Falling into Place by Stephanie Greene

blazer and polka-dot bow tie. He gave a courtly little bow. “How do you do? I’m Roland Whiting.”
    â€œHow do you do, Mr. Whiting,” Gran said pleasantly. She raised her chin defiantly. “How do you like it?”
    â€œI think it’s magnificent, although I’m not sure what the rest of the Steering Committee is going to say.
    â€œI think it’s wonderful, Roland.” Mrs. Tudley came up to them and slipped her arm through Roy’s. “I don’t care what the Steering Committee says. It did my heart good, seeing Mrs. Mack’s door this afternoon. I think we should all paint our doors different colors. We could make a poster, like the one they have of the doors of Dublin, Ireland.” She beamed around the circle at them all. “We could call it The Doors of Carol Woods.”
    â€œWe might even sell it for our fundraiser for the community garden,” said Mr. Whiting. “We still need money for a water line.”
    â€œA community garden?” said Gran. There were red spots on both her cheeks.
    â€œRoland has been fighting for one for more than a year,” said Mrs. Nightingale. “You wouldn’t believe what he’s up against. He’s had a lot of opposition, but I do think he’s worn them down.”
    â€œThere’s an empty lot on Jasmine Street,” Mr. Whiting told Gran. “We want to turn it into a garden where any resident who is interested can have a space and share water.” He looked wistful. “I haven’t been able to grow my Jerusalem artichokes since I moved here.”
    â€œI have an old rototiller I’d be happy to share,” said Gran. “Perhaps we could build a small shed to store things in so everyone could use them.”
    â€œTubby wore a hat just like that,” said Mrs. Tudley, patting Roy’s arm. She held her hand out to Gran. “I’m Nelly Tudley, Mrs. Mack. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    â€œIt’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” said Gran. “You made quite an impression on my grandchildren.”
    It was like watching a play, Margaret thought contentedly. Everyone was saying the right things. Everyone was being polite.
    Dominoes, she thought suddenly, falling into place.
    â€œYou must be thirsty, Mrs. Nightingale.” Gran took control in her reassuring, brisk way. “Why don’t we all go back to my house for that party?” She put her arm around Margaret’s shoulders. “Mr. Whiting? I believe you’re going to join us?”
    â€œWhy, thank you, Mrs. Mack. I might stop by my house and collect my accordion, if it’s all right with you. Maybe Agatha will favor us with another song. Agatha?” He held out his elbow. “Has anyone ever told you, you sing like a nightingale?”
    â€œOh, all the time, Mr. Whiting,” she said, winking at Margaret and Roy. “All the time.”
    â€¦
    The party was a huge success. By the time the guests left, Roy was half-asleep on the couch. Margaret followed Gran into the kitchen with a dirty glass in each hand. “I think Mr. Whiting has a crush on Mrs. Nightingale, don’t you?”
    â€œI don’t see why not,” said Gran. “It’s a good thing she stopped him, though. He would have played all night. Put those in the dishwasher, Margaret. We’ll worry about the rest in the morning.”
    â€œIs anybody home?”
    â€œDad!” Margaret didn’t even think about it. She ran to the front door, threw her arms around his waist, and pressed her face into his chest. She squeezed her eyes shut against a rush of sudden tears. She had never been more glad to see anyone.
    â€œWho have we here?” he said, holding her away from him to get a good look. “This glamorous lady is my daughter?”
    â€œOh, Dad.” She felt ridiculously pleased. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œI brought you a