Leota's Garden

  “It’s going to take some doing for me to save face.” Fred’s tone was grim. He took a swallow of scotch and put the glass down on the bar. He looked across at her enigmatically. “Face matters with the Japanese. Since Mr. Yamamoto’s wife was there and anxious to meet you, the fact that my wife didn’t show up said more to them than the hundred pages of documents I’ve been working on for six months.”

  It wasn’t just anger in his eyes. It was hurt and disappointment. She had let him down badly. Fear curled in the pit of her stomach. Would he leave her like all the rest? She tried so hard and nothing ever worked out the way she planned. “I’m sorry, Fred.”

  “It’s a little late to be sorry.” He took up the glass again, swallowed the rest of the scotch, then put the glass on the counter. He looked at her again and shook his head slowly as though trying to make sense of everything. “Nora, sometimes I wonder . . .”

  “Wonder what?” she said softly when he didn’t continue.

  He looked weary and older than his fifty-seven years. “It’s better if I don’t say anything more right now. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  What was that supposed to mean? That it was all her fault? Why couldn’t he try to understand how horrible her day had been? He would understand then how the dinner this evening had slipped her mind. Despite all her efforts, all her sacrifices for those she loved, no one seemed to care what she suffered.

  Fred took up his raincoat from the back of the sofa and bent for his briefcase. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  Somehow, those few words held an ominous sound.

  When he walked out of the room, Nora wept, this time in fear of what the morrow would bring.

  Chapter 9

  Corban pulled into Leota Reinhardt’s driveway, noticing there was a car with a Christian fish symbol on it parked in front of her house. He noticed other things as well. The lawn was freshly mowed, and the bushes in front of the house were pruned neatly and low enough now that the front porch was visible. The hanging pots had been removed.

  As he went up the front steps, he saw that the rocking chair had been washed. The seat was still wet, as was the entire front porch. No spiderwebs, no dust, just the smell of dampness and fresh-cut grass.

  Had another volunteer come over? He felt a twinge of irritation that someone was intruding. Ringing the bell, he waited. On the third ring, he became worried that something might have happened to Mrs. Reinhardt. Why wasn’t she answering her door? Hearing no sounds from inside, he moved to peer through the window beside her front door, but remembered her remarks upon their first meeting. If she didn’t want to answer, she didn’t have to answer.

  Resigned, he went down the steps, wondering what to do next. Just as he was opening his car door, he heard voices at the back of the house. Squeezing past the hood, he strode up the narrow driveway.

  “Mrs. Reinhardt?” he called out as he came around the back corner. She was standing in the garden above the small patio area outside the back door; she was wearing a flowered, polyester dress and a white sweater. A girl was with her.

  A very pretty girl.

  “Corban, what are you doing here? It’s Saturday.”

  “Just thought I’d drop by,” he said, trying not to stare at the old woman’s companion.

  “This is my granddaughter, Anne-Lynn Gardner. Annie, this is Corban Solsek. He’s from a charity that sends volunteers to help old people.”

  The girl had a trim, athletic figure and long, strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a soiled, white T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and dirty tennis shoes. She removed a gardening glove and stepped forward, hand extended. “I’m pleased to meet you, Corban.” Sweat dampened her forehead and dirt smudged her cheek. Despite her disheveled appearance, she glowed with innocence and an open friendliness that made him smile back.

  “Likewise,” he said.

  “You’ve arrived just in time,” Leota said, a gleam in her eyes.

  That remark was enough to snap him back to full attention. Raising a brow, he looked at her. “Dare I ask?”

  She chuckled. “We were about to prune the trees in back. It’s not the best time of year for it, but they’re in dire need. And you’re just the man for the job.”

  “I seem to be the only man around.”

  “Don’t spoil the compliment.”

  He laughed. She looked better than he had ever seen her. Being outdoors seemed to agree with her.

  “We’re going to bring the garden back,” Anne said, smiling.

  What was he getting himself into? “I don’t know the first thing about gardening.”

  “I don’t either.” Anne sounded positively delighted. She pulled the glove back on. “We’re about to learn. Grandma supplies the brains. We supply the brawn.”

  “Corban will take exception to that, Annie.” Leota smiled straight at him. “He’s a senior at the university, and you know how smart they all think they are.”

  While Anne laughed, Corban glowered at the old lady, feigning annoyance with her. “I don’t suppose it would hurt me to get my hands dirty just this once.”

  “Good boy. Rise to the challenge. Tools are in the shed to the right of the gate.”

  He could care less about gardening, but he could see that today Leota Reinhardt was in the mood to talk. Maybe it was the presence of the little dish walking along the cobblestone pathway ahead of him. Whatever it was, he intended to hang around and take mental notes.

  “There’s a ladder on the back wall,” Leota called, following at a much slower pace. She had her hands out slightly as though to balance herself better. “And a saw. It should be hanging on the wall to the right of the door. And a can of latex paint and a brush.”

  Corban wondered why she was talking about paint. They were going to prune trees, not touch up the stucco.

  “Watch for black widows in there,” Leota called, standing at the open gate beneath the sagging arbor. “They like dark places.”

  “We will, Grandma.”

  Groaning inwardly, Corban hung back, hoping the girl wouldn’t expect him to brave the arachnids. She didn’t even bat an eye in his direction. Without the least hesitation, she picked up a broken branch and opened the door. She attacked the webs like a warrior with a sword—upward, downward, forward, moving fearlessly into the dim, dusty environs. She banged around briefly and handed the saw out to him, then came out carrying a ladder.

  “Don’t just stand there, Corban,” the old lady said. “There’s an extension pruner mounted on the wall. And we’ll need the can of latex paint and a brush. Should be on the shelf.”

  “What’s an extension pruner look like?” He looked around cautiously before going inside the dusty, shadow-filled shed.

  “Two poles that fit together after you get them outside. On the end of one are clippers.”

  He found the pieces and became entangled in the rope attached to the lower part of the clippers. Winding the rope quickly around his hand, he picked up the two poles and brought them outside, thankful to be in the sunlight again. He didn’t feel anything crawling on him.

  Anne had already set up the ladder near the biggest tree in the center of the walled-off garden in back. “What kind of tree is it, Grandma?”

  “Apricot. The one over there is a cherry tree. The other one is a plum.” She shook her head. “What a tangled mess . . .”

  Corban couldn’t have agreed with her more. The trees had branches pointing in all directions; the ground was covered with weeds, some knee-high, though those toward the back were higher than that. Worst of all was the layer of shriveled and rotted fruit beneath the tree—several years’ worth by the looks of it. Small trees had sprouted here and there.

  “Okay, Grandma. We’ve got all the tools. Now where do we start?” Anne stood there, saw in hand, looking ready for almost anything.

  Leota Reinhardt made her way carefully toward them. She reached up to one of the branches sagging down and snapped off a portion. She looked a
t it and then around and up through the tree. “First thing you have to do is remove all the dead, broken, and diseased branches. That one and that one—” She pointed. “Start up there and work your way down and out. Find a growth bud and cut just above it.” She glanced at him. “Corban, put that pruner together and use it. Annie can’t do it all by her lonesome.”

  “Watch out below,” Annie said as the first branch swung down.

  “Easy,” Mrs. Reinhardt said. “You don’t want the branches banging into each other. Hand the can up to her, Corban. Annie, you need to paint over the cut so no germs can get in and the sap won’t bleed too long. Use the pocketknife I gave you.”

  Annie took the knife from her back pocket, pried open the small can, and tucked the knife away again. Corban watched her dab paint onto the cut branch. Setting the can into a joining of branches, she leaned down for the saw she had put on the ladder tray.

  “The pruner, Corban. The pruner!”

  The old woman was like a general mustering her troops! She stood on guard at the gate, watching the battle. “Leave that one, Annie. Cut the one to the right. We want to thin the tree so that air will circulate and there’ll be more light to all the branches.”

  “This one, Grandma?”

  “Yes, that’s it. That’s the one. Corban, see if you can get the one over there. Pull. Don’t be afraid of it. See how that limb is rubbing on the bigger branch? It’s doing damage. There’s probably a wound there. Annie, you’ll need to paint over it so there won’t be any decay. There’s a branch right there that needs cutting. The wind must have snapped it. See it? The one with the brown leaves. Can you climb, honey?”

  Annie laughed. “You betcha.” Stepping off the ladder into the tree, the saw dangling from a hook on her belt, she moved through the tree with grace and ease. She paused briefly to get the can of paint and hook it to her waist along with the saw. She didn’t seem to care that some paint was getting on her Levi’s. Corban worked below, glancing up at her. She was like a kid at a picnic.

  “Heads up!” Annie called as another branch took flight.

  As the old woman tutored her minions, the tree took shape. It began to open from within, light filtering through the green leaves and making the edges shine gold. The branches no longer spread in all directions, unwieldy and out of control, but were contained, rounded upward, flat on top like a wineglass.

  “Now,” Mrs. Reinhardt said with a sigh of satisfaction, “there she is. That looks just right.”

  Annie came down from the ladder. She stepped back almost to the gate, where her grandmother stood, and looked up. The smile the old woman wore was childlike in its pleasure.

  “The tree will bear fruit this year,” Mrs. Reinhardt said. “Lots of it.”

  Corban frowned. “I’d think with fewer branches, you’d get less fruit.”

  “A good pruning stimulates the right kind of growth. Same holds true with people.”

  He was about to ask her what she meant by that when Annie said, “What should we do with the prunings, Grandma? Too bad we don’t have a chipper. I’ve seen crews working on the trees that line the streets. They feed the branches in, and they’re chewed up into a fine mulch that they spread under the tree, all in a matter of minutes.”

  “We have something better than a chipper.” Leota Reinhardt’s grin was pure mischief. “We have Corban.” She looked at him and waved her hand in command. “Just cut the bigger branches into two-foot lengths. I’ll get some string and you can make small bundles and stack them by the back door. I’ll burn the branches a few at a time during the cold spots ahead.”

  “While Corban’s doing that, Grandma, I’ll start on the cherry tree,” Annie said, folding the ladder.

  Corban stifled his irritation. Little Miss Eager Beaver and the Slave Driver. What did these two women think he was? Part of the Conservation Corps? Breaking a dead branch over his knee, he tossed it aside, then picked up another branch. It would be easier to do the work as quickly as possible than to try to get out of it.

  Pretty little Anne-Lynn Gardner was already perched on the ladder beneath the cherry tree. Corban broke another branch over his knee and tossed it aside. If he could get some information out of her, the whole day wouldn’t be shot. “I take it you and your grandmother are close?”

  “Not as close as I’d like us to be.” She peered down at him, the saw poised. “Our family didn’t come often, but when we did visit, my mother relegated me to the backyard. I hardly know my grandmother, Corban.” She began sawing the dead limb. “But I’m going to remedy that.”

  Leota found the ball of twine in the laundry cabinet on the back porch. She was already exhausted. Just standing at the garden gate wore her out. The sunshine felt so good, but it also drained her of what little energy she had. Too many months of sitting inside in artificial light, she guessed. She had become as pale as a moldering corpse. Well, she wasn’t sitting inside anymore!

  She took her sun hat from the wall, where it had been hanging for two years, and went back outside. Her legs felt like lead as she went up the four brick steps to the cobblestone walkway that ran in front of the living unit Bernard had built for his parents.

  Everywhere she looked, things needed pruning, thinning, tying up, and removing. Hours of work. For her, it had always been a labor of love. Would it be so for Annie? Poor Corban looked so grim. She had no illusions about why he had agreed to help: he was after information, probably interrogating Annie right now. Not that Annie could tell him much. The little darling wouldn’t even realize she was being interviewed. It wouldn’t enter her head that someone might want to use her.

  Then again, maybe she was being unfair to Corban. It wasn’t entirely his fault he was so puffed up with knowledge that he didn’t have a lick of sense. Education was no less an idol these days than it was in the past. Corban didn’t have her advantages. Sometimes the school of hard knocks taught more than the best universities in the land.

  And You, Lord. You teach the heart as well as the mind. Sometimes the truth is hard to bear, but it’s better to walk in the light of truth than to live in the darkness of lies.

  She was panting slightly when she reached the gate. “You work quickly,” she said to Corban.

  His gaze flickered from Annie to her. She stumbled over one of the cobblestones. Keeping her balance, she gripped an arbor post.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Reinhardt?” Corban looked worried. What did he think? She’d keel over and die at his feet and his paper would go up in smoke? “I’m fine. Just old and clumsy.”

  “I’ll get you one of those garden chairs.”

  “Buttering me up, are you?”

  He paused and gave her a sardonic smile. “It’s easier talking to you when you’re conscious.”

  She chuckled. The lad lacked good manners, but he had spunk. She admired that. “So, have you been asking Annie all kinds of questions about the old lady while I was in the house?”

  “I tried.”

  At least he was learning to tell the truth and not be pretentious.

  Annie parted two branches and grinned down at her. “You are a great mystery, Grandma.”

  “It’s good to be a mystery. Piques the interest. If I told Corban everything about myself, he wouldn’t bother coming around, and I’d have to break in another volunteer.” Corban returned with the American steel chair and plunked it down on the small, weedy lawn. He was clearly annoyed. “Well? Isn’t it the truth?”

  “You shouldn’t tease him, Grandma. I’m sure he won’t forget all about you after getting the information he needs for his report.”

  “You must be seeing sides of him I’ve missed.” Corban’s face turned red, whether from temper or embarrassment she didn’t know. She looked him in the eyes. “If I’m wrong, tell me.”

  “I’m thinking about leaving right now.”

  “Oh, stop pouting. Before you go, move the chair over there in the sunshine. I’ll be able to see better what Annie’s doing to that cherry tree.”


  Corban snatched up the chair, maneuvered it through the gate, and slammed it down again. He came back and offered his arm for support.

  “And I didn’t even have to ask,” she said, smiling up at him. She held firmly to his arm as she made her way over the rough ground of the back section. “Such a good boy, seeing to an old lady’s needs.” She settled herself comfortably in the chair. “Thank you, dear.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am,” he said through his teeth.

  She took the ball of twine out of her sweater pocket and held it out to him. “In case you change your mind about leaving.” When he just looked at it, she said, “For the branches. Two-foot lengths. Did you forget already?”

  “I was hoping you had.” He took the ball of twine and went back to work.

  Leota was warming to him. He was stiff and stuffy and self-seeking, but he might just be reachable. She leaned back, enjoying the feel of sunshine on her face. “Did you know an apricot tree can live up to a hundred years?”

  “How old is yours, Grandma?”

  “Sixty-five years old, or close to it. It was just starting to bear fruit when I came to live with Mama and Papa Reinhardt. I planted two cherry trees. One died. I never knew what killed it. One day it was healthy and the next the leaves were withering. I was worried some blight had gotten it and would spread to the other tree, so I cut it down quick and burned it. I did a lot of working and praying on that soil before I planted that plum tree to replace it.”

  “Sounds like a lot of worry expended on a tree.” Corban tossed one tied bundle aside and started to put together another.

  “It was 1944. Worry was part of breathing. The war was going strong. My husband was in the army, fighting in Europe. Seeing that tree die made me worry all the more about him.”

  Corban paused in his work and looked at her with a frown. “I don’t get it. What does a tree dying have to do with your husband in Europe?”

  “Nothing, I suppose, except that this was my victory garden. It’s hard to believe everything will turn out right when your fruit tree dies overnight.”