Two hours later and I'm still in my bedroom curled up on my bed with my arms around my knees. I haven't slept. I've been too busy trying to think of a way out of this situation without looking like a total jerk. My eyes roam the room, taking in my surroundings. It's nothing all that special. There are some trophies on the old dresser by the window. A couple posters hanging on the wall of old rock bands from what looks like the 90s. And some pictures of people I don't know on the walls.

But wait. Hold on. One of them... one of them I do know. It's my mom. Younger, definitely. A teenager. But her. And something about seeing a picture of my mom in this places soothes my racing heartbeat. I shuffle out of bed and walk over to the picture hanging on the wall. She looks so much like me. Or I guess I look like her. Her blues are sparkling, and her smile is so bright that it's practically blinding. She's wearing a sage green crop-top under a set of overalls clearly made into shorts. There are large hoop earrings dangling from her ears, and she's got really dark lipstick painted on her lips.

My fingers graze the photo, as if touching it will bring her here. I miss her so much. But I wonder why her picture is in this room. And then it hits me. This room... it's his room. This is his picture. These are his things. And suddenly I can't get out of the room fast enough. I run out the bedroom door and down the hall where I cam from a couple hours ago. In the kitchen is my grandmother, and she smiles brightly when she sees me.

"Well, hullo there, dearie," she says as she stirs something in a pot on the stove. "Did you have a good nap?"

I shrug my shoulders. "It was okay," I lie. My stomach grumbles angrily as the scent hits my nostrils. "What are you cooking?"

She turns back toward the pot. "Oh, just some potato soup. Thought I'd make some soup and sandwiches for lunch. Wasn't sure when you'd wake up, but your papa says that my soup can wake the dead."

I sit in one of the open chairs at the table. "It does smell good," I say.

She grins. "Why, thank you. Wait 'til you see how it tastes."

We sit in silence for a while as she stirs the soup. I should talk, but I can't think of anything to say. It feels like I'm in a dream. The strangest dream of my life. My eyes take in my surroundings. Someone in this house loves chickens. There are pictures and tiny figures of chickens all over the room. Sitting on the counter is a chicken cookie jar, and I wonder if it's filled with cookies. "Does that have any cookies in it?" I ask, pointing at the jar.

She looks to where I'm pointing and nods her head. "Oh yes. It's always filled with cookies. Chocolate chip. Your papa's favorite." She smiles wistfully. "I used to have to put it above the refrigerator to keep it out of your dad's reach. He was always getting in that thing."

"Well, he did have an addictive personality," I say, and immediately I regret it. Her smile slips as her body tenses. "I'm sorry. That was... not right. I shouldn't have said that."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, love," she says as her smile fights to return to its place. "Jack was a good boy really. He was a bit rough around the edges sometimes, but overall he was a good boy."

I nod my head, because I don't really know what else to say. In an attempt to change the subject, I look around the room again and ask, "Where's Peter?"

She lifts her chin up to the window. "Out in the garden. Working on his flowerbeds. Bless him."

"He likes to garden?" I ask.

She nods. "Yes. It's his escape. Loses himself in the dirt and sunshine. You're welcome to join him if you like. I'm sure he'd love to see you."

"Okay," I say, and I get up off the chair and go out the back door. It's a sunny day. Warm. Probably seventy degrees. I squint my eyes and scan the yard, looking for any sign of my grandfather. I spot him kneeling down at the edge of the yard near a rosebush, his walking stick sitting beside him as he digs through the dirt. Silently, I make my way over to him, before sitting down on the green grass next to his walking stick.

He doesn't say anything for a long time. I'm beginning to wonder if he even knows I'm here until he says, "You don't seem all that happy to be here." His honest words sent a jolt through me. I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off. "It's all right. I don't blame you. You must think this whole thing is odd, right? Spending the next few days with people you can't remember ever meeting, but who seem to know so much about you."

"Yeah," I reply. "It is kind of weird."

He digs his fingers deeper into the dirt and grunts. "I can see it on your face. Your granny is in denial. She wants to believe that this is all perfectly fine. But I know better."

"It's just...," I say, trying to find the right words. "I don't know. It's not that I'm unhappy. But I don't know how to feel about all this. And in there, when she was talking about him... she doesn't know what it's like."

He nods his head. "She doesn't want to know, love," he says. "Not that she doesn't care. She just doesn't want to see it for what it is. That's how it was for years. Didn't want to see what her son was."

"What about you?" I ask, turning my head to look at him.

He sighs as he wipes his gloved hands and sits up before looking at me as well. "I loved my boy, Summer. He was an imperfect man, but he was my son. I loved him with all I had. Gave him everything I could. And I lost him anyway. I always saw him for what he was, but I never forgot where he came from. Who made him."

I avert my eyes and look out over the rest of the yard. "Did you do all of this?" I ask, because I have to change the subject.

"The garden?" I nod my head. "Oh yes. Spent most of my life working on it. Tending to it every year. Building it piece by piece."

"It's beautiful," I say, and he beams at me. "Really. I could never do anything like this."

He waves his hand dismissively. "Sure you can. Anyone can do this. Just takes time and love. And a lot of reading. I can't tell you the number of books I've read over the years about gardening. To tell you the truth, it's gotten a bit harder since my knee started giving me trouble. But being out here keeps me young. I love the feeling of the grass under me as I create new life with water and soil."

I crack my first smile of the day. "I could spend hours out here," I say as I continue to take in all the beautiful flowers lining the yard. "It's so peaceful."

"Your mother said those same words to me a long time ago," he says. "She was only here for a short period of time. Wanted to meet her boyfriend's parents. And oh how we just adored her."

I remember the picture of my mom in the room I'm staying in. "Did my dad love her?" I ask.

He nods his head. "Very much. Couldn't get enough of her. They were young. Teenagers. About your age, actually. Maybe a bit older. But I swear he only saw the sun through her eyes. I actually believed she'd be the one to save him."

I swallow hard and look away. "It's hard for me to talk about him," I whisper. "Hard to even think about him. I always just kind of assumed he came and went. There one day and gone the next. Like a really long one night stand."

"It was a bit like that," he replies. "He entered your mom's life like a storm. We thought her ray of light would break up the clouds, but the wind was too strong. He turned into a hurricane. And before we all knew it, he was destroying everything in his path. Your mom. Your granny and me. And then, finally, himself."

"Can we stop talking about him?" I ask, because the weight in my heart is becoming too heavy.

"We can," he replies, and I breathe a sigh of relief. "You know, I think your granny is probably almost done with lunch. Would you mind helping me up so we can go inside?"

I nod my head and get to my feet, holding my hand out for him to take. He reaches for his walking stick in one hand and takes my hand in the other. Then he uses me to help lift himself off the ground, steadying himself with his walking stick before taking a tentative first step. "You know," I say as I hold two arms out, ready to catch him if he starts to fall. "You really might want to have that knee replaced."

"Not you too," he says with a shake of his head and a soft chuckle. "Don't you worry about me, dearie. I'll be just fine. Now come on. I smell the soup out here. Wait 'til you try it. Best potato soup you'll ever eat."

We walk into the house together, his hand on the small of my back as we step over the threshold. We wash our hands quickly before turning around to face the dining area. On the table are three bowls and a plate full of what looks like grilled cheese sandwiches. My mouth waters at the sight of them as I plop down in the chair I was sitting in just a little while ago. When the three of us are sitting at the table together, we take each other's hands and pray over the meal, something I've only done a few times in my life. Then I watch as my grandfather reaches for a sandwich and dunks it in the soup before taking a bite.

He moans softly as he swallows his first bite. "Absolutely delicious, my love," he says, and my grandmother beams at him. "As always."

"Thank you," she mutters, her face glowing red. She takes a sandwich for herself before looking at me and saying, "Help yourself, love. Really. You must be starving after the day you've had."

My stomach grumbles as if in response to this, and it's loud enough for them to hear. I give a sheepish grin as I reach for a sandwich myself and take a bite. It's so gooey and salty that for a second it burns my tastebuds. Then I take a bite of soup, and oh my god, it really is the best soup I've ever had in my life. "This really is good," I say after taking a few more hungry bites. "Thank you for cooking."

"It was my pleasure, love," she replies, her own sandwich already half-eaten. "Did you enjoy your papa's garden?" I nod my head. "It's truly lovely. He's won awards for it, you know. Been featured in a few magazines. Was even on a television show once."

"Ginny," my grandfather says, his own cheeks turning red. "Quit bragging to the child." He turns to me. "It's not that big a deal."

"You've been on a TV show?" I ask, my eyes wide in surprise.

He chuckles. "About ten years ago, yeah. Just on some program about the best gardens in Britain. Mine was number 47, if you can believe it. But I was once rated in the top ten in Surrey. Your granny has all the clippings in an album. Even has the tape of the show, if memory serves me."

My grandmother nods her head. "I do. Packed away somewhere. But I can find it if you're—"

"Yes," I interrupt. "Yes, please. I would love to see it." I turn to my grandfather, who's smiling at me. "Your garden is truly beautiful. Back home I live in a neighborhood. Think suburbs. Not a lot of gardens out there. At least not like yours."

"Well, after lunch I'll go search the attic and see if I can find the tape," my grandmother says. Then her eyes get bright as an idea occurs to her. "Would you like to help me? It's rather dusty up there, and can be a bit dark. But there are all sorts of treasures buried in boxes. Might be fun to go on a little treasure hunt."

I nod my head. "That does sound fun." And as we continue eating our lunch and making small talk, I find myself growing more and more excited at the idea of going up into the attic with my grandmother to search for, not just my grandfather's tape, but whatever else I can find hidden under the dust and debris from years gone by. Why this appeals to me so much, I don't know. Maybe I'm hoping to find more common ground. Maybe I'm looking for reasons that they never reached out to me. Whatever the reason, I find myself eating my sandwiches and soup faster as the prospect of exploring for answers.

Author's Note:
Little bit of a shorter chapter here in comparison to some of my more recent ones. But I hope you enjoy it! I'm going to try to work on A Taste of Cinnamon here soon. I only have a handful of chapters left in it, but I just needed a break to focus on this one for a while. I'll go back to it probably this weekend though. New chapter will be posted as soon as I can write it! Stay safe and healthy until then, my dears!
XOXO,
~Aly