“These bushes are spreading, Clara,” Katherine said, her voice clipped and formal.
“They do get a bit wild this time of year,” I said, reaching down to twist my gold wedding ring around my finger. “I can trim the branches back this evening.”
“The branches are not the issue,” Katherine said. She pointed the tip of her shears toward the base of the main rose cane. “The roots are three inches over the line. They are drawing moisture from my turf.”
I looked at the thick green sod of her lawn, which her husband’s crew treated three times a year. Our own grass was patchy, drying to a pale straw color near the fence.
“I could dig up a starter for you if you like them,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “They are very hardy. Steve bought them from the nursery in Lancaster.”
“I have no use for invasive plants,” Katherine said. She smoothed her hair behind her ears again, her fingers tense. “I prefer things to be contained. We have lived here thirty-two years, and we have always kept our borders clean.”
“The fence has been in this exact spot since ninety-eight,” I said.
“Fences can be wrong,” Katherine said.
She turned back toward her patio without waiting for me to answer, her shears clipping the empty air as she walked. I stood by the red roses, the heat from the ground rising through the soles of my shoes, leaving me with a strange weight in my stomach.
The house was quiet by eight, the younger children upstairs with their books while the hum of the neighbor’s central air unit vibrated through our living room wall. I sat on the sofa with a small can of metal polish and a soft cloth, rubbing the tarnish off the silver measuring tape Steve used to keep in his truck.
