“Yes, Joyce’s children. The baby’s in school now. Time goes so quickly for the young. You’ve looked at the pictures?” Louella asked suddenly.

“The pictures?” Maggie’s brow creased, then cleared. “Oh, yes, I’ve really only had a chance to glance at them. I’ve been a bit tied up.” Remembering, she walked to the mantel and retrieved the envelope. “Your roses looked beautiful. I’m not sure I’d have that kind of talent.”

Louella took the envelope and stared down at it. “Roses need love and discipline. Like children.”

Maggie decided against another offer of coffee. Instead, she sat down beside Louella. “Perhaps if we looked at them together it would help.”

“Old pictures.” Louella opened the flap and drew them out. “There’s so much to see in old pictures if you know where to look. Early spring,” she murmured, looking down at the first snapshot. “You see, the hyacinths are blooming, and the daffodils.”

Maggie studied the square, pristine black and white, but it was the man and small girl who caught her attention rather than the flowers. He was tall, broad in the chest, with a sharp-boned, lantern-jawed face. The suit he wore was severe and proper. Beside him, the little girl wore a frilly dress, ribboned at the waist with black strap shoes and a flowered bonnet.

It must’ve been Easter, Maggie concluded. The little girl smiled determinedly at the camera. Joyce would’ve been around four then, Maggie calculated, and perhaps a bit uncomfortable in the organdy and flounces. William Morgan didn’t look cruel, she thought as she studied his set, unreadable face. He simply looked untouchable. She fought back a shudder and spoke lightly.

“I want to plant some bulbs myself. Things should be a little more settled by fall.”

Louella said nothing as she turned over the next picture. This time Maggie was looking at a young Louella. The style of hair and dress told her the picture was more than twenty years old. The lopsided angle of the shot made her suspect that Joyce had taken it as a child.

“The roses,” Louella murmured, running a finger over the picture where they grew in profusion. “Gone now, with no one to care for them.”

“Do you have a garden now?”

“Joyce does.” Louella set the picture aside and took up another. “I tend it now and then, but it isn’t the same as having your own.”

“No, it’s not, but Joyce must be grateful for your help.”

“She’s never been easy in town,” Louella said, half to herself. “Never easy. A pity she took after me rather than her father.”

“She’s lovely,” Maggie told her, searching for something to say. “I hope to see more of her. Her husband suggested that we have dinner.”

“Stan’s a good man. Solid. He’s always loved her.” The sad, elusive smile touched her lips. “He’s been kind to me.”