“Thank you, Grant,” I said.
“I will be at the hotel in Chicago if you need anything,” he said, turning toward the door. “But I think you have everything under control here.”
He walked down the steps, his car waiting at the curb with the engine running quietly.
I went back to the kitchen and found Phoebe waiting by the back door, her small yellow boots already on her feet.
“Can we go outside now?” she asked, holding up a small green plastic shovel.
“Let us go,” I said, grabbing my old denim jacket from the hook behind the door.
The garden was cold, the scent of damp earth and fallen cedar leaves thick in the autumn air.
In the center of the lawn, a small rose bush sat in a black plastic pot, its roots wrapped in burlap and tied with a cheap string.
I knelt in the dirt, digging into the cold ground with a small metal trowel until the hole was deep enough for the roots.
Phoebe knelt beside me, her hands covered in dark soil as she helped me lift the heavy root ball into the earth.
“Will it grow flowers in the winter?” she asked, patting the dirt down around the stem.
“Not in the winter,” I said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “But in the spring, it will have bright red blossoms.”
She laughed, a quick, clear sound that seemed to chase away the last of the shadows from the tall cedar trees.
She took her toy shovel and patted the fresh soil with rhythmic, steady strokes, her eyes bright with the simple joy of the dirt.
The soft autumn sun warmed the damp earth beneath our fingers.
