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 soul 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.
In January, I learned from an acquaintance who taught at
the college that Jenna had enrolled as a student and was looking for an
apartment. When she was a child, I’d
felt sorry for her and angry about the way her uncle had treated her. I offered her the first floor apartment at a
reduced rate and had signed a lease with the girls. Over the past few months, Jenna and I have
become friends.
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