on that. She’d bustle from room to room with a wad of dust rags and a can of lemon-scented polish, spraying and swiping, making everything gleam and smell great.
Sheryl would want you to dust the den,
he assures himself.
Yes, but not for the reason he’s so eager to dust the den on this particular morning.
It happens to be the only room in the house—aside from Ben’s room upstairs, where Ben just retreated after returning from his morning run—with windows that look directly over the old Duckworth place.
Rather, the new Addams place.
Yes, Sam is hoping to catch a glimpse of Meg again, somewhere other than in his own head. Last night was a restless one, and not just because he never sleeps well when one of the kids isn’t tucked safely under his roof.
But when he finally did doze off, he dreamed of Meg.
Of kissing her, and…
More.
He woke up predawn feeling like a teenaged boy again: incredibly turned on by an erotic dream and frustrated as hell to realize that it wasn’t real.
With a jingling of dog tags and toenails tapping on the hardwoods, Rover materializes in the kitchen.
“Good morning, boy.” Sam reaches over to pet his head. “Hungry?”
Rover nods.
Well, not really. But master and mutt have been a team long enough for Sam easily to interpret the dog’s needs.
He opens a can of Alpo, fills Rover’s bowl, and sets it on the floor. “There you go, pal. Knock yourself out.”
The dog fed, he remembers to turn his attention to filling a plastic cup to water the potted geranium on the windowsill. He bought the plant at the nursery on Mother’s Day, when he took the kids to buy flowers for the cemetery.
When Sheryl was alive, they did that at his mother-in-law’s grave every Mother’s Day. Devoted daughter, devoted gardener, Sheryl would kneel in the dirt beside the granite headstone, crying and digging with her trowel as Sam and the kids and her father stood by helplessly. When she was finished, the bare earth was transformed into a blooming landscape; purged of her grief, Sheryl would brush herself off and move on.
Sam knew he had to take over the yearly ritual on her behalf, and he does. On the second weekend of May every year, he and the kids and his father-in-law cry and dig and plant. It’s cathartic.
And every year, Sam buys an extra large geranium to brighten the kitchen window, the way Sheryl always did.
He’s no gardener, but he’s learning. He had to.
He still remembers the day they were packing to move here and Katie, sobbing hysterically, came to him carrying a clay pot filled with dusty clumps of dirt and a withered brown stalk.
It was the miniature rose she had proudly given to Sheryl for her birthday the month before she died. Then, it was covered in shiny foliage and delicate pink blooms. Sheryl tended to it daily.
Sam never even thought to water it after she died. It was all he could do to keep getting up in the morning with the kids, keep them fed and clothed, keep helping them with their homework and filling out the endless backpack paperwork, keep putting one foot in front of the other.
That was then.
These days, he has all that other stuff down pat. And he remembers to water the geranium on the windowsill a couple of times a week. No more, no less.
Ironically, the first year, he watered the geranium every day and watched the velvety leaves turn yellow, curl, and drop. Concerned, he watered it twice a day. It died anyway.
It turned out he had drowned them; the nice lady at the nursery—who fondly remembered Sheryl and always smiled sadly at the kids—told him geraniums don’t like to be soaked.
“Why don’t you try a different kind of plant for your windowsill?” she suggested. “We have some nice low-maintenance Melampodium over here…”
Low-maintenance.
She didn’t think he could do it.
He was determined to prove her—to prove everyone—wrong.
It had to be geraniums.
It hasn’t been easy to get it right: to water them just enough
Sheryl would want you to dust the den,
he assures himself.
Yes, but not for the reason he’s so eager to dust the den on this particular morning.
It happens to be the only room in the house—aside from Ben’s room upstairs, where Ben just retreated after returning from his morning run—with windows that look directly over the old Duckworth place.
Rather, the new Addams place.
Yes, Sam is hoping to catch a glimpse of Meg again, somewhere other than in his own head. Last night was a restless one, and not just because he never sleeps well when one of the kids isn’t tucked safely under his roof.
But when he finally did doze off, he dreamed of Meg.
Of kissing her, and…
More.
He woke up predawn feeling like a teenaged boy again: incredibly turned on by an erotic dream and frustrated as hell to realize that it wasn’t real.
With a jingling of dog tags and toenails tapping on the hardwoods, Rover materializes in the kitchen.
“Good morning, boy.” Sam reaches over to pet his head. “Hungry?”
Rover nods.
Well, not really. But master and mutt have been a team long enough for Sam easily to interpret the dog’s needs.
He opens a can of Alpo, fills Rover’s bowl, and sets it on the floor. “There you go, pal. Knock yourself out.”
The dog fed, he remembers to turn his attention to filling a plastic cup to water the potted geranium on the windowsill. He bought the plant at the nursery on Mother’s Day, when he took the kids to buy flowers for the cemetery.
When Sheryl was alive, they did that at his mother-in-law’s grave every Mother’s Day. Devoted daughter, devoted gardener, Sheryl would kneel in the dirt beside the granite headstone, crying and digging with her trowel as Sam and the kids and her father stood by helplessly. When she was finished, the bare earth was transformed into a blooming landscape; purged of her grief, Sheryl would brush herself off and move on.
Sam knew he had to take over the yearly ritual on her behalf, and he does. On the second weekend of May every year, he and the kids and his father-in-law cry and dig and plant. It’s cathartic.
And every year, Sam buys an extra large geranium to brighten the kitchen window, the way Sheryl always did.
He’s no gardener, but he’s learning. He had to.
He still remembers the day they were packing to move here and Katie, sobbing hysterically, came to him carrying a clay pot filled with dusty clumps of dirt and a withered brown stalk.
It was the miniature rose she had proudly given to Sheryl for her birthday the month before she died. Then, it was covered in shiny foliage and delicate pink blooms. Sheryl tended to it daily.
Sam never even thought to water it after she died. It was all he could do to keep getting up in the morning with the kids, keep them fed and clothed, keep helping them with their homework and filling out the endless backpack paperwork, keep putting one foot in front of the other.
That was then.
These days, he has all that other stuff down pat. And he remembers to water the geranium on the windowsill a couple of times a week. No more, no less.
Ironically, the first year, he watered the geranium every day and watched the velvety leaves turn yellow, curl, and drop. Concerned, he watered it twice a day. It died anyway.
It turned out he had drowned them; the nice lady at the nursery—who fondly remembered Sheryl and always smiled sadly at the kids—told him geraniums don’t like to be soaked.
“Why don’t you try a different kind of plant for your windowsill?” she suggested. “We have some nice low-maintenance Melampodium over here…”
Low-maintenance.
She didn’t think he could do it.
He was determined to prove her—to prove everyone—wrong.
It had to be geraniums.
It hasn’t been easy to get it right: to water them just enough
Similar Books
