The
sun of the early April day shone in a cloudless sky. Yesterday’s rain had left
the ground moist and easy for digging. Daffodils and tulips added color to the
scene and delight to my spirits. I knelt beside one of the mint patches and
loosened the soil around the emerging shoots. Soon the numerous varieties would
be high and provide leaves for drying and blending into teas. This year, I
planned to use green tea as a base in some of the blends.
I
pulled weeds, then sank back to admire my work. My Maine Coon cat lay beside
the gardening mat. With a boneless movement, Robespierre stretched. I sighed
with envy and wished I had his supple spine. He ambled toward the car pulling
into the driveway.
Jenna
Taylor, one of my first floor tenants, slid from the red hatchback and waved. “Hi,
Mrs. Miller.”
I
rose and gathered my tools. “How was class?”
She
grinned. “Thanks for your help on the Psych paper. Got an A.”
“I’m
proud of you.”
Her
hazel eyes filled with sadness. “You’re the only one.” She took the basket and
carried it to the porch of my “Painted Lady.”
The
Victorian house I’d lived in since my dead husband and I had settled in this
I
paused at the foot of the steps. “Why don’t you call your grandmother? I’m sure
she’d be glad to see you and as proud of your accomplishments as I am.”
She
shook her head. “And bring my problems with my uncle on her head? He hated my
mother. After my dad died, Mom asked him for help and he refused.” Tears
glittered in her eyes. “You should have heard the things he accused me of after
my cousin’s death. I’m better off staying away from family.”
I
touched her hand. “The accident was five years ago. Surely he’s over the loss
by now.”
She
combed her fingers through her short honey blonde hair. “He never forgives or
forgets.” She handed me the basket. “Have to change for work. See you
tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,”
I echoed and followed her inside. Robespierre trailed me upstairs. There, I
spilled a little food in his dish. He thinks he should be fed every time he
returns from outside. I always indulge him by adding a few dry tidbits.
I
put the kettle on. I hurt for Jenna. She’d seen more tragedy in twenty-three
years than anyone should bear. Her father’s death, her mother’s alcoholism and
series of abusive relationships. Orphaned at fourteen, she’d gone to live with
her grandmother. Three years later, there’d been the accident and her cousin
had died. For some reason I hadn’t learned until recently, Jenna had become a
runaway.
My Places
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http://wwweclecticwriter.blogspot.com
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https://bookswelove.net/walters-janet-lane/
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