them were trying to sell her an extended car warranty.
“It’s Bernie.”
“I know it’s you. You’re the only person who calls this number on purpose.” She pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. “What.”
“Just checking in. How were the petunias?”
“Purple and white. Alternating. Nancy has a system.”
“Nancy has a system for everything. She organized her recycling by emotional attachment.”
“I believe it.” Margo looked at the Schedule propped against the salt shaker. “Did you call to discuss Nancy’s gardening, or is there something else?”
A pause. Bernie’s pauses were different from other people’s pauses — they had weight to them, like he was choosing what to leave out rather than what to put in. “Rick sent someone to look at the books. Auditor. He’s been at the Shack all week.”
Margo’s hand tightened on the phone. Just slightly. “What kind of auditor?”
“Business consultant. Pressed khakis. Two pens. Doesn’t eat.”
“Everyone eats.”
“Not this one. Joey’s taken it personally.”
“Of course he has.” Margo looked at the hallway, toward the studio, toward the painting she couldn’t finish. “Is Anna handling it?”
“She’s handling it.”
“Is she worried?”
“Anna doesn’t look worried. She looks like Anna.” Another pause. “He asked her about the scholarship.”
Margo closed her eyes. The scholarship. Richard’s promise, kept every year for decades. The first thing she set aside, before anything else. The one thing that was never negotiable.
“What did she say?”
“I couldn’t hear everything. But I heard her say ‘it’s the reason.’ And he stopped writing.”
