the crux of the matter, wouldn’t it? That we didn’t know. That we made no attempt to know.”
“You’re upset because you found him. That would upset anybody. But his happiness was not your job.”
“Then whose job was it?” She plunged on. “I have decided to take care of his plants.” The moment the words escaped her lips, she wished she hadn’t said them. Rishi would not understand. And she didn’t want to explain anything else.
“He had plants?”
Exasperated because he saw so little, she sounded harsher than she meant to. “How could you not notice? All over his yard. In many, many pots.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. She waited for him to tell her that this was not her job, that caring for the plants couldn’t please a dead man, that she had no need to ask this stranger’s forgiveness.
He was silent as she took food to the dinner table and he seated himself in the chair in the corner. He didn’t speak until his dinner was half-eaten, although his expression changed after a few bites, as if he were thinking very long and hard about something.
Finally he cleared his throat. “I think that’s good. That you’re going to take care of his plants until they can be taken by his family. You can’t help the old man now, but maybe you can help the people who loved him.”
She was so surprised, she hardly knew what to say. She had expected an argument, even prepared herself for one. She was chagrined. “Then it’s settled.”
“Maybe caring for the plants will make you happy. And the dance classes?”
The man across from her wanted her happiness. In this, too, she was lucky. But if good fortune smiled on a woman and she didn’t feel that blessing deep inside her, did it matter? Janya managed a smile anyway. Rishi deserved that much.
“Maybe they will,” she said.
Tracy’s cottage had been stripped to the bare bones, all by her own hard work. Gone was the shabby indoor-outdoor carpet that had covered the floors. Gone, too, were two layers of vinyl. Now she was down to the original linoleum, a dreary brown, speckled with black and gray. Scuffed and torn, it was not a good alternative to the carpeting, so on the way home from the realty, she stopped at a flooring warehouse to price alternatives.
Inside a cavern heaped with carpet remnants and exotic hardwoods, she surveyed her choices. Warehouse or not, nothing was cheap, but a pile of ceramic tile caught her eye. The owner told her the tiles were the tail end of a discontinued line, and she would save a bundle. She had already calculated square footage, and he promised he had more than enough on hand. When she said she wanted them, he threw in all the remaining tiles for goodmeasure, in case some were cracked or broken—and to make room for something more profitable.
At the cash register, the price still made her whistle. Once upon a time she wouldn’t have blinked at spending this much on a designer dress. But those days were gone, or at least in limbo. Still, she knew a bargain, and the tile was lovely, a mottled rust that reminded her of the adobe house in Taos she and CJ had used as a getaway until Uncle Sam took possession. She gave the owner her credit card and arranged delivery.
Now at home—or what passed for one—she thought about everything that was still needed to make the cottage liveable. Over the past two weeks she had scrubbed, bleached and patched all the walls, and now she had to seal them before she redid the one-bedroom cottage with a pale wheat paint she had bought in bulk. The kitchen cabinets had been scrubbed both inside and out, and they, too, needed to be sealed, then painted—white, most likely, to match the appliances.
She had arranged to have most of the rotting furniture hauled away with the layers of flooring, and to replace it, she had spent a long weekend visiting flea markets. She had found a wooden table and chairs she could paint or refinish for the alcove beside the kitchen, a nearly new sofa
“You’re upset because you found him. That would upset anybody. But his happiness was not your job.”
“Then whose job was it?” She plunged on. “I have decided to take care of his plants.” The moment the words escaped her lips, she wished she hadn’t said them. Rishi would not understand. And she didn’t want to explain anything else.
“He had plants?”
Exasperated because he saw so little, she sounded harsher than she meant to. “How could you not notice? All over his yard. In many, many pots.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. She waited for him to tell her that this was not her job, that caring for the plants couldn’t please a dead man, that she had no need to ask this stranger’s forgiveness.
He was silent as she took food to the dinner table and he seated himself in the chair in the corner. He didn’t speak until his dinner was half-eaten, although his expression changed after a few bites, as if he were thinking very long and hard about something.
Finally he cleared his throat. “I think that’s good. That you’re going to take care of his plants until they can be taken by his family. You can’t help the old man now, but maybe you can help the people who loved him.”
She was so surprised, she hardly knew what to say. She had expected an argument, even prepared herself for one. She was chagrined. “Then it’s settled.”
“Maybe caring for the plants will make you happy. And the dance classes?”
The man across from her wanted her happiness. In this, too, she was lucky. But if good fortune smiled on a woman and she didn’t feel that blessing deep inside her, did it matter? Janya managed a smile anyway. Rishi deserved that much.
“Maybe they will,” she said.
Tracy’s cottage had been stripped to the bare bones, all by her own hard work. Gone was the shabby indoor-outdoor carpet that had covered the floors. Gone, too, were two layers of vinyl. Now she was down to the original linoleum, a dreary brown, speckled with black and gray. Scuffed and torn, it was not a good alternative to the carpeting, so on the way home from the realty, she stopped at a flooring warehouse to price alternatives.
Inside a cavern heaped with carpet remnants and exotic hardwoods, she surveyed her choices. Warehouse or not, nothing was cheap, but a pile of ceramic tile caught her eye. The owner told her the tiles were the tail end of a discontinued line, and she would save a bundle. She had already calculated square footage, and he promised he had more than enough on hand. When she said she wanted them, he threw in all the remaining tiles for goodmeasure, in case some were cracked or broken—and to make room for something more profitable.
At the cash register, the price still made her whistle. Once upon a time she wouldn’t have blinked at spending this much on a designer dress. But those days were gone, or at least in limbo. Still, she knew a bargain, and the tile was lovely, a mottled rust that reminded her of the adobe house in Taos she and CJ had used as a getaway until Uncle Sam took possession. She gave the owner her credit card and arranged delivery.
Now at home—or what passed for one—she thought about everything that was still needed to make the cottage liveable. Over the past two weeks she had scrubbed, bleached and patched all the walls, and now she had to seal them before she redid the one-bedroom cottage with a pale wheat paint she had bought in bulk. The kitchen cabinets had been scrubbed both inside and out, and they, too, needed to be sealed, then painted—white, most likely, to match the appliances.
She had arranged to have most of the rotting furniture hauled away with the layers of flooring, and to replace it, she had spent a long weekend visiting flea markets. She had found a wooden table and chairs she could paint or refinish for the alcove beside the kitchen, a nearly new sofa
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