The Truth about Us by Janet Gurtler Page A

and miss it.
    â€œYeah? Well, you throw like a girl,” Wilf says.
    â€œTell that to Anne Donovan.”
    â€œWho?”
    With hands on my hips, I glare at him. “Only the best former female basketball player and U.S. Olympic coach.”
    He shrugs. “I only pay attention to hockey and football.”
    â€œThat explains a lot,” I tell him and then smile. “I only know her name because my sister played basketball all through high school.” I walk over to the wash cloth, pick it up from the floor, and drop it in the soapy bucket. “I’m not a big sports fan.”
    â€œI will forgive you,” Wilf says. “But admit it, you missed me today.”
    â€œI’m ashamed,” I tell him. “I may have. You’ve crawled under my skin. Like a tick.”
    His grin is contagious. My bad mood fades.
    â€œI’m not nearly as irritating as a tick. Compare me to something nicer next time.” He spins on his heels and starts to walk away. Then he glances at me over his shoulder. “You coming to the greenhouse or not?”
    I catch up to him, and we walk through the kitchen together. “Where were you?” I ask.
    â€œDamn doctor’s appointment. Doctor was running behind. Over an hour.” He shakes his head. “And of course I’m tired. There’s a reason old men get grouchy and not being able to sleep is one of them.”
    â€œI heard there’s Viagra for the other reason,” I tell him.
    Sunny is putting away dishes, and she shakes her head as we walk by.
    Wilf nods at her and turns to me with a scowl. “Disrespectful. That’s what you are.” He glares at me. “Aren’t you about thirteen? You talk like a trucker.”
    â€œSeventeen,” I say. Thirteen. Funny. Not. He holds the door outside open for me.
    â€œYoung enough not to talk to your elders like that.” He doesn’t crack a smile, but I’m learning when he’s grouchy for show or grouchy for real. So far so good.
    â€œIt’s okay to like the ladies,” I tell him. “You’re still kind of handsome, for an old guy. You’ve got some hair. And great glasses. A catch.”
    â€œYou never met my Rhea,” he says. “Or else you wouldn’t even suggest that.”
    We walk outside, and I close my mouth. Now he’s serious. “Sorry. Teasing. I would have loved to have known her.” I reach out and touch his hand. The skin on his wrist is thin and spotted. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
    â€œHumph,” he says as we walk toward the greenhouse. He clears his throat and side glances, as if deciding whether to forgive me or not. “I brought in some new azaleas of Rhea’s. I put them inside the greenhouse yesterday. I want to see what you think. Maybe you can clean them up a little. You’re good at that.”
    â€œI’d love to,” I tell him and realize it’s true. Besides, over the last while, I’ve learned he’s not a natural gardener. He admitted he does it because it makes him feel closer to Rhea.
    When we get inside the greenhouse, Wilf walks slowly down the middle row. His back is stooped. I wonder what he was like when he was young. It’s hard to imagine him young.
    â€œHere. These ones.” He points out the plants he wants me to look at. I walk closer and lean in and see a little bit of azalea gall. The leaves are curled and pale. I listen while Wilf tells me a story about Rhea and the azaleas while I inspect the leaves. Some have to come off. I start pulling and check the soil for moistness.
    â€œYou need to go easier on the watering for these,” I tell him. “They need to dry out a bit.” His azaleas would do better outdoors, but I don’t tell him that, understanding why he’d want them in the greenhouse.
    While I’m working on the plants, Wilf gets out a spray bottle from the supply cupboard and squirts a nearby