Evidence of Life - By Barbara Taylor Sissel Page 0,108

son a book, another man giving his son advice? She set the broom beside the door. “Give me a minute,” she said to Dennis, “I’ll make the sandwiches and bring them out here.”

He handed her the book. “I’ve wanted to see you again ever since the night you came by my office. I almost did come after that. When I heard what Hank’s wife did, I— my God, Abby, when I think what might have happened to you and Jake.” He looked off, mouth working. “I wanted to try and explain, but I figured I’d just make things worse.”

“It was a bad time,” Abby said.

Dennis nodded.

Abby looked at the book in her hands. “We had Nick and Lindsey cremated and scattered their ashes out back where the bluebonnets grow under the oak trees. We used to picnic there when the kids were little.”

“That’s good. They’re at rest now,” Dennis said.

“Yes.”

He looked out toward his car. “When I ask Kate, she says you’re okay, but I had to see for myself.” He brought his gaze back to her.

Abby didn’t answer. She could see that he was worried she was angry with him, that he’d maybe offended her by coming here without warning.

He put out his hand but stopped short of touching her. “Are you?” he asked.

“So far.”

“I should have told you.”

“About the boy at the gas station, the woman he saw Nick with.” She glanced up at him. “I doubt it would have changed anything.”

“You were entitled to the information. I thought I was sparing you.”

She looked down. “I feel like a fool.”

“You aren’t a fool, Abby. I know my saying so won’t take that idea out of your mind. But in time you’ll see—” He broke off, his glance drifted.

She knew he’d thought about her situation, the speech he could make about it, that he was still thinking, trying to put it together, an explanation to comfort her.

“Men get wound up in their egos sometimes. They’re more apt to act like animals in their behavior than women. They tend to run when they’re scared. They don’t talk about the fear.”

“Sometimes it scares me to think how needless their deaths were, how preventable. It’s the futility that gets to me.” She looked at him, and he nodded. He understood.

After a moment, she retrieved the broom and held it out to him. “If you’ll get the corner over there by the window, I’ll make lunch.”

He shrugged out of his jacket, took the broom from her and set to work. As she went into the house, he was whistling softly, some fragment of a melody she didn’t recognize. But the sound of it was pleasing to her.

In the kitchen she laid the book Dennis had brought for Jake on the countertop and then went out the back door to stand on the steps. The rich scent of pink jasmine saturated the air, and she drew it deep into herself. She’d planted the vine near the door on purpose so she could do this at every opportunity, stand here in early spring and immerse herself in its fragrance.

Her gaze drifted beyond the pasture to the thick fringe of trees crowding the back of the property. The branches were a mixed network of angles and thicknesses, a pattern of inky bones supporting a delicate green lace of unfurling buds. But the bluebonnets beneath the trees—where she and Jake had scattered the mingled ashes of their family—were what drew her wonder. The flowers robed the ground in lush folds of blue. Sure and beautiful evidence of life.

And she did nothing to encourage them. Year after year, they came through earth that was hard-packed and matted in layers of debris, and each spring they appeared thicker and more glorious, or so it seemed. And each spring, like the old Indian chief in the legend, the sight filled her with awe.

Standing here, feeling her heart lift in the old familiar way, she wondered at herself. She wondered at the confusion of her emotions, how it was that in the midst of such profound sorrow, she could feel her ribs part with such sweet joy. But she was enough of a gardener to know that survival was seeded into the nature of death as well as life. Even her survival. If she chose it.

In the kitchen, she made sandwiches and glasses of iced tea, and gathering everything onto a tray, she brought it onto the porch. Dennis leaned the broom near the door and, taking the tray from her,