Page 8 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
"I will." Charlie replies with tenderness in her voice.
Leonor pats Charlie's hands once more, smiles at me, and makes her way back inside. We watch her go. The cardigan, the shuffling gait, the way she hums something under her breath as she walks.
Leonor has dementia. We don't correct her anymore. There is no kindness in that correction.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"Stop." Charlie shakes her head once. "It's fine."
We keep walking. Charlie bumps my shoulder with hers. "Speaking of dead fathers. How was the meeting with the lawyer?"
I almost laugh. Charlie delivers everything the same direct and blunt way. The emotional equivalent of ripping a bandage off fast.
"It went as well as it could. Paula was there. In full widow grieving performance."
"And?"
"And I let them know my terms."
Charlie stops walking. "Sienna. We're talking about several millions—"
"I don't want it."
"Your father's estate. The investments alone—"
"I don't want his money, Charlie." My voice comes out hard. I force a softer tone. "I just want the house. I have plans for the house. That's it."
Charlie watches me for a moment. She's good at this, the assessment without pressure. She learned it from the academy, and the few years she's been on the job.
"Okay," she says, not pushing it.
We reach the truck and I open the passenger door, pulling out the garment bag. Charlie takes it and drapes it over her arm, then turns and looks back the way we came. The garden. The raised beds. The residents moving between them in the afternoon light, slow and deliberate, hands in soil.
"This is good, what you're doing here," she says. "Volunteering your time in exchange for Leonor's care."
"It's the least I can do. Leonor always kept an eye on me when I was growing up, whenever her work as the housekeeper let her. She tried to make sure I was okay, in whatever small ways she could." I lean against the side of the truck. "It's good for them to be involved in maintaining the garden. They get some sun, do physical activity, and socialize. They have a purpose. And it's good for the business. Families come visit, they see the garden,they ask who designed it. I've already picked up a few residential clients from it."
"Smart." Charlie nods. "How's Viridian Landscape Services doing?" She affects a slight accent on the name of the company I started, somewhere between impressed and mocking.
"Slow. But steady. I don't have to wait tables anymore, so that's good."
"That's a big deal, Sienna."
I shrug.
But it is.
Charlie slings the garment bag over her shoulder and turns to go, then stops. Turns back. The expression on her face has changed, slightly more careful, slightly more deliberate.
"Are you still doing the green guerrilla thing?"
My fingers find the edge of the truck bed. Press against the metal.
"Why?"
"Because there's this kid. Good kid, but he's starting to run with people who aren't. He's angry, bored, no direction. I think it could be good for him."
I don't answer immediately. I let the question sit, let my body process whatever tightened when she said the words.
