“George Bridger. I know of him. As Aggie suggested, the sheriff can probably help.”
I bristled. “He’s old and sick, but as far as I know, he hasn’t broken any laws. He’s private. I don’t believe he’d appreciate my bringing the authorities into his business.”
Mr. Browne frowned, but then it slowly shifted, and a smile grew on his face. “Spoken like your grandfather.” He leaned back in his chair and tapped the shiny desktop with his finger. “He and George Bridger—I always thought of them as the old guard. The county has grown, changed, over the last decade especially. Your grandfather was one of the originals—those folks who lived in the back of beyond and minded their own business. They didn’t invite or appreciate interference. George Bridger was garrulous. He spoke a lot when he was in a chatty mood, but he actually said very little. Your grandfather spoke very little and meant every word.” He leaned forward again. “It was my pleasure to have known him. Your grandmother, too. You say she’s doing well?”
I wanted to get Mr. Browne back on track. “She is. I’m not here about her, but rather Mr. Bridger.”
“I’ll make some calls and find out about him. Shall I call the house number with what I find out?”
“That will be fine. If Gran answers, ask for me. I don’t want to worry her.”
“Your grandmother calls from time to time about business. She’s not much given to chitchat. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you doing well out there? Do you have what you need?”
His questions made me uneasy. I fidgeted. “We’re good.”
“Your daughter? Ellen? How is she?”
I must’ve moved suddenly because I heard a thud and realized my purse was on the floor. I was grateful for a reason to hide my face. Leaning over, grabbing for my purse, I said, “Fine. We’re all fine.”
Suddenly questions abounded in my head. As I’d suspected, Gran hadn’t told him of our loss. I wanted to ask him why he paid our bills. Why was he involved in our lives? But asking would’ve been trespassing on my grandparents’ business and would invite him to question me further about us and our lives. I was curious, but mostly I was respectful of my grandparents and grateful we had financial support such that Gran and I had our needs met. I wanted to get out of here before I had to say more lies.
“Thank you, Mr. Browne. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
A day later, Duncan Browne called, and I made sure to get there first.
“I got the phone, Gran!” I turned away from the living room, going as far as the cord would stretch, and kept my voice down. “What did you find out?”
“He went to the hospital in Charlottesville.”
“How is he?”
“I’m very sorry to say that he passed. He walked into the emergency room and collapsed. They were unable to revive him.”
I was stunned.
“Again, I’m sorry to tell you like this. I didn’t want to keep you waiting on the information.”
“No, I was just thinking that George Bridger always did have his own way of doing things. I’m sorry he had to go through this alone.”
“I understand.”
“What about a funeral?” A thought popped into my head. “Do you know whether his son is arranging a service?”
“I don’t know his son, but I don’t think so. Apparently Mr. Bridger had already arranged to be cremated. I was able to obtain the name of his executor, a local pastor, who said Mr. Bridger didn’t want a service. He didn’t mention the son. There’s a cousin by marriage, I believe, but she lives out of state somewhere. As I recall, his son left home long ago. Is that your understanding?”
This was a chance for me to say, His son visited him recently, and before Mr. Bridger died he gave me his granddaughter to look after. But I squelched the words before they were uttered.
I said, “As far as I know, he’s still gone. Thank you for your help. If you hear more, will you let me know?”
“I will. If you or your grandmother need anything, please call me. And you’re welcome to come by anytime you need to.”
We disconnected. I stood there clutching the receiver. I’d turned back toward the living room and saw Gran and Ellen flipping through the pages of a storybook and commenting on the illustrations.
Mr. Bridger certainly did have a knack for doing things his own way and in his own timing.
But so many losses. Our own, then Mildred, and now Mr. Bridger. Grand, too. A whole generation was passing.
I decided not to tell Gran about Mr. Bridger. She was happy these days because of Ellen.
Trisha, I reminded myself.
For the time being, Gran was happy, and I wasn’t inclined to shake that up. Fate would or wouldn’t send Liam or his wife back here. If they returned, I’d do the right thing. Whatever that was.
For a year after George Bridger left his granddaughter on our porch in Cooper’s Hollow, our lives were blessed. Gran stood straighter and moved better. She laughed a lot. So did I. The county sent visiting nurses by to check on Gran from time to time. They were professional, but they couldn’t take the place of Mildred. Plus, it wasn’t always the same nurse. Even so, the general consensus was a thumbs-up on Gran’s improvement, and Ellen charmed them. Our sweet Ellen had found her voice, and she didn’t stop talking except when she was working in the garden with me. She’d talk then, too, but in a whisper. I asked her why, and she said she didn’t want to frighten the bunnies and squirrels and birdies.
I showed her how to tell the difference between the plants and the weeds, but she liked the weeds, too, so her help was more in the way of companionship than useful action. One day in late June, almost two months after she’d come to us, she was holding a spade for me while I resorted to digging out a stubborn weed with my fingers, when I heard her whisper, “Mommy.”
She was staring at an orange butterfly that had fluttered nearby and landed on the tip of her spade. Ellen’s eyes had opened so wide they were nearly round. Her lips were pursed as if she’d been caught in midwhisper or was about to offer a kiss.
The butterfly moved its wings and fluttered away.
For the rest of the day, she wanted to talk about the butterfly, butterflies in general, and everything butterflies. Why are they orange? Why aren’t they all orange? How do they fly? Why do they like flowers? I didn’t understand everything she said, but I answered every “why” as best I could.
When July arrived and, with it, the awful anniversary, I paid a special visit to the first Ellen’s grave. I tidied the rocks arrayed around it and put a sprig of wildflowers on the earth above her. The small, unskilled wooden cross I’d placed there still stood, but it was unmarked by name or date. I’d never been able to bring myself to write her name on something so inadequate. Now, I thought, it was just as well.