OUT IN THE blazing sun at eight in the morning, with temperatures already in the high seventies, Decker was kneeling in the dirt, helping his mother tend the garden. Ida Decker claimed she was only ninety-four, but certain things—like her birth certificate—didn’t quite match her avowed age. He didn’t dare challenge her. However old she was, she had the strength and the vitality of a woman years younger.

The patch wasn’t just a few beds with a couple of plants; it was rows of peppers, squash, melons, eggplants, potatoes, and tomatoes, the veggies in every shape and variety. His mom could have opened up her own farmers’ market. Decker was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, with a hat on his head for sun protection, but he was still sweating bullets. Rina was in the kitchen making preparations for tonight’s dinner. Randy and his fourth wife were coming over, and since Decker and Rina were kosher, whenever they visited, she did the cooking. Mom had accommodated them by not only supplying kosher meat but also keeping kosher pots and pans and dishes whenever they visited. Still, Rina wanted to clean the stove and oven before she cooked.

A religious Baptist, Mom had been furious when Decker had converted to Judaism. His father, Lyle, had been more accepting, but that was his style. He had been quiet and stoic, and Decker missed him terribly. He had always been closer to his father than his mother. But he gave her credit. Over time, Mom had adapted. The truth was she liked Rina way more than him. They had similar interests as well: cooking, gardening, religion—although the Gods were different—and just plain good common sense.

He stopped, picked up the garden hose, and filled a plastic cup with water. He drank with gusto. “You want some water, Mom?”

Ida looked up. “I’m fine.”

“You need to drink.”

“I’ve looked after myself for a long time, Peter. I think I can manage without your advice.” A slight smile. “I appreciate the caring.”

“Are we picking any of this for dinner?”

“Rina’s making ratatouille with the zucchini, eggplant, tomatoes, and onions.”

“Should be good. What time are Randy and Blossom coming over?”

“Around seven.”

“Nice of them to come. It’s a long drive.”

“It is,” Ida said. “He always comes over when you’re here. Just about the only time.”

“Mom, you know that’s not true. He comes at least once a month.”

“Better than you, I suppose,” she grunted.

“At least you kept one son local.”

“I blame the defection on that wife of yours.”

“Since I met Rina in Los Angeles, you must mean Jan.”

“Who else?”

“She’s a nice person, Mom. We just didn’t work out. Anyway, she gave you a wonderful granddaughter.”

“Yeah, I suppose she was worth it for Cindy.”