Examined the page with complete seriousness.
Nodded.
Handed it back.
The exchange lasted perhaps fifteen seconds.
Daniel felt as though he had watched a treaty being signed.
Later that afternoon, while Lily drew at the kitchen table, Evelyn sat in one of the porch rocking chairs.
“My mother died when I was nine.”
Daniel turned.
Evelyn watched the yard.
“Car accident.”
He remained quiet.
“January. Ice.”
The chair moved once.
“My father loved me. I should say that before anything else.”
Daniel nodded.
“But he had no idea what to do after.”
“He tried?”
“Constantly.”
A faint smile.
“He tried so hard it became exhausting.”
Daniel understood more than he wanted to.
“He kept asking if I was okay. Kept arranging activities. Kept telling me Mom would want me to be happy.”
Evelyn looked toward the open screen door.
“I eventually learned that if I looked functional, everyone relaxed.”
Daniel’s chest tightened.
“Who changed that?”
“My aunt Frances.”
“The terrible cook.”
Evelyn looked at him.
“I’ve mentioned her?”
“No.”
“You look like someone who had an aunt who couldn’t cook.”
That earned him a real smile.
Small.
But real.
“She gave me a notebook,” Evelyn said. “Then sat next to me and read for an hour.”
“Didn’t ask anything?”
“No.”
“What did you draw?”
Evelyn looked surprised.
“I don’t remember.”
She thought.
“Actually, that’s not true.”
“What?”
“A tree.”
Daniel looked toward the oak.
They both noticed the coincidence.
Neither commented on it.
Evelyn began returning.
Not according to a schedule anyone acknowledged.
Thursday.
Then the following Friday.