“No, Ethan. It’s something someone made with his own hands because he thought I might like it.”
She swallowed.
“That hasn’t happened in a very long time.”
I didn’t know what to say.
She seemed to realize how much she’d revealed, because she straightened and smiled.
“Thank you.”
There was no demand for a photograph. No joke about what I’d failed to buy alongside it. No suggestion that I should have done more.
Just gratitude.
That afternoon, we drank tea in the garden while Maya went out with a friend.
Diane had built the raised herb boxes herself after Mark died. She told me she’d measured the boards incorrectly the first time and had to start over.
“I was furious,” she admitted. “I wanted the boxes finished that afternoon.”
“What did you do?”
“I went to bed angry. Then I got up the next morning and cut the boards again.”
