The Bone Garden: A Novel

I had met. That's why he called you. —

She motioned to him to follow her away from the bed. They stepped through the curtain and crossed to the nurses' station. — Henry called me because of Hilda's papers. He thought I'd be interested in the history of my house. —

— Right. I told him that you wanted to know more about the bones in your garden. Henry's sort of our family historian, so I thought he might be able to help you. — Tom glanced toward Henry's bed. — Well, he is eighty-nine. He might forget things. —

— He's sharp as a tack. —

— Are you talking about his mind or his tongue? —

At that she laughed. — Both. That's why it was such a shock for me when I found him on the floor. He seems so indestructible. —

— I'm glad you were there. Thank you for everything you did. — He touched her shoulder, and she flushed at the warmth of his hand. — He's not the easiest person to deal with, which is probably why he never got married. — Tom looked down at the hospital chart. — He looks good on paper. —

— I'd forgotten. Henry told me his grandnephew was a doctor. —

— Yes, but not his. I specialize in infectious disease. Dr. Jarvis said there might be a little trouble with the old ticker. —

— He wants to go home. He asked me to call some guy named Bart about a boat ride. —

— You're kidding. — Tom looked up. — Bart's still alive? —

— What are we going to do with him? —

— We? — He closed the chart. — How did Henry manage to rope you into this? —

She sighed. — I feel responsible, in a way. I'm the reason he's digging through those boxes and getting himself all worked up. Maybe it's too much for him, and that's why he collapsed. —

— You can't make Henry do anything he doesn't want to do. When I spoke to him last week, he sounded more excited than I've heard him in years. Usually he's crotchety and depressed. Now he's just crotchety. —

From behind the curtain came Henry's voice. — I heard that. —

Tom grimaced and set down the chart. He crossed to Henry's bed and opened the curtain. — You're awake. —

— Took you long enough to get here. Now let's go home. —

— Whoa! What's the rush? —

— Julia and I have work to do. Twenty more boxes at least! Where is she? —

She joined Tom at the curtain. — It's too late to go home now. Why don't you go back to sleep? —

— Only if you promise you'll take me home tomorrow. —

She looked at Tom. — What do you think? —

— That's up to Dr. Jarvis, — he said. — But if he clears it, I'll help you get him home in the morning. And I'll hang around for a few days, just to make sure everything's okay. —

— Oh, good! — said Henry, clearly delighted. — You'll be staying! —

Tom smiled in surprise at his granduncle. — Why Henry, it's so nice to be appreciated. —

— You can bring up all the boxes from the cellar. —

It was late the next afternoon when they brought Henry home on the ferry. Though Dr. Jarvis had ordered him to go straight to bed, of course Henry did no such thing. Instead, he stationed himself at the top of the cellar steps, shouting orders as Tom carried boxes up the stairs. By the time Henry finally retired to his bedroom that night, it was Tom who was exhausted.

With a sigh, Tom sank into an armchair by the fireplace and said: — He may be eighty-nine, but he can still make me jump through hoops. And if I dare ignore him, he's got that lethal-looking cane. —

Julia looked up from the box of papers she'd been sorting through. — Has he always been this way? —

— As long as I can remember. Which is why he lives alone. No one else in the family wants to deal with him. —

— Then why are you here? —

— Because I'm the one he keeps calling. He never had any children. By default, I guess I'm it. — Tom looked at her hopefully. — Want to adopt a used uncle? —

— Not even if he comes with four hundred bottles of vintage wine. —

— Oh. So he's introduced you to his wine cellar. —

— We made a good dent in it last week. But the next time a man gets me drunk, I'd like him to be on the other side of seventy. — She turned her attention to the documents they'd pulled out of box number fifteen that afternoon. It was a sheaf of old newspapers, most of them dating to the late 1800s and not relevant to the story of Norris Marshall. If pack rat behavior was genetic, then Hilda Chamblett had inherited it from her great-great- grandmother Margaret Page, who, it seemed, could not throw away anything, either. Here were old editions of The Boston Post and the Evening Transcript and recipe clippings so brittle that they crumbled at a touch. There were also letters, dozens of them, addressed to Margaret. Julia was sucked into reading every single one, intrigued by this glimpse into the life of a woman who, more than a hundred years ago, had lived in her house, had walked the same floors, climbed the same stairs. Dr. Margaret Tate Page had lived a long and eventful life, judging by the letters she'd collected through the years. And such letters! They came from eminent physicians around the world, and from adoring grandchildren traveling in Europe, describing the meals served, the dresses worn, the gossip shared. What a shame no one today has time to write such letters, Julia thought as she devoured the tale of a grandchild's flirtation. A hundred years after I am dead, what will anyone know about me?

— Anything interesting? — asked Tom. She was startled to find him standing right behind her, looking over her shoulder.

— This should all be interesting to you, — she said, trying to focus on the letter and not on his hand, which was now resting on the back of her chair. — Since it's about your family. —

He went around the table and sat down across from her. — Are you really here because of that old skeleton? —

— You think there's another reason? —

— This must be taking a lot of time away from your own life. Digging through all these boxes, reading all these letters. —

— You don't know what my life's like right now, — she said, staring down at the documents. — This has been a welcome distraction. —

— You're talking about your divorce, aren't you? — When she looked up at him, he said: — Henry told me about it. —

— Then Henry told you entirely too much. —

— I'm amazed how much he learned about you in just one weekend. —

— He got me drunk. I talked. —

— That man I saw you with last week, in your garden. Was that was your ex-husband? —

She nodded. — Richard. —

— If I may say so, it didn't sound like a friendly conversation. —

She slumped back in her chair. — I'm not sure divorced couples can be friendly. —

— It should be possible. —

— Are you talking from personal experience? —

— I've never been married. But I'd like to think that two people who once loved each other would always have that bond between them. No matter what goes wrong. —

— Oh, it sounds good, doesn't it? Eternal love. —

— You don't believe in it. —

— Maybe I did seven years ago, when I got married. Now I think Henry has the right idea. Stay single and collect wine instead. Or get a dog. —

— Or plant a garden? —

She set down the letter she'd been reading and looked at him. — Yes. Plant a garden. It's better to watch