“Grace used to have a wonderful green thumb,” Linda said, her bright voice cracking slightly under the morning heat. “She could grow anything.”
“She warned me about the blue box again, Linda,” I said, sitting on the edge of the stone planter.
Linda stopped trimming the dead leaves from a lavender bush. She let the shears sink into the dirt, her shoulders rising and falling with a heavy breath.
“Grace is eighty, Natalie,” she said, laughing quickly. “She has some old ideas about how things should be run.”
“What kind of ideas?” I asked.
Linda stood up, wiping her dirty hands on her apron. She rubbed the back of her neck with her palm, leaving a streak of dark soil on her skin.
“Our family has rules, Natalie,” she said. “They are what keep David and the boys happy. They are what keep this house peaceful.”
“Do the rules apply to everyone?” I asked.
Linda turned her back to me, reaching for a spool of green twine on the wooden table.
“The women of this family have always looked after the details,” she said. “It is how we show our love.”
