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there in the dirt, listening. This was where Lyra had let herself think about her daughters most: outdoors, in the garden. For some reason, she could bear it here in a way she couldn’t in the house.
    Lyra pushed her wheelbarrow through a white gate set between stone posts. She had planted many flower beds on her property.
    “That’s how you’ll learn,” Christina once said. “Hibiscus and roses overwhelm each other; larkspur and delphinium are rich and delicate blue; use orange blossoms for scent, lavender for comfort. Finding out what pleases you will help when you start designing gardens for others.”
    Her landscape design business had started right here, during conversations with Christina.
    Lyra set a small suede cushion on the wet grass; it had been her friend’s, and made her feel close to her now. Kneeling, she used small clippers to cut through a tangle of overgrown coreopsis. She felt cool dew on the tough stems, smelled the freshness of early summer, tasted salt in the morning mist, heard finches singing wildly in the trees. The yellow flowers soothed her spirit. Every color in the garden came with a feeling that touched her soul.
    Working intently now, she didn’t hear the footsteps until Pell was standing right beside her.
    “Good morning, Mom,” Pell said.
    “Hi, Pell,” Lyra said. “You found me.”
    “Followed your footsteps in the dew. You’re gardening?”
    “Yes,” Lyra said.
    “I thought you had a gardener.”
    “No, I do it all myself. I garden for others, as well….”
    “You mean you work?”
    Lyra nodded. She saw the shock in Pell’s face.
    “People do work,” Lyra said.
    “Well, I know I’m going to,” Pell said. “It’s just that I thought you …”
    “Were a spoiled socialite?” Lyra asked.
    A slow smile came to Pell’s face. “I didn’t say that,” she said.
    “I guess there are a few things we have to learn about each other,” Lyra said.
    “Yes, there are,” Pell said.
    Lyra pushed herself off her knees, stood beside her daughter.
    Christina had been Lyra’s mentor; she’d mothered her in ways her own mother never had. Max was a love, endlessly supportive, but her relationship with him was different. Lyra had gotten pure, hands-on maternal care from her wonderful, beloved neighbor Christina; she missed her friend so much, and felt she needed her right now, to guide her with Pell.
    “Who is C.G.?” Pell asked, gesturing at the initials on the worn suede pillow.
    “Christina, Max’s wife.”
    “She lets you use it?”
    “Well, she gave it to me,” Lyra said. “Before she died.”
    Pell watched Lyra with solemn eyes, registering the still-present grief.
    “I’m sorry,” Pell said. She reached for her mother’s hand, held it warmly. Lyra teared up—she didn’t back away; she let the feeling of closeness grow and knew it was because Christina had taught her how.
    “Thank you,” Lyra said. “She was a wonderful friend. I wish you could have known her. She heard a lot about you.”
    “You talked about us?” Pell asked.
    “I did,” Lyra said.
    “When did she die?” Pell asked.
    “Two years ago,” Lyra said. “She developed Alzheimer’s … her mind started going, and it was really hard to watch. She was such an amazing woman.”
    At that, Pell pulled her hand away. Sharply, and with a sudden, cold look in her eyes. She stared down at the pile of clippings, stems and brown leaves, as if the garden had disappeared and all that was left was detritus, dead flowers.
    “What’s the matter?” Lyra asked, reaching for her.
    “It was like that with Dad,” Pell said. “After the brain tumor. He’d ask for a glass of sunshine when he meant water. He forgot our names.”
    “Oh, Pell …”
    “Couldn’t remember my name was Pell, and Lucy’s was Lucy, just couldn’t bring them into his mind. He cried because he’d lost our names.”
    Pell’s eyes filled, as if remembering her father’s tears.
    “I’m so sorry,” Lyra said.
    “You