The Witness

bubbling brook, with the birdsong. No, she didn’t know quite what to do with it, but if she could, she’d have held these moments, these feelings tight—so tight—forever.
    She had satisfying work, had her gardening, which she enjoyed more than she’d ever imagined. She had a man she respected and enjoyed—more than she’d ever imagined—who would come to dinner, talk, laugh,
be
with her.
    It couldn’t last, but what was the point in projecting, in making herself
un
happy? Hold it tight, she reminded herself, as she added compost to her soil. For the moment.
    She trundled her wheelbarrow back to the greenhouse, wandered through the smell of rich, moist earth; burgeoning flowers; sharp, strong greens, selecting the plants she’d nurtured for this particular project.
    Good, steady physical labor in the warm afternoon. That made her happy, too. Who knew she had such a capacity for happy?
    She made four trips, her Glock against her hip, her dog trotting at her heels before she began to lay out the plan she’d sketched out on chilly winter nights.
    The cardinal flowers and coneflowers, the sweet-scented heliotrope mixed with airy lantana, the flow of verbena, the charm of New England asters, the elegance of oriental lilies for nectar. She had the sunflowers and hollyhocks and milkweed for host plants to tempt the adults to lay their eggs, the young caterpillars to feed.
    She arranged, rearranged, grouped, regrouped, gradually veering away from her initial, somewhat mathematical layout when she found the less rigid and exact pleased her eye.
    In case, she took out her phone and took pictures from several angles before she picked up her trowel to dig the first hole.
    An hour later, she stepped back and checked her progress before going inside for ice to add to the tea she’d left steeping in the sun.
    “It’s going to be beautiful,” she told Bert. “And we’ll be able to sit on the porch and watch the butterflies. I think we’ll draw hummingbirds, too. I’ll love seeing all this grow and bloom, the butterflies and birds. We’re putting down roots, Bert. The deeper they go, the more I want them.”
    She closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun.
    Oh, she loved the way the air sounded, loved the way it smelled. She loved the rhythm of work and pleasure she’d found here, the quiet moments, the busy ones. She loved the feel of her dog leaning against her leg and the taste of tea cool on her throat.
    She loved Brooks.
    Her eyes popped open.
    No, no, she’d just gotten caught up in the happy moments here. In this euphoria of having everything just as she wanted. And she’d let herself mix that with what he’d said to her that morning, how he looked at her.
    Action and reaction, she told herself. Nothing more.
    But what if it were more?
    Her alarm beeped, stiffening her spine and shoulders as she laid a hand on the butt of the Glock.
    She wasn’t expecting a package.
    She walked quickly to the monitor she’d set up on the porch. She remembered the car even before she made out the driver. Brooks’s mother—dear God—and two other women.
    Talking, laughing, as Sunny drove toward the house.
    Before she could decide what to do, the car rounded the last curve. Sunny gave the horn a cheery toot-toot when she spotted Abigail.
    “Hey, there!” Sunny shouted out the car window before the three of them piled out.
    The woman in the front had to be Brooks’s sister, Abigail thought. The coloring, the bone structure, the shape of the eyes and mouth were too similar not to be genetic.
    “Look at this! Butterfly garden.”
    “Yes. I’ve been working on it this afternoon.”
    “Well, it’s just going to be wonderful,” Sunny told her. “Smell the heliotrope! I’ve got Plato in the car. Do you suppose Bert would like to meet him?”
    “I … I suppose he would.”
    “Mama’s so busy worrying about introducing the dogs, she doesn’t worry about the humans. I’m Mya, Brooks’s sister, and our middle sister, Sybill.”
    “It’s nice to meet you both,” Abigail managed, as her hand was gripped and shaken.
    “We blew the day off,” Mya beamed out, a lanky woman with a pixie cut in streaky brunette. “Work, kids, men. We had ourselves a fancy ladies’ lunch, and now we’re heading in to do some shopping.”
    “We thought you might like to come along with us,” Sybill said.
    “Come along?” Baffled, off-balance, one eye on her dog, Abigail tried to keep up.
    “Shopping,” Mya repeated.