but Sandy’s got to be here.”
Alice shook her head. “Waste of a trip, if you ask me.”
Annie knocked again, and the sound seemed loud inside the apparently empty house. “You stay here in case she comes to the door. I’m going to look around a little bit.” She went down the steps and made her way around to the side of the house, answering Alice’s protests with just a smile and a little wave.
Someone here certainly loved the garden. Even though it was all falling asleep in preparation for winter, it was obvious that the grounds were carefully tended. Here in the back, the daylilies, phlox, lupines, bleeding hearts, and all the others must make a perfect riot of glorious color come springtime.
Annie wandered down the flagstone path, admiring the well-maintained trees and shrubs, and the picturesque layout of the garden. It hadn’t been this way when she was here with Susan. At least she didn’t remember it this way. Susan had had a little patch of flowers that she enjoyed looking after. In fact, she had been quite particular about keeping it just so, but her parents had been too busy to do much more than keep their yard presentable. Susan would have liked it the way it was now.
The yard was very large, stretching back to the woods and the creek that lay beyond. Annie drifted toward the farthest part of it, toward the little plot that was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. She remembered that fence, black and rusted in places, each picket with a spike finial on the end of it, discouraging climbing. It wasn’t a high fence, but it was enough. She and Susan hadn’t been brave enough to explore the little family cemetery back when they were girls.
Annie unlatched the gate and opened it, smiling at the protesting shriek it made. There was no doubt that, thirty years ago, the sound would have been enough to send her and Susan both scurrying back to the house with shrieks that were only half in fun.
She scanned the markers, picking out dates, calculating the ages of those who had died. Eli Morris, 1811. That was the oldest one she saw. There wasn’t another date to tell her when this Eli Morris had been born, so she didn’t know if he had died old or young, but there were others in both categories among the dozen or so graves. Most of them had been Morrises, but she also saw headstones marked Stanley and Childress and Marquette. It wasn’t a large plot, just enough to be shaded by a pair of large maple trees, but there was something stately and serene about it.
Most of the burials seemed to have been in the nineteenth century or very early in the twentieth, but there was one from 1955, obviously the widow of a man who had passed away in 1908, and who had finally been laid to rest at his side. At the farthest corner of the enclosure, Annie noticed one large stone that was newer than the rest. It was dated 1989.
Ellen Patricia and Jack Lawson Morris.
Susan’s parents were buried here. Too bad there wasn’t a marker for Susan herself. Annie decided that, if she ever called him again, she’d ask Archer Prescott if there was a memorial for Susan somewhere. Maybe he had arranged something. Someone should have.
With a sigh, she went back to the iron gate. Alice would have search parties out looking for her if she didn’t get back to business pretty soon. Just as she lifted the latch, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Someone was over in the trees between her and the house. She could see a hint of pink and yellow behind the greens and browns.
“Hello?”
There was no reply, and Annie took a few quick steps forward.
“Hello? Mrs. Maxwell?”
For another moment, there was only silent stillness; then a woman stepped out of the trees and onto the flagstone path. Her dark hair was gathered into a short little ponytail, and she wore a gardening smock covered with roses, bright pink and yellow.
“Did you want something?”
She put up her hand, shading her eyes from the sun, not
Alice shook her head. “Waste of a trip, if you ask me.”
Annie knocked again, and the sound seemed loud inside the apparently empty house. “You stay here in case she comes to the door. I’m going to look around a little bit.” She went down the steps and made her way around to the side of the house, answering Alice’s protests with just a smile and a little wave.
Someone here certainly loved the garden. Even though it was all falling asleep in preparation for winter, it was obvious that the grounds were carefully tended. Here in the back, the daylilies, phlox, lupines, bleeding hearts, and all the others must make a perfect riot of glorious color come springtime.
Annie wandered down the flagstone path, admiring the well-maintained trees and shrubs, and the picturesque layout of the garden. It hadn’t been this way when she was here with Susan. At least she didn’t remember it this way. Susan had had a little patch of flowers that she enjoyed looking after. In fact, she had been quite particular about keeping it just so, but her parents had been too busy to do much more than keep their yard presentable. Susan would have liked it the way it was now.
The yard was very large, stretching back to the woods and the creek that lay beyond. Annie drifted toward the farthest part of it, toward the little plot that was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. She remembered that fence, black and rusted in places, each picket with a spike finial on the end of it, discouraging climbing. It wasn’t a high fence, but it was enough. She and Susan hadn’t been brave enough to explore the little family cemetery back when they were girls.
Annie unlatched the gate and opened it, smiling at the protesting shriek it made. There was no doubt that, thirty years ago, the sound would have been enough to send her and Susan both scurrying back to the house with shrieks that were only half in fun.
She scanned the markers, picking out dates, calculating the ages of those who had died. Eli Morris, 1811. That was the oldest one she saw. There wasn’t another date to tell her when this Eli Morris had been born, so she didn’t know if he had died old or young, but there were others in both categories among the dozen or so graves. Most of them had been Morrises, but she also saw headstones marked Stanley and Childress and Marquette. It wasn’t a large plot, just enough to be shaded by a pair of large maple trees, but there was something stately and serene about it.
Most of the burials seemed to have been in the nineteenth century or very early in the twentieth, but there was one from 1955, obviously the widow of a man who had passed away in 1908, and who had finally been laid to rest at his side. At the farthest corner of the enclosure, Annie noticed one large stone that was newer than the rest. It was dated 1989.
Ellen Patricia and Jack Lawson Morris.
Susan’s parents were buried here. Too bad there wasn’t a marker for Susan herself. Annie decided that, if she ever called him again, she’d ask Archer Prescott if there was a memorial for Susan somewhere. Maybe he had arranged something. Someone should have.
With a sigh, she went back to the iron gate. Alice would have search parties out looking for her if she didn’t get back to business pretty soon. Just as she lifted the latch, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Someone was over in the trees between her and the house. She could see a hint of pink and yellow behind the greens and browns.
“Hello?”
There was no reply, and Annie took a few quick steps forward.
“Hello? Mrs. Maxwell?”
For another moment, there was only silent stillness; then a woman stepped out of the trees and onto the flagstone path. Her dark hair was gathered into a short little ponytail, and she wore a gardening smock covered with roses, bright pink and yellow.
“Did you want something?”
She put up her hand, shading her eyes from the sun, not
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