“I’d have to check whether she could stay with Marigold Langille ... I can only work weekdays, between eight and five.”

“It’s usually the employer who lays down the terms.”

The stash. Remember the stash. “Rolf Langille, he’ll give you a reference.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Brick MacAvoy. From across the road.”

“Ah. You’d better see how much grass there is before you decide.”

Ah? What does that mean? I walk across the strip of mown grass between flowers as bright as Cassie’s crayons; but it’s the scent that wallops me. Roses, lilies, a vine with little red trumpets, spikes of blue flowers with silver leaves—they all perfume the air and I’m starting to sound like those poets we slogged through last term. Wordsworth. Keats. Dickinson.

The back has a vegetable garden with a high fence to keep deer out, a deck with more vines, a tumbledown rock wall, and more flowerbeds. Also more lawn. A lot more lawn, sloping to the trees and the river.

Della says, “You have to mow the grass, then clip around the trees and flowerbeds. I use old-fashioned shears because it’s too easy to do damage with a weed eater. In summer it needs cutting at least once a week. Thirty dollars. Can you start today?”

I blink. “I’ll have to ask Marigold first.”

“I’ll leave the mower behind the house. Gas in the shed, clippers hanging on the wall.” She gives a brisk nod. “I’d much rather garden than mow. Rolf’s a good man. If he approves of you, I’m willing to give you a try.”

I walk home, my head reeling. A free book—assuming I’ve got the nerve to pick it up—and a job.

Total number of dogs saved in four days: two.

6

AN HOUR later, I’ve changed out of my torn sweats, dropped Cassie off at Marigold’s, and I’m on my way to Della’s. I’m not just fraternizing with the neighbors, I’m practically moving in with them.

When I go around back to get the mower, Della’s spraying the rose bushes. Her sister is sitting on the deck in the shade. Opal told me that she’s blind.

Della says, “Agnes, this is Brick MacAvoy.”

“Hi,” I say.

Agnes looks right at me. Spooky. She says calmly, “Hello, Brick.”

My synapses earn their keep. The smelly flowers—they’re for Agnes. I smile at Della, a smile I really mean, and she smiles back.

She’s never once smiled at me at the post office.

To protect my hands, I’m wearing my work gloves. Nothing I can do about my knees. Determined to do the best job I can, I push the mower to the front yard and yank on the cord.