He regards me with curiosity, then surprise. “Margo?”

“Mallory.”

He grins. Mike Hartley is a handsome guy. Back in high school, he was sweet on Margo, but he wears a wedding band now. “It’s been a while. I didn’t know you were in town.”

“That’s a miracle,” I quip, but fearing he’ll take it as an insult, rush on. I keep my voice low, just between us. “I’m only here for a visit, but Jack said you landscaped his half of the bluff, and I’d like you to do mine. Do you have any time?”

“This week?” He winces and, when Lily appears with a paper bag, wedges a battered wallet out of his back pocket. He darts me a little glance as he pays. When he’s done and we’re alone again, he says as low as me, “This week is packed, summer people back after the winter and wanting work done. But working weekends and all, I take Mondays off. I could come over tomorrow and take a look.”

If I’ve learned anything working in New York all these years, it’s how to shoot for a mile when you’re offered an inch. It’s also a version of Margo’s Accept what you can’t change by changing what you can’t accept.

I brighten my big smile with hope. “How about coming over tomorrow to plant?”

He seems amused. “I haven’t seen the space. I don’t know what you want.”

“The space is exactly like Jack Sabathian’s, and I want what he has.” The names are with me, each one in my mother’s lyrical voice. “Switchgrass. Goldenrod. Beach plum. Bayberry.” When he scratches his head, I sweeten the pot. “I’ll help plant. So will my daughter. And Jack. And Anne.” I whisper the last with a quick shot at the kitchen, and there she is, watching us, but I’m not turning back. Jack has to work, of course, and Joy is counting on going with him, but at some point they might help, even for an hour, and Anne, well, Anne won’t be able to fight me here. “I’ll pay. I’ll give you a check there and then.” Summer people don’t do that. They take their sweet time paying. I remember hearing grumbles to that effect from our electrician, though, in fairness, he was a surly guy.

Mike Hartley wears a crooked grin. “Well, I don’t remember this. You’re tough.”

“Thank you,” I say with a perky grin of my own. “What time will I see you?”

We agree on a time that allows him to first load his truck with plants, loam, and fertilizer from the nursery. He has barely headed for the door when Anne is hissing in my ear, “I was supposed to do that, not you.”