Chapter 8: Dad in the Garden

The nursery was full of people when my father walked in.

It was the day after Christmas, and every woman in town wanted to exchange her poinsettia.

I was behind the counter in an apron with a brace on my ankle and potting soil under my nails.

I was also holding two twenty-dollar bills.

I had found them that morning in the pocket of my coat, folded small, with no note.

Dylan had been on shift since six, and I had not been able to ask him.

Now my father stood in the middle of the greenhouse aisle with a suitcase and a large white box.

"Hanne," he said. "Come outside. We should talk in private."

"I'm working."

"This is important."

"So is the lady in front of me. One moment, Dad."

I rang up a customer's rosemary and her ceramic pot.

I handed back her change carefully.

Then I came around the counter and stopped in front of my father with half a dozen strangers listening.

"Let's talk here," I said.

Ingrid had come in from the back with a watering can.

She stood by the shelf of succulents and said nothing, her eyes on his.

My father lowered his voice anyway.

"Your mother and I made a mistake," he said. "We should have taken you to New York."

"You could have, in September."

"We're sorry. Your mother has barely slept. Linnea cries every night."

"I know. Mom told me."

"I've brought you something."

He held out the white box.

I took it, because it would have been strange not to, and I opened the lid.

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