She couldn’t quite bring herself to go up there.
If Ruth was right, and there was some sort of faulty wiring, it still didn’t explain the shadow Jane had seen. It didn’t explain the hand pressed against the windowpane last night. But in the morning light, she really wasn’t sure she’d seen a shadow or a hand at all. Probably the light had just flickered. Probably her imagination had been on overdrive. Probably it was what Ruth had said before—grief is different for everyone—and for Jane, it was making her see things, making her imagination run wild. And, she reminded herself, there was no way someone could have snuck into the house behind her back. It was just the adrenaline. She knew from personal experience—adrenaline did strange things to your body, to your brain. It made your own mind a thing you couldn’t trust anymore.
She shook her head and moved on.
She made her way to the mudroom. The galoshes that had been there were gone. She squinted out the shattered window but didn’t see Ruth anywhere. But the dead bolt was unlocked, so Jane slipped a pair of tennis shoes on, opened the door, and stepped outside.
It was a mild day, with almost no breeze.
Jane took a deep breath. It smelled like pine trees, like a scented candle they used to burn during Christmastime in California, when it was eighty degrees outside and the Santa at the outdoor mall must have been sweating buckets underneath his suit.
Her feet protested a little more as she walked into the backyard, but the air felt good in her lungs. She took a deep breath through her nose. It smelled kind of amazing, actually, like pine and wood and dirt. Los Angeles never smelled like that.
She became aware of a strange sound—a metal-on-metal sound, like a giant pair of scissors opening and shutting.
She closed the mudroom door and walked toward the fountain.
The sound grew louder. She looked back toward the house, which was large and cold-looking in the morning light. The windows were all dark. Most of the curtains on the second floor were drawn closed. It wasn’t a very welcoming house. Jane couldn’t blame her mother for leaving; she didn’t understand what kind of a person chose to live in a house like this. Too many rooms, too many chimneys, too many windows.
And that sound again. What was that sound?
She turned back around and finally saw Ruth, at the very edge of the lawn, near the rosebushes. She wore jeans and a flannel, and her hair was in a messy bun on top of her head. The galoshes came up almost to her knees. She was wielding a giant pair of garden shears, and she was attacking the rosebushes with a singular purpose, cutting down great chunks of perfectly healthy plant.
She was standing in a heap of oranges and pinks and reds; the colors stood out in stark contrast against the gray of the morning.
Jane started walking toward her. “Mom?” she said, when she was close enough.
Ruth looked up with a start. Her eyes were strange, like she was in a trance; she shook her head, and they slowly came into focus.
“Morning. I couldn’t sleep.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Just a little pruning.”
“Pruning? You’re murdering these things.”
Ruth laughed. All the strangeness was gone from her eyes now. She just looked tired and weary. She brushed some hair back from her face. “They would have died in the first frost. It’s a miracle they’ve made it this far. The plants will come back stronger in the spring if they’re properly cut back now.”
Jane had no idea if this was true or not, and if it was, she had no idea how Ruth knew that. Ruth hated gardening. She hadn’t even owned a trowel back home. And she certainly didn’t seem to be taking much care with the process. She was hacking away at random, leaving some bushes with no more than an inch or two of green pushing through the soil.
“How are you feeling? How are your feet?” Ruth asked.
“Not bad, surprisingly.”
“You know what helps foot injuries?”
“What?”
“Pancakes. We need pancakes. I hope Sam’s is still open. It was my favorite diner when I was your age. The best chocolate-chip pancakes I’ve ever had.”
“Let me go get dressed.”
“All right, go on. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Hurry up! You made me hungry.”
Jane started back toward the house. As she passed the fountain again, she heard the whoosh of the shears’ blades as Ruth resumed her frantic cutting.
For some reason, the sound made her skin crawl.
Sam’s Diner—a little place on the main square of Bells Hollow—felt like walking straight into the 1950s, with an old-fashioned counter to the left, an actual jukebox in a far corner, and the daily specials written on a vintage green chalkboard. They waited a few minutes for a red vinyl booth, then ordered chocolate-chip pancakes, a side of fries, and an egg scramble loaded with cheese and veggies.
When the food arrived, Jane cut herself a bite of pancake and dipped it in the syrup.
“Holy. Shit.”
“I know,” Ruth said, popping a fry into her mouth. “I can honestly say, one thing I missed about this place was Sam’s.”
“Is there actually a Sam?”
“There was! He was a hundred years old when I lived here. I’m sure he’s not around anymore. But his legacy lives on.”
They ate in silence for a while. The diner was busy around them; every time a booth cleared, it was filled again immediately. The counter was taken up by old men reading newspapers, groups of kids eating breakfast sandwiches, and one mother reading a romance novel as her baby slept in a car seat by her feet. It was warm and smelled amazing, and Jane couldn’t help thinking, Greer would have loved this place. He would have been one of the men at the counter, reading a newspaper, drinking eight cups of coffee one after another, eating sourdough toast spread with too much butter.
Jane flinched. Those memories—those visceral, sudden memories—appeared without any warning, like a slap to the face, and left her reeling in sadness, the smell of phantom sourdough toast almost suffocating her.
“What’s up?” Ruth said softly, somehow sensing this, reaching across the table to take Jane’s hand briefly.
“Oh, just nothing. Just… He would have loved this place. You know.”
Ruth smiled sadly. “Yeah, I know.”
And for a moment, he was almost at the table with them, stealing bites of pancake, ordering a third cup of coffee, spreading butter on toast. Jane let him sit with them for a moment before pushing him away again, because he wasn’t here, because he’d never be here again.
“Okay,” Ruth said. “I’ve been very patient. Tell me a little bit about your first day?”
“Oh, it was fine. I mean, it wasn’t anything special.”
“I know it’s all been such a big change. I’m just proud of you for keeping it together.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I reached out to some old friends yesterday. One of them, Frank, owns a construction business. He said he could use some accounting help, so I’m going to lend a hand. Just three days a week to start, but maybe it will turn into something more.”
“Really? That’s amazing. And you were worried you wouldn’t find a job.”
“It’ll be good. Keep me busy. And we need the cash.”