And I’m fortunate to have the resources to fulfill it. I’m not wealthy. In fact, I live quite frugally. Insurance and the settlement from the airplane manufacturer allowed me to stay home with the children and keep my house and land. Acre and a half lots are impossible to come by in Portland now. Not a week passes without some developer knocking on my door. I’ll never sell. I was born in this house. My memories are here and so is my garden.
Where else would I have room to grow my tomatoes and artichokes and rhubarb? Six varieties of basil? My clary sage and elephant garlic? And I could never leave my blueberry bushes—my father planted those bushes. Even if I could find a house with sufficient land, it wouldn’t have soil like mine. How many cubic yards of compost have I worked into it over the years? My garden soil is black gold. Priceless. And where would I keep the chickens if I moved?
My coop has room for twenty-five birds. When the kids lived at home, I needed that many hens to keep us in eggs. I only keep a half dozen now, but it’s nice that they have room to roam. Besides the chickens, there are the dogs to consider.
Normally, I don’t have more than two foster dogs at a time so they can stay inside the house. Every now and then the rescue faces a sudden emergency and I’ll have to take in several dogs on short notice. That’s why I converted the old goat barn into a comfy, state-of-the-art kennel with heated floors, good ventilation, a hot water bathing station, and pens for up to eight dogs. James drove up from Ashland with Leila and the kids and spent a whole week helping me with the remodeling.
That’s another reason I’ll never leave this house—the kids. The whole crowd and all eight grandchildren show up every summer, second week in July, for our annual Homecoming Week. When the garden is at its peak, and the grandkids are outside hooting and whooping in a wild game of tag while the grown-ups sit on the deck sharing memories and a bottle of wine, there is no place in the world I’d rather be. That’s as good as life gets.
No. I’ll never sell my house, not for any price. There are certain things money cannot buy. On the other hand, there are times when it comes in awfully handy, which is what prompted me to phone Monica. I knew she was out with Grace, so I only planned to leave a message. I didn’t expect her to pick up.
“Why are you answering your phone?”
“Uh . . . because it rang?”
“But you shouldn’t be taking calls while you’re on your date.”
“My date?” Monica sounded confused. “Oh. I ended up not going. The restaurant is slammed and my head is killing me. I’m going to Urgent Care later.”
“Oh. Grace was getting all dressed up when I talked to her. She must have been disappointed.”
“No, no, she’s fine. I sent a text, told her and Luke to have fun without me.”
“Wait,” I said slowly, certain I must have heard her wrong. “You mean Grace was already at the restaurant when you sent a text to say you weren’t coming? She’d be having dinner with a total stranger.”
“So? What’s the difference? It isn’t like I know him either.”
“She knows you. That would have made it less awkward. Don’t you think . . .”
I let my question trail off, realizing that there was no point. Monica has a good heart, the best. Look at how she’d taken in Desmond. He’s such a sweet dog, but Newfoundlands are so enormous. She’d give you the shirt off her back if you asked for it, but she’s not the most emotionally sensitive person I’ve ever met.
“She’ll be fine,” Monica said breezily. “Luke’s a nice guy and she needs to get out more. So, what’s up?”
Between Monica’s cut-to-the-chase tone and the background music of banging pots and pans, I knew the restaurant was busy and she had work to do.
“Nothing important. We can talk later,” I said.
“It’s okay. I’ve got a minute. What do you—Hang on a sec.”
Monica moved the phone away from her mouth, but she was shouting so I had no trouble hearing.
“Hey! There’s a piccata order for table six sitting here! Think one of you could quit examining your navel long enough to take it to the customer?”
Listening in, it occurred to me that when it came to running a restaurant kitchen, there are worse qualities than a shortage of emotional sensitivity. Monica knows how to get things done. But the yelling couldn’t be good for a headache. Before I said goodbye, I’d recommend she drink cinnamon tea instead of wasting money at Urgent Care. There’s nothing better for headaches—and nothing truly wrong with Monica, I was sure of it.
Too bad I didn’t have a remedy for Grace’s problems. She wasn’t exactly shy, but she was uncomfortable around new people. It took weeks for her to open up to me and Monica. Now, there she was, stuck having dinner with a complete stranger. Headache or not, Monica should have had a little more consideration.
Poor Grace. What was she doing right now? Whatever it was, I was sure she was absolutely miserable.
Chapter 6
Grace
If I were a prisoner on death row, requesting my last meal, I’d ask for a dozen succulent, briny, coppery-tasting Olympia Bay oysters. They are—pun intended—to die for. So delicious, so decadent that I’d almost be willing to delve into the sad and complicated explanation of my sad and complicated life in exchange for them.
But I didn’t have to.
