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Or at least fake
it. “Look. My business is thriving, so why gamble? You have to dig
in, hold on, because in twenty-four hours your whole life can come crashing
down. One afternoon you’re plowing along I-40, late for school pickup, when your
husband draws alongside in his MGB, laughs—” Tilly stumbled over her most
precious memory “—blows you a kiss and speeds out of your life. Twelve hours
later you’re watching him die from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, a hereditary
heart condition no one in his family has heard of.”
    Not just watching him die, letting him
die.
    Tilly ground her fist into the pain spiking out across her
forehead. Silence, rare in the forest, followed.
    They had reached the greenhouse and next to it, the studio,
David’s office and hallowed lair. The thick, sweet scent of wild honeysuckle hit
Tilly like a sugar rush, but it also brought the familiar letdown, the sinking
in her stomach. This place should resonate with David’s presence. Standing here,
she wanted to believe some essence of him watched her, that if she swung around
she could catch him as easily as Isaac caught fireflies. But despite the
tommyrot she encouraged their son to believe, David was nowhere. Death led to
nothing.
    Through the trees, a pair of turkey vultures tugged at the guts
of a groundhog splattered across Creeping Cedars Road. At least in nature death
led to some great, cosmic recycling of life. Roadkill became a feast, fallen
leaves nourished new growth and rotting logs became bug suburbia. Tilly stared
up at the giant oak, now a mutant thanks to the limbs the tree surgeon had
removed from one side. Despite his dire prediction that the tree was dying, it
was still home to a spectacular trumpet vine; and she would never give
permission to fell such a magnificent piece of living history. The oak was safe
on her watch, because she was just as mulish as David had been.
    Tilly smiled at her Piss Off I’m
Working sign and swung open the greenhouse door. Usually once she
stepped inside, the greenhouse worked its calming magic. With a membrane of
opaque plastic that let in only light, it was as if nothing else existed. But
today, Sari followed, filling Tilly’s hidey-hole with the powdery odor of
department store makeup halls.
    Tilly grabbed the edge of the potting sink and breathed through
her mouth.
    “Jesus.” Sari gagged. “If I were in charge, I’d rip off the
plastic and put in glass. Open the place up. I feel like I’m simmering in a
Crock-Pot.”
    Tilly carved out a dirt angel with her foot. Please, God, protect my nursery from this woman. Sari
didn’t have to like this part of the job, but she did have to come in here every
day for the next six weeks. Tilly appraised her artwork and smiled.
    “What?” Sari said. “You think it’s funny this place freaks me
out?”
    “Of course not.” Tilly looked up. “Although it’s hard to
imagine you scared of anything.”
    “You don’t think everyone has fears?”
    Tilly picked up a bundle of white plastic plant labels and put
them back down. “Okay, then. What’s the deal with you and oceans?”
    “I nearly drowned as a kid. Would’ve, too, if some stranger
hadn’t jumped in while my dad stood on the beach yelling, ‘Kick your legs.’ And
afterward all he said was, ‘You need to listen.’ Pretty rich since the bastard
couldn’t swim.”
    Bastard, never a word Tilly would
use to describe her own father, who had taught her to swim in the freezing ocean
off the Cornish Coast, his hands floating beneath her. Whole weeks went by and
she didn’t think of him, but there would always be a gap in her life where he
had stood. And, inexplicably, she thought of James Nealy’s comment about
childhoods.
    “I’m gonna get some quotes on a watering system while you’re
off playing happy families,” Sari said. “I mean, c’mon. How cost effective can
manual watering be?”
    Tilly sighed; Sari had blown the moment.
    “We’ve been over this, Sari. The electric