Winter Garden

Meredith considered that Daisy had been around the Whitsons for as long as anyone could remember. “When did you meet my mom?”

Daisy’s overplucked eyebrows lift ed in surprise. “Well, let’s see. I guess I was about ten. Maybe a little younger. It was all the buzz. I remember that. ’Cause your daddy was datin’ Sally Herman when he went off to war and when he came home, he was married. ”

“So he barely knew her. ”

“I don’t know about that. He was in love with her, though. My mom said she’d never seen a man so in love. She took care of Anya. ”

“Who did?”

“My mom. For most of that first year. ”

Meredith frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She was sick. You knew that, right? I think she was in bed for a year or so and then one day she just got better. My mom thought they’d be friends, but you know Anya. ”

It was stunning news, really. Stunning. She didn’t remember her mother ever having so much as a cough. “Sick how? What was wrong with her?” What caused a woman to spend a year in bed? And what made her suddenly get better?

“I don’t know. Mom never said much about it, really. ”

“Thanks, Daisy. ” She watched Daisy leave the office and close the door behind her.

For the next few hours, Meredith managed to get a little bit of work done, but mostly she was thinking about her mother.

At five o’clock, she gave up the pretense and left the office, saying, “Daisy, will you run the warehouse check for me? If there’s a real problem, I’ll be on my cell. Otherwise I’m gone for the day. ”

“You bet, Meredith. ”

Ten minutes later, when she walked into her mother’s house, the smell of baking bread greeted her. She found her mother in the kitchen, draped in her big, baggy white apron, her hands sticky white with flour. As she had always done, she was making enough bread for an army. The freezer in the garage was full of it.

“Hey, Mom. ”

“You are here early. ”

“Business was slow, so I thought I’d come here and do some more packing for you. When I get it all organized, you and I should probably go through the giveaway piles. ”

“If you wish. ”

“Do you care what I keep and what I get rid of?”

“No. ”

Meredith didn’t even know what to say to that. How could nothing be of importance to her mom? “Where’s Nina?”

“She said something about errands and left an hour ago. She took her camera, so . . . ”

“Who knows when she’ll be back. ”

“Right. ” Mom turned back to her dough.

Meredith stood there a minute longer, then took off her jacket and hung it on the hook by the door. She started to go down the hall toward Dad’s office, but as she approached the open door, she paused. The last time she’d packed up Mom’s things, she hadn’t looked for anything, hadn’t gone through pockets or felt back in the drawers.

Glancing back at the kitchen, seeing Mom still kneading dough, she eased toward the stairs and went up to the master bedroom.

In the long, wide closet, her mother’s black and gray clothing lined the right wall. Almost everything was either soft merino wool or brushed cotton. Turtlenecks and cardigans and long skirts and flowy pants. There was nothing trendy or showy or expensive here.

Clothes to hide in.

The thought came out of nowhere, surprising her. It was the sort of thing she would have noticed before, if she’d ever really looked.