“When I was a girl, my grandmother had a gardener,” she says conversationally. “He came twice a week. Mr. Pell. He always wore too much aftershave—you’d smell him from across the yard—but he could prune a hydrangea like nobody you’ve ever seen. My grandmother used to take her morning coffee with him in the potting shed every morning. For about an hour and a half. Sometimes, she came out with hay in her hair.”
I make a small noise that is, I hope, a polite acknowledgment of this anecdote. Inwardly, I am squirming, screaming, and dying, bit by bit.
“My grandfather knew, of course.” Susan takes another sip. “Everyone did. He had been hitting her since 1958, so nobody, including my grandfather, had any interest in saying a single word about Mr. Pell. He kept the peace.”
The cold has gotten
