I smiled at her.
“Honey,” I said, “neither did I. That’s why I left.”
She put down her paintbrush and hugged me, and we both got sage-green paint all over our shirts, and neither of us cared.
PART 11
On the first warm weekend in April, I finally met the rest of my neighbors.
Walt and his golden retriever, Biscuit, came over first, carrying a pie his late wife used to make. Then the woman with the toddler, whose name turned out to be Priya. Then the teenage boy with the basketball, Marcus, who offered to mow my lawn for fifteen dollars a week and then apologized for “being kind of nosy that day with the police.”
“Marcus,” I said, “you can be nosy anytime you want. That’s what neighbors are for.”
He grinned.
Walt stood on my back porch and looked out at the maple tree. It was just starting to bud, little red tips appearing on every branch.
