Dad always ignored him.
Once, he even offered Brent a basket of strawberries from the plants Mom had nurtured for thirty years.
“No thanks,” Brent replied coldly. “I don’t really eat fruit.”
Dad had simply nodded.
“Well, if you change your mind, the tomatoes should be ready soon.”
Now, holding the county’s complaint in my hand, I knew exactly who was responsible.
“It’s Brent,” I said angrily. “He’s been here less than a year, and he thinks he can force you to destroy a garden that’s been here for generations!”
Dad folded his glasses.
“Let’s hear what the inspector says.”
I wanted to hire an attorney immediately.
But Dad insisted we wait.
“You can’t rush everything, Kristin,” he told me. “Sometimes you plant something and have to give it time to grow.”
I didn’t understand his calmness.
I certainly didn’t share it.
