commenced humming as she added salt to boiling potatoes. Nicole finished the salad, set it on the table and slipped out the back door onto the small deck. The muggy warmth of a summer evening embraced her. The humidity was preferable to the heavy aroma of side pork frying in grease. No wonder Grandma’s cholesterol was sky-high. And in the last couple of weeks since Nicole arrived in the little town of Ellington, the woman claimed her granddaughter was too thin and needed plumping up. One more excuse to defy doctor’s orders and refuse to change her diet. Nicole grimaced.
Grandma would give a soul in need the shirt off her back—or hand-make them one—but if there was an award for being set in one’s ways, she would win it. Every change was always “over my dead body.” Nicole ran splayed fingers through thick, dark hair and released a long sigh.
Her gaze scanned the quiet residential neighborhood in the small town of Ellington. A few of the 1920s bungalows had aged less gracefully than the Keller home, the oldest house in the neighborhood and the only towering colonial. Typical of the Kellers to march to a different drummer, but they paid meticulous care to what they owned. Not that anyone’s property was particularly attractive at the moment. The paving, curbs and gutters had recently been torn off the streets to allow replacement of the underground water and sewer pipes, leaving rutted dirt tracks and, in some places, freshly dug pits instead of roads. Navigation was a challenge in any direction from this corner lot. A distant boom echoed. The big equipment worked on into the evening in another area of town.
A pervasive sadness sifted through Nicole. Change happened whether a person planned it or not—and not always for the good. An image of Glen in his uniform, flashing his winsome grin, darted past her mind’s eye. She huffed against a stab of pain in her chest where her heart should be. That organ had felt cold and dead since the sun-bright winter day Glen’s captain showed up on her doorstep in full-dress blues, hat in hand.
Melancholy pressed Nicole onto a chair on the deck. When she was growing up and her parents brought her to visit Grandma Jan and Grandpa Frank in this west-central Minnesota town, the lawn was a living carpet of thick grass, thriving plants and lush flowerbeds. Since Grandpa’s death a decade ago, when Nicole was twenty-two—a young woman barely wed!—the plants had disappeared one by one, and the flowerbeds had shrunk to a few clumps of petunias here and there. Grandma was not the green thumb in the family, though she’d done her best to maintain Grandpa’s beloved rose garden that lined the property along Tenth Street.
At least until this year.
Now the garden looked like some razor-toothed monster had chomped a bite out of it and gouged a trench in the earth up to the house. The gaping hole was part of the city infrastructure project to install new water and sewer lines. Out on the road, the early-evening breeze puffed dust clouds into the air. Across the street, a neighbor emerged from his house, lifted a lazy hand in greeting and ambled toward his garage.
Nicole rose and trod down the three steps onto the grass, then wandered along the edge of the trench until she reached the pitiful remains of Grandpa’s beloved roses. A magnificent grandiflora and a prolific white floribunda survived on one side of the gouge in the earth. On the other, several bushes of miniature roses held their blossoms up toward the waning sun. But the trellis with its pink Bourbon climbing roses and most of the hybrid teas, including her grandfather’s favorite yellow roses, were gone. This plot of ground had meant so much to him. It was a shame to see it ruined. Maybe when the city project was finished, she could try her hand at restoring the garden. Surely her grandmother wouldn’t object to that!
Birdsong teased her ears from a spreading maple tree a few yards behind her. Dappled sunlight reached the trench through the leafy fringes of the tree. As the warm breeze rippled the branches, a pale gleam winked at her from the dirt wall near the bottom of the hole. Nicole bent, hands on knees, and looked closer. Crinkles of dirty white plastic poked out one side wall of the trench. The plastic was at least as wide as her grandmother’s antiquated microwave oven, but only about as high as a loaf of bread.
Was this the final resting place of Grandpa’s boyhood dog, Lad? Grandpa had, after all, grown up in this house. If so, it was funny he’d never mentioned the beloved mutt was buried here. But it did help explain his obsession with keeping up the rose garden. Then again, that theory could be completely off, and the plastic could contain anything from junk to treasure.
Curiosity nibbled at Nicole. She didn’t really care to uncover some old dog bones, but what if it were something more interesting, maybe even valuable. Should she wait until the workers came back tomorrow and ask them to unearth the item? She shook her head. Nah! She wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight for wondering, so she might as well solve the mystery right now.
Nicole went to the garage and returned with one of her grandfather’s gardening trowels. The trench was only a few feet deep, so she hopped in and went to work. A little grunting, sweaty work later she pulled out what turned out to be a package wrapped in a plastic sack—probably a garbage bag. Whatever was inside had some bulk, but was almost as light as air. Probably not a bag of gold then. She smiled at her own absurdity.
The digging machine had caught an edge of the sack and made a rip in the plastic. Standing in the trench, Nicole hooked her finger in the hole and tore the opening wide to expose a bundle of deep blue fabric. A small, faded tag caught her eye. Gingerly, she touched the fragile bit of paper and leaned over the markings. A faint musky smell brushed her nostrils, and her eyes widened. Enough of the letters remained legible to make out the words Jan’s Sewing Room. Whatever was in here had been wrapped in yard goods from her grandmother’s store.
A chill feathered across Nicole’s skin. Suddenly, she wasn’t so eager to see what was inside. But she was in this too far; she had to look now. Gently, Nicole rolled the package over and over, releasing layers of fabric. Finally, the contents lay plain to see.
Oxygen fled her lungs. She blinked and stared.
Not a dog. No, not at all.
Someone had buried a baby in her grandparents’ backyard!
Nicole’s head swam, and she gripped the side of the trench, whimpering. Her fingers clawed into the cool earth. Could Grandma Jan have had a miscarriage or a stillbirth? But wouldn’t those remains be placed in a cemetery with an official headstone? No whisper of such a family tragedy had reached her ears as she grew up. How about an abortion? Nicole shook her head. These remains were too large for some furtive termination of a rejected pregnancy. This child had probably been at least several months old. And he or she must have been buried here for a long time. Had Grandpa known what precious treasure lay beneath his roses?
What kind of question was that? She shook herself. Of course, Grandpa couldn’t have known. He would never have—
“Nicole, I’ve been calling you to come in for supper. I—” Her grandmother’s voice behind her ended in a sharp gasp.
Time suspended like a clock’s pendulum gone still.
Nicole finally sucked in a breath, as Grandma Jan let out a shrill cry.
“Oh, no!” The elderly woman’s cracked wail held every second of her seventy-five years of existence. “I can’t believe it! I never thought… It can’t be.”
Nicole turned to find her grandmother scuttling away in a half crouch, as if someone had struck her in the stomach, but she must ignore the pain and flee. Grandma was clearly surprised the remains were in her yard, yet she knew something about them. What?
Nicole heaved herself out of the trench and followed, calling for her grandmother to stop. The woman didn’t acknowledge that she’d heard. Nicole trailed her through the kitchen and up the hallway. The
