In contrast, Hope flitted from plant to plant like a butterfly. Linnea walked over and asked her questions about the plants, listening intently, giving the child her full attention. Hope pointed out, in a voice bubbling with excitement, each seed and flower she’d planted. The child’s garden was a mishmash of a few potted annuals—colorful zinnias and marigolds—and two crooked rows of radishes, spinach, and lettuce seeds. Linnea took a photo of the little finger indentations in the tilled soil for Cara.
Emmi came closer, beaming with pride. “She’s a natural.” In a lower voice, she added, “Those are seeds that grow fast for impatient children.”
“And look!” Hope called out, running to the flagstone patio on the opposite side of the garden. “A pond!”
Emmi’s voice rose with excitement to match the child’s. “We’re building a small koi pond. I’ve always wanted one, and John offered to build it for me. It’s a work in progress.”
Linnea saw the kidney-shaped hole dug into the ground, and beside it, liner and equipment. Listening to Emmi describe the project, Linnea couldn’t tell which thrilled her more—the fact that she was getting a pond, or that her son was building it for her.
“How’s John doing?” she asked.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” asked Emmi.
Linnea’s heart began to pound and she searched the garden. “Why? Is he out here?”
“He was, earlier this morning.”
“He’s out of quarantine?”
“At last. What a relief he didn’t have any symptoms. Not like poor David. We have him in our prayers.”
“Poor Hope. She’s anxious to get home. Who knows how long it will be now?”
“And Cooper! Doesn’t he get home today?”
“Yes, thank God. Daddy got him a seat on the earliest plane he could. He’s gone directly into quarantine at home, so I can’t see him. But I received a text that the package has been delivered.” She chuckled. “Mama is over the moon, as you can imagine. She’s been baking and cooking for days. I’m hoping she’ll bring leftovers here.”
“So, the Rutledge family is back together.”
“Yes, if we can ever gather in a room together again,” Linnea said wryly.
The sound of a car pulling in, followed by two short beeps of the horn, had them turning their heads.
“You’ve got company,” said Emmi, looking over her shoulder into Linnea’s driveway.
“That must be Annabelle. She’s moving into the house today.” Linnea felt spurred to movement. “Do me a favor? Corral that puppy in her crate. I’ve got to welcome her.”
“Child, I can’t keep up with your goings-on!” Emmi called after her as she hurried out of the garden.
“You’re here!” Linnea called out when she saw Annabelle climb from her Subaru. Her tall, lanky figure was clad in somber brown pants that clung to her long legs, a black T-shirt under a torn jeans jacket, and brown ankle boots. A far cry from the denim shorts and 1940s-era red-and-white-checked shirt that Linnea had on. Annabelle’s red hair was bound up in a messy bun and, her hands filled with a pot of trailing vine, she kicked the door shut with her boot. The door of the old green car creaked loudly and didn’t quite close.
Annabelle turned at the sound of her voice and peered at Linnea through large aviator sunglasses. “Ready or not, here I come.”
“Welcome,” she called, hands out to assist her friend. From the corner of her eye she spied Hope running from the garden.
“Incoming,” Annabelle said wryly as she handed the plant to Linnea.
Hope careened to a stop beside Linnea and looked at Annabelle in a proprietary way. “Who are you?”
Annabelle, Linnea quickly discovered, treated children as she did adults. She crossed her arms, gave Hope a cool once-over, and replied, “I’m Annabelle. Who are you?”
Hope lifted her chin. “I’m Hope Rutledge-Wyatt. I live here.”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve come to live here too,” Annabelle replied in a serious tone.
“Oh. Then you must be Linnea’s friend. From the aquarium.”
“I am.” Annabelle pointed to Hope’s cheek. “You’ve got a little something there.”
Hope reached up and only smeared more dirt on her face. “Here?”
Annabelle smirked. “Yeah. Nailed it.”
“Let’s bring all your stuff in,” Linnea said. Stepping closer, she peered into the car. There was a bag of groceries, a potted fig tree and a few other small plants, and a single carry-on bag. “Is this all you have?”
“There’s also a bunch of stuff in the trunk,” Annabelle said, walking toward it. She pushed a button and lifted the lid. Inside was one very large, very old suitcase, an open basket filled with shoes, another filled with makeup, and a large black plastic bag stuffed to bursting. It looked like she’d tossed everything she had into baskets and bags.
“I put my furniture and stuff in storage,” Annabelle continued. “I don’t have much, but I like what I have and wanted to keep it. I figured I won’t need a lot here.” She hoisted the suitcase out of the trunk with a grunt and let it slide to the ground with a thump. “It weighs a ton, I’m afraid. No, don’t you try,” Annabelle said, shooing away Hope’s hand. “I can barely lift it. Think you can handle one of the baskets?”
“Let me help,” John called out. He approached from next door dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt and wearing a face mask. In his hands, he carried a bird feeder.
Linnea swung her head at the sound of his voice, feeling suddenly tongue-tied.
Hope clapped her hands in surprised joy. “John!” she called out, rushing toward him. “You came out of your house! Are you all better now? Did you get my pictures? And my notes?”
He held out his hands to ward her off. “Hold on, sweetheart. Best not to get too close.”
Hope stood rigid, scowling, and said in a disappointed tone, “I thought you were better.”
“I am,” he replied in his easy manner, not the least put off by her mercurial emotions. “Quarantine’s over, but best to keep a social distance, right?” He lowered to talk with Hope, still at a distance. “Thank you for all your notes and gifts. I really liked getting them.”
Hope melted and got all flirty once again. “I got your notes too. And the candy. And your poems. Linnea read them to me.”
He glanced up at Linnea and their eyes met. “Did she?”
Hope pointed to the bird feeder. “Is that for me?”
“Who else? I thought since we’re all looking out windows”—he looked up at Linnea and winked—“why not have something to look at? Other than me, of course.”
Linnea made an unladylike snort.
John reached out to poke Hope’s tummy and she squealed with laughter. “I thought we’d let Linnea tell us where to put it, and I have a big bag of birdseed.” He looked again at Linnea. “What do you say, Lin?”
He’d called her by her nickname. The name sounded sweet on her ears. She lifted her shoulders. “I think it’s a lovely idea. Hope, we’ll write down the names of all the different birds that come to our window.” Looking again at John, her face softened. “Thank you, John. That was thoughtful.”