“Farther apart,” she said.
He shifted the next seed.
“Like that?”
“Like that.”
By June, the vines reached the lower edge of the window.
Evelyn cut a handful of blossoms for the kitchen table. Her son arrived for supper carrying bread, and she opened the door before he could knock twice.
He waited for her to step aside.
She noticed. She still noticed.
Inside, the table stood level on the leg her husband had repaired. The windows were open, and warm air moved through the little house she had chosen for herself.
Her son washed his hands and asked what needed doing.
“Nothing yet,” she said. “Come sit with me.”
He pulled out the chair across from hers.
For once, there was no paperwork between them. Only the flowers, two cups, and the quiet pleasure of having time before supper.
Evelyn poured the coffee.
He stayed.
