The blackberry bushes behind the conservatory are heavy with the last of the summer crop, and I’m picking them on a Saturday morning with purple-stained fingers and a bowl that’s already half full.
It’s been six weeks since Victor died. Three weeks since Dale’s arrest, nearly three since Marina’s, and twelve days since the recovery team began work by the creek. Formal identification has now confirmed the remains are Thomas’s. The notification came through Eugene, who asked Agnes to tell us together.
The memorial is next Saturday. Eugene and Patricia have arranged a small ceremony by the harbor. The plaque will name Thomas Allen Marsh, 1954–1996: carpenter, brother, father. Marina will not be there. The family has decided what can be read on her behalf, and none of us has asked them to explain the decision.
Agnes donated the plaque. She insisted. “Thomas deserves to be remembered by name,” she said, “not by the mystery.”
The blackberries are warm from the sun, and they give gently when I press them between my fingers, and the juice stains my skin the same deep purple it stained my hands the first day I made scones in Agnes’s kitchen. Six weeks ago. A lifetime.
I hear the kitchen door open behind me. Agnes steps into the garden, carrying a mug of coffee and the expression of a woman who has something to say and has decided to say it while standing among the roses.
“The Hendersons left a review,” Agnes says. “Five stars. They liked the breakfast and the pears. Not a word about the case.”
“Good,” I say.
“Very good.” She puts her mug on the garden bench. “We aren’t offering tours of the conservatory, whatever the tourism committee thinks.”
“I’ll put that in the brochure.”
“You will put nothing in a brochure without showing me.”
I grin. I pick another blackberry. The bowl is almost full.
“Three new bookings this week,” she says. “A couple from San Francisco. A family from Portland. And a woman researching old houses who asked whether she could interview us.”
“A book.”
“I told her she could ask about the wallpaper. It has waited long enough for an audience.”
“You have a reputation for being the most terrifying woman on the Oregon coast.”
“Thank you.”
I carry the bowl of blackberries inside. The kitchen is warm and bright, and the smell of the scones I baked this morning — lemon poppy seed — is still lingering in the air. Clover is on her chair, sleeping in a patch of sunlight that falls through the window like a benediction.
I set the blackberries on the counter. I wash my hands. I look at the kitchen — the copper pots, the herb rack, the farmhouse table, the window with the garden view. This is the room where I made my first scone for Agnes. This is the room where Marina told us what she did. This is the room where Agnes told me to stay.
I know which drawer holds the good pastry brush without having to look.
“I got a call from Ryan,” I say.
Agnes’s hand stills on her coffee mug. “Your ex.”
“My ex. He wants to talk. He says he’s ‘ready to apologize.’” I pick up a blackberry and roll it between my stained fingers. “He left a voicemail. He said he wanted me to hear his side before I made any decisions about the accounts.”
“What did you do?”
“I saved it with the account records. I didn’t call him back.”
That is not quite all. I take the cooperative’s formal offer from my apron pocket and set it beside the berries. The figures I sent were good enough for them to propose a six-month counter lease. I have checked the terms, spoken to two suppliers, and arranged advice about the debts Ryan left. The old butter invoice is paid. Other questions remain, but I finally know which questions to ask.
Agnes reads the offer without touching it. “They’ve made a serious offer.”
“They have. The kitchen is fitted out. I would have access to the books, my own account, and written terms. They even offered me a corner window.” I smile at the absurdity of how much a window can matter. “I wanted my bakery back so badly I barely noticed when it stopped being the thing I wanted most.”
“Don’t refuse something worthwhile on my account,” she says. There is no tremor in her voice, but she sets down her mug more carefully than usual.
“I’m not.” I take a breath. “I thanked them and turned down the lease. I asked whether they would consider a wholesale trial instead. They said they’d look at figures. I’d like to work them out with you before I promise anyone deliveries.”
“For orders that size, we’ll need to check capacity, delivery costs, and any additional requirements,” Agnes says. “And who owns what. In writing.”
“And a second mixer. Possibly two.”
“Absolutely not two until I see your figures.”
There it is: a business conversation in which I’m expected to read the figures. I tuck the letter beside the recipe cards. There will be separate accounts, written terms, and questions I won’t apologize for asking. Wanting to trust somebody no longer means handing over the part of my life I’m afraid to understand.
Agnes nods. She takes a sip of coffee. She sets the mug down.
“Good,” she says.
We stand in the kitchen, two women who have learned that a home can shelter people without sheltering every secret they bring into it.
“I’m going to make a pie,” I say. “Blackberry-lavender crumble. From the garden.”
“I know.”
“Is that okay?”
“It’s more than okay.” Agnes picks up her mug. She walks to the door. She pauses on the threshold.
“Tess. If you want that window in Portland later, tell me. We can make plans without making enemies.”
“I will.”
She studies my face, then nods. “Good. We have enough people guessing what everyone else wants.”
She walks through the door. “Now make your pie. I have linens to iron.”
She disappears down the hallway. I hear her footsteps on the stairs — steady, purposeful, the footsteps of a woman who has been walking through this house for thirty-five years and still knows every creak and whisper of its bones.
I wash the blackberries. I pull out the flour and the butter. I measure the lavender — dried, from the garden, the same lavender that’s been growing behind the conservatory for decades.
I make the pie, crimping the edge just as my mother taught me. At the last minute I set aside a small wedge of dough for a second tartlet, because Agnes will pretend she does not want dessert and then eat half of mine.