Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Back Cover Text
- Praise
- Booklist
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Quote
- Prologue
- Part One
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- Part Two
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- Part Three
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- Part Four
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- Part Five
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- Part Six
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- Part Seven
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- Part Eight
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- Part Nine
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- Part Ten
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- Part Eleven
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- Part Twelve
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- Part Thirteen
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- AUTHOR NOTE
- Reader’s Guide
- Questions for Discussion
- The Heirloom Garden
- Abby
Pam leans toward me. “I can read your mind. Want to know what I think? I think she’s just lonely. Wants someone next door in her final years. This association is filled with families. They just pass along the houses from one generation to the next. There’s no one left after her.” Pam waves her hand at me to come closer, and I lean in even farther. “She has final approval on who rents this house,” Pam whispers, even more softly.
“You’ve met her, then?” I ask. “What’s she like?”
“Not exactly,” Pam says. “We communicate only via email.” She stops. “Sometimes she’ll just leave a note in the wreath on the door of her fence. It’s written in longhand on a yellow sheet of paper, like they used back in the olden days.” Pam stops again. “She’s turned down a half dozen other renters. She’ll just write ‘No!’ on a piece of paper after I’ve shown the listing. I don’t how she knows since she never leaves her property. She’s like a spy. Personally, I think she’s holding out for a young family. I think it’s pretty black-and-white.”
Her words ring in my ears.
I’ve always thought it must be a blessing to see life in black or white. It must be easier if things are cut-and-dried. If emotion is removed. Decisions are clear-cut. Me? I’ve always seen a thousand shades of gray. And that has made for a more difficult existence.
“What brings you to Grand Haven, by the way?” Pam asks. “Did you grow up here? Do you have family here? Are you just wanting to spend a summer with your family near the water?” She stops and looks at me with great concern, before lowering her voice. “I could certainly understand if that were the case.”
“No, no, no,” I stammer. “I grew up in Detroit.”
How do I explain? I think. Why do I have to explain? I’m too tired to explain anymore.
A buzzing sound grows in my ears, as if cicadas have nested inside my head. The world tilts like an old Batman episode and all its color—the American flag, the brown bungalow, the blue sky, the red tree, Pam’s pink lip gloss—turns black-and-white.
“I got a job offer,” I continue.
“But,” Pam starts, “your husband...”
“Oh,” I stammer again. “He...uh... He’s back from the war.”
“What a blessing!” Pam cries. “I didn’t realize. I thought he was—”
She stops short.
Dead? I want to ask. He is. Just not literally.
“Goodness,” Pam says in a too-chipper tone. “Why didn’t you say so?”