Later, he carried the first crate of damaged decorations from the ballroom toward the storage shed. Judith found him trying to lift too much at once.
“You still think strength means carrying everything alone,” she said.
He set the crate down.
“I’m working on that.”
They carried it together.
The next morning, Jacob went to the east field with a shovel and the brass key. Judith followed at a slower pace. Behind the rows of vines stood the collapsed greenhouse, hidden by tall grass and wild blackberry bushes.
One wall remained intact.
Jacob cleared the vines from a narrow wooden door. The key turned.
Inside, dust floated through bars of sunlight.
Shelves lined the walls. Clay pots sat beneath old sheets. In the corner was a small wooden table covered by a blue cloth.
Judith lifted it.
Beneath the cloth was a painted sign.
The letters were uneven and bright:
THE EMERSON FAMILY GARDEN
Jacob stared at it.
“I thought this was for the vineyard.”
“It was,” Judith said.
He looked around.
Samuel had planted herbs and flowers there during Jacob’s childhood. Judith remembered now—the Saturday mornings they had spent watering seedlings, the way Samuel had called the greenhouse their quiet place.
At the back of the room, a row of small wooden plaques hung from hooks.
Judith picked up the first.
Jacob, age three. Planted his first basil.
The next read:
Jacob, age five. Refused to pull weeds because they were “also trying to live.”
Another:
Jacob, age eight. Built a scarecrow and frightened himself.
Jacob laughed, and the sound broke into a sob.
He pressed his hand against his eyes.
“I forgot all of this.”
“You were a child.”
