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happen, if Avery decides to accept Landscape Garden’s most generous offer.”
    Her words threw the table into stunned silence. The Secret Garden had been in the Matthews family for generations. The mere idea that it be sold—and to an impersonal corporate chain such as Landscape Gardens—was dumbfounding.
    Elsie broke the silence. Slamming her spoon down, she bit out through clenched teeth, “I’m sorry, did I hear you correctly? Are you considering selling the Garden?”
    Avery opened his mouth, but it was Roni who answered. “Well, yes, Elsie, we are.” She leaned in close to Avery and slid her arm under his. Avery shifted uncomfortably. “After Avery’s dreadful stroke, I thought it best that he concentrate on enjoying life rather than working so much. With this wonderful offer we could retire, travel, take it easy.”
    Elsie fixed her daughter-in-law with a glacial smile. “I wasn’t aware that you
were
working, dear.”
    Roni fixed Elsie with a frosty smile of her own. “I just want what’s best for Avery.”
    David for once was at a loss for words. Finally, he found his voice. “Selling to Landscape Gardens?” he exclaimed, his usually florid cheeks pale. “But you can’t do that!”
    Avery cleared his throat and spoke up. “This is all premature, I promise you. We haven’t made
any
decisions yet.”He shot Roni a quelling look. “And whatever we do decide, we’ll do so as a family.”
    David was not mollified. He smashed his fist angrily on the table, causing both me and the silverware to jump. “You simply can’t sell the Garden. It’s preposterous!” he boomed. David’s devotion to the Matthewses’ business might have been more touching were it not for the fact that he was virtually unemployable anywhere else. David held his cushy job as vice president of marketing only because he was married to Claire. He might have been an idiot, but he wasn’t so big an idiot that he didn’t realize this simple fact. Claire said something to him under her breath, no doubt trying to calm his temper. For once, he seemed to listen to her. Taking a deep breath, he ran his large hand through his goopy hair. “Besides,” he said in a more sedate tone, “you know what they say about getting back to work—sometimes it’s the best thing for a recovery!”
    Roni brushed aside these words with a lofty wave of her bright pink manicured fingers. The small movement sent a wave of Roni’s trademark perfume across the table—a cloyingly floral scent Bridget referred to as Nauseating Narcissus. If Roni was aware of the mounting tension around her, she did a fine job hiding it. “Oh,
they
,” she said, snorting dismissively. “I’m so sick of hearing people quote what
they
say.
They
say all sorts of things that we really have no way of proving. For instance,
they
say that dogs can only see in black and white. But really, how do they know?”
    Roni’s daughter, Megan, blinked and, turtlelike, raised her head from her salmon. “Dogs
can’t
see in color, Mother,” she said.
    Megan was Roni’s daughter from a previous marriage. At seventeen, she was everything her mother was not, which, to paraphrase Jane Austen, was enough to alone recommend her. She had blotchy skin and limp nut-brown hair and was what is politely termed a “full-figured girl.” Megan also differed from Roni in that she was both smart and nice. But those traits are rarely consolation to an awkward teenager, especially to one with a mother like Roni.
    Roni looked disdainfully at her daughter. “And how do you know that? Did you ever ask one?” Roni glanced coquettishly at the rest of us while she giggled appreciatively at her own cleverness.
    “No,” Megan said, unfazed by—or simply used to—her mother’s condescension. “Their eyes don’t have rods or cones. Rods and cones enable sight in color.” She looked back at her salmon and took a bite.
    Roni stared at her daughter for a moment, an ugly red blush staining her perfect