Life and Other Inconveniences(45)

We all have our issues, I knew. Being left was mine.

I needed a hobby while I was here. I only had twelve clients a week. Maybe I needed another job. Maybe the grocery store was hiring.

Maybe Pop would want to have lunch with me in town. He and I always had a vegetable garden, a really big one that took up about half of the backyard, and I missed digging and staking tomatoes. Oh, man, the tomatoes were so good. On Sundays in the summer, we’d make tomato sandwiches with Miracle Whip. Don’t judge—in the Midwest, Miracle Whip is used in 90 percent of all recipes. We’d sit there, the three of us, and Pop and I would have a beer, the sound of lawn mowers and music filtering in from the street.

He’d been awfully good to come here with me. Then again, he was the best man in the world. He never talked about my mom—his only child—but when Riley was born, and he saw the glow of her hair, his eyes welled up, and he kissed her head so gently. He’d come over for lunch the other day to see Riley and me and to exchange jabs with Genevieve.

I took out my phone and called him. “Hey, you want to grab lunch today, Pop?”

“I can’t, honey. I’m a little busy.”

“Doing what?”

“None of your business, that’s what. How about dinner? I’ll cook for you.”

“Dinner would be great.” Better than eating here under the baleful gaze of Helga.

“Six o’clock?”

“Sounds perfect. See you then, Pop.”

So. Still nothing to do. I could swim in the pool, except I didn’t want to. Genevieve would inevitably hear about it from Helga, and later make some snide comment about my workload, or my use of the pool, or how there were bathing suits designed for chubby women.

I knew what I’d do. I’d start a vegetable garden. I’d passed Gordon’s Nursery the other day when I took a drive, and I could buy some tomatoes and basil, peppers and parsley. Genevieve had more than enough room, and it would give Pop and me something to do here.

I went outside into Sheerwater’s impressively landscaped backyard. The scent of wisteria and lilacs was thick in the air, and the wind was strong enough to make the flagpole rope twang against the metal pole, making me glad I wore a cotton sweater and jeans. A rabbit hopped along the base of the stone wall, where there were two Adirondack chairs overlooking the sea.

I couldn’t make the garden too close to the house, because Genevieve would think it was very déclassé to be growing one’s own food. Roses, yes. Beans, never. Still, she had ten acres. I’d scout a location.

I went to the gardening shed and got a shovel, then continued past the pool, which had been upgraded from the aquamarine of my childhood to some dark gray stone. I walked through the gate on the west side, into the wilder part of Genevieve’s land, where the pine trees grew and the towering rocks were covered with moss. I used to play here, making fairy houses or pretending that I was a baby wolf. Then Genevieve found me and scared the life out of me with tales of people who took children, or children who got lost or fell into the sea and drowned, or children who had fallen and hit their heads and were now brain damaged.

So. My love of the forested part of Sheerwater ended, until I was sixteen, and Jason and I would come out here and look at the stars and kiss, the slippery fabric of a sleeping bag underneath us, our breathing shallow, our bodies pressing against each other’s.

Those were happy, horny times. Maybe the time when I felt most secure, in some ways. Secure that Jason loved me, which he had. Secure that even if Genevieve didn’t, she put up with me and would continue to do so. Secure in my future, which, though blurry at that time, seemed drenched in sunshine.

God laughs, as they say.

The pine needles crunched gently underfoot, and a blue jay announced my presence to the other wildlife. The sun was warm on my hair, and I was abruptly aware of how stinkin’ beautiful it was here. As a state, Connecticut never got its fair share of love from outsiders, but those of us who lived here kind of preferred it that way.

There. A sunny spot on the eastern side of the point, where there was an open space in the trees. It would get plenty of light but be safe from the harsh afternoon sun in high summer. I’d grow tomatoes that smelled earthy and warm, and even Genevieve wouldn’t be able to resist them. Peas and basil and parsley. Maybe even mint for her to put in a pitcher of ice water, the only thing she drank other than booze and coffee.

Then again, Genevieve might be dead by high summer.

I wish she’d let me talk to her doctor. I’d snoop, but I was a healthcare professional, too, and I’d never be able to violate HIPAA. Still, my grandmother allegedly wanted me here to take care of her and do my duty; if she wouldn’t tell me what that was, it was going to be harder.

I set my shovel to the ground and shoved it into the dirt, which was soft and yielding.

“What are you doing?” came a voice, and I shrieked a little. “Stop it! Jesus!”

A man stood behind me.

“Who are you?” I asked, my hands gripping the shovel. “This is private property.” Did I have my phone? Should I call 911?

“Who are you?” he demanded. “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I live here.”

“No, you don’t.”

He looked . . . familiar. Then again, I’d grown up here, so a lot of people looked familiar. But wait. I knew him. “Miller?”