Having managed the most difficult part of their ruse, the beginning, Margaret and Norah looked forward to their first weekend together as a chance to slow the pace and get to know each other better. Come Saturday, the girl pushed open the woman's bedroom door with breakfast, burnt toast and strong coffee, and she sat at the foot of the bed while Margaret crunched and sipped, feigned delight on her pursed lips, and then Norah took the tray and washed the dishes while Margaret bathed and readied herself for the day. Conversation, which had been missing for years, filled the house, questions about school and friends, how nice that Fallon boy turned out to be after all.
Heavy footsteps on the porch, stomping snow from boot treads, announced the presence of the visitors before the first sharp knock. Norah surprised the couple standing outside the door as they unwrapped their coats and gloves. The man, a woolen skullcap over his bald head, seemed embarrassed to be discovered, but the woman craned her neck forward to take a closer look at the girl. “I'm Mrs. Delarosa,” she said. “We're your neighbors. This is my husband, Pasquale.”
“Hello, miss,” he said, offering his hand. “Everybody calls me Pat. What's your name?”
Simonetta tapped him on the elbow for silence. “Is Mrs. Quinn at home?”
“Gramma!” Norah yelled toward the kitchen. “It's the next-doors come to call.”
She waited a beat, and when Margaret did not arrive at once, Norah sped back and found her, flustered and uncertain, struggling from the easy chair. “Follow my lead,” she whispered to her young confederate.
Waiting patiently in the foyer, the Delarosas offered a warm greeting. Simonetta handed over fresh-baked muffins in a wicker basket. Pat presented a bouquet of Peruvian lilies accented by bright orange poppies.
“Pat, Simonetta.” Margaret ushered them inside. “Where did you get these flowers in the middle of winter?”
“Blueberry?” Norah peeked beneath the gingham cloth.
“My granddaughter. Norah.”
Lifting her hand to her mouth, Simonetta appeared on the verge of tears. “So she came back to you. After all this time. We pray for you every Sunday, and now Erica's come home. Where is she?”
“No, not her, just her daughter. Norah, this is Mr. and Mrs. Delarosa.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Oh.” Simonetta shifted her enthusiasm. “What a lovely girl. You must be so happy.”
Marking the passage of the bouquet, Pat Delarosa stepped closer. “You forget I have a flower shop. Flowers flown in from all over the world.”
“You pray every Sunday?” Norah asked.
Bending to the girl's eye level, Simonetta took her hands. “For your grandmother. For your mother.”
The women retreated to the kitchen to brew another pot of coffee. An explanation was hatched over blueberry muffins, elaborations on the story Margaret had prepared for the principal of the elementary school.
In the living room, Norah admired the arrangement in the vase. “Al-stroemeria,” Pat told her. “Don't tell your gramma but I had too many in the shop.”
“She wouldn't mind. She's happy to have any.”
“Hey, look here, I show you something you never known you seen. This kind of lily has twists at the bottom.” He pointed to the resupinate leaves. “So what's the bottom is really the top, and what's the top is the underneath.”
“Things aren't always what they seem.”
“You have a favorite?”
“A favorite flower?”
“Your mama, she liked the scent of jasmine. I knew her since she was a little girl your age.”
“Was she anything like me?”
Pat considered her question, taking her in as for the first time and straining to remember his earlier encounters with Erica. “She was a smart cookie like you, eh? And friendly like you. And Paul, that's her father you never met, she was the apple of his eye. A nice girl, too, and too bad what happened.”
“Was my grandmother very sad when my mother left?”
“Sad? Oh, yes, heartbroken.” The brusqueness of his confession caught up with him. “No, I mean, she was sad, yes. But happy now, right, that you're here?” Turning away from the child's gaze, he went to the window and looked out at the frosty lawn, his rough hands worried together. She did not move toward him but remained by the flowers and their fragrance building in the heat of the room. “I'm sorry,” he said at last. “I don't mean to bring up such things, but we worry about her, your grandmother, kind of lonesome by herself. I keep out an eye, and my wife too. But you know, she don't ask much, and ever since your mother, well, she holds her heart to herself, eh?”
Norah approached from behind and stood next to him, staring at the bare winter scene.“You watch over her.”
“Like a neighbor should. What's a neighbor for, anyhow? She don't go out much lately, and I worry.”