Winter Garden

by Kristin Hannah

“What will we be without him?” Meredith whispered, clinging to her. “Less,” was all Nina could think of to say.

Mom made a sobbing sound and rubbed his shoulder and arms harder. “I have some bread saved for you. Wake up.”

Her grief was too new, too fragile to be handed back and forth in drunken hands.

He has been in her heart for so long it is as if she knows him already, but she doesn’t.

“I think maybe love can just . . . dissolve.” “No, it does not,” her mother said. “So how do—” “You hang on,” her mother said. “Until your hands are bleeding, and still you do not let go.”

She thought, absurdly, I should have taken more pictures of him.

Here and there lights shone, marking peoples’ lives.

She would never have called herself a romantic. That was for people like her father who loved everyone unconditionally and never failed at the grand gesture. Or like Jeff, who never forgot to kiss her good night, no matter how late it was or how hard his day had been. Or maybe it was for girls who found their soul mates when they were young and didn’t quite understand how rare that was.

“Sometimes I feel him in here. And Olga. I can hear them talking, moving. I think they’re dancing. There’s a fire in the stove when they’re here, and it’s warm.”

Mom laid a hand on her forearm. “Look at me, Meredith. I am what fear makes of a woman. Do you want to end up like me?”