I turn the cup around in my hand. Frances Cleveland. It’s white with a red band painted along the top. A wreath of orange blossoms and laurel leaves frames her portrait.
The next cup is pale blue with a bouquet of white dogwood at the center. Edith Wilson.
As we unpack the teacups and line them up on the grass, I hear Ms. Johnson’s car, and then the ba-bump, ba-bump of Logan’s handball bouncing off the driveway and against the garage door.
“Be right back,” I tell Sophia, and jog to the front yard. “Hey!” I call.
Logan catches the ball after the next bounce. “Hey.”
“Sophia and I are working on something. Do you want to come over and help?”
He rolls the ball back to his porch and follows me.
While Sophia and Logan unwrap the rest of the teacups, I go into the garage. There’s another box I need to find.
Most of the stuff in there is Nana’s—not-quite-empty paint buckets, Christmas ornaments in clear plastic bins, old furniture that she doesn’t want in the house anymore but also doesn’t want to throw away.
The boxes from our old house are all stored in the same corner, one labeled OFFICE and another KITCHEN. There is a pile of Maribel’s high school textbooks and trophies, and a lumpy trash bag that’s filled with my old stuffed animals. Next to the bag is the box I’m looking for: GARDEN.
I slice open the packing tape with the edge of a screwdriver and start searching. My hand shovel and trowel are on top. I set those aside. We might need them later. I find dozens of seed packets and a bag of Spanish moss.
I keep digging, all the way down to the bottom of the box, until I get to the summer-blooming bulbs I wrapped up in dishtowels: ranunculus, dahlia, and begonia.
It’s after the last freeze now. The timing should be just right.
I hold the bulbs and hand shovel under my arm and drag a bag of Nana’s potting soil to Sophia and Logan. I sit down between them and spread the bulbs out on the lawn. Sophia pokes at a ranunculus with a twig. It looks a little like a brown crab with fat, wriggling legs. But it will grow into a flower as vivid as the sunset.
Logan picks up three begonia bulbs and tries to juggle them. They look like dirt clods now, but someday they will open up red and frilly and full of joy.
I choose one of the dahlias.
“Is it… a potato?” Sophia asks.
“No, it’s not a potato.” I laugh and show them what to do next. I use the hand shovel to scoop soil into one of the teacups. With my finger, I hollow out a shallow hole, press the bulb inside, and then cover it with dirt.
It’s hard to tell right now, but buried underneath is the promise of something beautiful getting ready to grow.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Stockton, a city full of strivers: I am so grateful to know you.
To my agent, Jennifer Laughran; editor, Nikki Garcia; and everyone at Little, Brown, especially Marcie Lawrence, Annie McDonnell, Erika Schwartz, Kristina Pisciotta, and Jennifer Poe; to Christian Burkin and Paula Sheil; and, as always, to David, Alice, and Soledad: love and muchas gracias.
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The Fresh New Face of Griselda Page 14
