Read Online The Bone Garden: A Novel by Tess Gerritsen - Free Book Online Page B

she thought. You didn’t go out in public wearing something that ratty unless you had a sentimental attachment to it. Which somehow made him even more appealing. That and his dog.
    “…and I really think you should start dating again.”
    Julia’s attention snapped back to Vicky. “What?”
    “I know how you feel about blind dates, but this guy’s really nice.”
    “No more lawyers, Vicky.”
    “They’re not all like Richard. Some of them do prefer a real woman to a blow-dried Tiffani. Who, I just found out, has a daddy who’s a big wheel at Morgan Stanley. No wonder she’s getting a big splashy wedding.”
    “Vicky, I really don’t need to hear the details.”
    “I think someone should whisper in her daddy’s ear and tell him just what kind of loser his baby girl’s getting married to.”
    “I have to go. I’ve been in the garden and my hands are all dirty. I’ll call you later.” She hung up and immediately felt guilty for that little white lie. But just the mention of Richard had thrown a shadow over her day, and she didn’t want to think about him. She’d rather shovel manure.
    She grabbed a garden hat and gloves, went back out into the yard, and looked toward the streambed. Tom-in-the-brown-sweater was nowhere in sight, and she felt a twinge of disappointment.
You just got dumped by one man. Are you so anxious to get your heart broken again?
She collected the shovel and wheelbarrow and moved down the slope, toward the ancient flower bed she’d been rejuvenating. Rattling through the grass, she wondered how many times old Hilda Chamblett had made her way down this overgrown path. Whether she’d worn a hat like Julia’s, whether she’d paused and looked up at the sound of songbirds, whether she’d noticed that crooked branch in the oak tree.
    Did she know, on that July day, that it would be her last on earth?
             
    That night, she was too exhausted to cook anything more elaborate than a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. She ate at the kitchen table with the photocopied news clippings about Hilda Chamblett spread out in front of her. The articles were brief, reporting only that the elderly woman had been found dead in her backyard and that foul play was not suspected. At ninety-two, you are already living on borrowed time. What better way to die, a neighbor was quoted as saying, than on a summer’s day in your garden?
    She read the obituary:

    Hilda Chamblett, lifelong resident of Weston, Massachusetts, was found dead in her backyard on July 25. Her death has been ruled by the medical examiner’s office as “most likely of natural causes.” Widowed for the past twenty years, she was a familiar figure in gardening circles, and was known as an enthusiastic plantswoman who favored irises and roses. She is survived by her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine, and her niece Rachel Surrey of Roanoke, Virginia, as well as two grandnieces and a grandnephew.

    The ringing telephone made her splash tomato soup on the page. Vicky, no doubt, she thought, probably wondering why I haven’t called her back yet. She didn’t want to talk to Vicky; she didn’t want to hear about the lavish plans for Richard’s wedding. But if she didn’t answer it now, Vicky would just call again later.
    Julia picked up the phone. “Hello?”
    A man’s voice, gravelly with age, said: “Is this Julia Hamill?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “So you’re the woman who bought Hilda’s house.”
    Julia frowned. “Who is this?”
    “Henry Page. I’m Hilda’s cousin. I hear you found some old bones in her garden.”
    Julia turned back to the kitchen table and quickly scanned the obituary. A splash of soup had landed right on the paragraph listing Hilda’s survivors. She dabbed it away and spotted the name.

    …her cousin Henry Page of Islesboro, Maine…

    “I’m quite interested in those bones,” he said. “I’m considered the family historian, you see.” He added, with a snort, “Because no one