The subdued colors provided the perfect background for gregarious Boston ferns, delicate asparagus ferns, potted fig trees, basketed orange trees, hanging ivies, and a colorful collection of African violets in traditional clay pots. The plants seemed to begin in the living room, randomly sprinkled here and there, picking up momentum and becoming more dense as they progressed toward the dining room, where they converged around the patio doors.

Ken’s attention focused on a cluster of photographs hanging on the wall. “Do you mind if I look at the pictures in your dining room?”

Aunt Edna jumped to her feet. “You want to see the pictures?”

Chris groaned. This was not a good sign.

“This here’s a photograph of some sailing ships. Chris got this when we went vacationing in Maine last year. And this here’s a picture of me when I was a little girl. Wasn’t I a pip? Just look at those ribbed stockings. This is an elephant at the zoo, and this is a picture Lucy drew when we came home.”

Ken looked at the crayon drawing of a smiling elephant. It had been framed and matted with the same professional care as all the other pictures. He tilted his head in Chris’ direction. “Your daughter must feel very special to have her drawing on this wall.”

Chris caught her breath at the enigmatic softening in his eyes, the tender huskiness of his voice.

Edna puffed up with pride. “It’s a beauty of an elephant, isn’t it? She can draw anything. She’s got real talent.”

“Like her mom.” Ken smiled at Edna.

“The spitting image.” Edna pointed to a photograph of a little girl hanging upside down from a tree limb. Her orange hair hung in wild curls that hadn’t seen a comb all day. She wore pink shorts, smudged with mud. Her sneakers were battered, her shoelaces untied, and she was laughing and closing her eyes tight in childish abandon.