Chapter 5 THE GARDEN OF MEMORY

That evening, Margaret took James to dinner at Millbrook's only restaurant, a small place called The Corner Table that served comfort food and gossip in equal measure. News of James's return had already spread through the town-Millbrook was too small for secrets-and several people stopped by their table to introduce themselves and share memories of Eleanor. "Your mother was a saint," said Betty Morrison, who ran the town library. "She volunteered here twice a week, reading to the children during story hour.

They all loved her." "She brought us tomatoes from her garden every summer," added Jim Bradley, who owned the hardware store. "Best tomatoes in town. She said the secret was talking to them while they grew." James listened to these stories with a mixture of joy and sorrow, learning about the life his mother had built in his absence. It was clear that Eleanor had been deeply loved in Millbrook, that she'd found ways to channel her maternal instincts into caring for her community when her own son was no longer there to receive that love. "I never knew," James said to Margaret as they walked back to the inn. "I thought she'd be bitter, alone. I thought leaving would protect her from my anger, but I never considered what I was taking away from her." "You were protecting yourself," Margaret said gently. "Sometimes we convince ourselves we're being noble when we're really just being afraid." James stopped walking and leaned heavily on his cane. The short walk had tired him, and Margaret could see the pain etched in the lines around his eyes. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Just tired. The medicine helps with the pain, but it makes me so sleepy. I keep feeling like I'm running out of time to... to understand all of this." "We'll take it slow," Margaret promised. "There's no rush." But they both knew that wasn't true. James had weeks, maybe a month or two if he was lucky. Time was the one thing they didn't have in abundance. The next morning, Margaret picked James up early and drove him to the Millbrook Cemetery. It was a beautiful morning, crisp and clear, with the kind of light that made everything seem sharper and more precious. The cemetery sat on a hill overlooking the town, shaded by ancient maples and oaks that had stood watch over the dead for more than a century. Eleanor's grave was in the newer section, under the oak tree she'd requested in her will. The headstone was simple granite with her name, dates, and a single line: "Beloved Wife and Mother." Next to it was Robert's grave, marked with a matching stone. James stood at the foot of his mother's grave for a long time, leaning on his cane, saying nothing. Margaret stayed a few steps back, giving him privacy for this first meeting with his mother in fifteen years. Finally, James spoke, his voice so quiet Margaret had to strain to hear him. "Hi, Mom. I'm sorry it took me so long to come home." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper-the letter Margaret had opened at the post office, now worn soft from handling. "I wrote you this letter four months ago, but you were already gone. I'm sorry I waited so long to say the things I should have said years ago." He knelt carefully beside the grave, his movements slow and deliberate, and placed the letter on the grass next to the headstone. Then he pulled out something else-a gold watch on a chain. "This is Dad's watch, the one he gave me when I graduated. I told you in my letter that I still wear it, but what I didn't tell you is that I've been carrying it instead of wearing it for years. Every time I looked at it, I thought about how disappointed he'd be in the man I became. But I think... I think maybe it's time to start wearing it again." He fastened the watch chain across his vest, the old-fashioned way his father had taught him when he was young. The gesture was so simple, but Margaret understood its significance. James was reclaiming not just the watch, but the connection to his family, the sense of belonging he'd spent fifteen years trying to deny. "Mrs. Patterson told me about your garden," James continued, speaking to the headstone as if Eleanor were sitting right there beside him. "She said you grew the best tomatoes in town, that you talked to them while they grew. I remember you doing that when I was little-singing to the plants, telling them about your day. Dad used to tease you about it, but the vegetables always grew better for you than for anyone else." He was quiet for another moment, and then he laughed-a sound that was part joy, part sorrow. "I started a garden at the care facility. Just a small one, in containers on my patio. The other residents think I'm crazy because I talk to the plants, but I learned it from you. I tell them about the letters I never sent, about the things I wish I'd done differently. I think they understand." Margaret felt tears on her cheeks. This broken man, dying far from home, had found a way to connect with his mother through the simple act of growing things and talking to them. It was beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time. After leaving the cemetery, Margaret took James to see some of the other places that had been important to Eleanor. They visited the library where she'd volunteered, the church where she'd sung in the choir, the community garden where she'd helped establish a section specifically for senior citizens who wanted to grow vegetables but no longer had yards of their own. At each stop, people shared their memories of Eleanor, and James listened with the hungry attention of someone trying to piece together the puzzle of a life he'd missed. Margaret could see him filing away each story, each detail, as if he were trying to memorize his mother's entire existence in the few days he had left in Millbrook. That afternoon, they returned to Eleanor's house. James wanted to spend more time in his old room, going through the letters he'd written but never sent. Margaret left him alone for a while, sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Patterson while James read upstairs. "He's a good man," Mrs. Patterson said, stirring sugar into her tea. "Stubborn and foolish, but good at heart. Eleanor always said he got his stubbornness from both sides of the family." "Do you think she would have forgiven him if he'd come back sooner?" Margaret asked. Mrs. Patterson looked at her as if the question were absurd. "Forgiven him? Child, she forgave him the day he left. The only person who needed to forgive James was James himself." When James finally came back downstairs, he was carrying the box of letters and something else-a small, leather-bound journal that Margaret hadn't noticed before. "This was on my nightstand," he said, showing them the journal. "It's my mother's handwriting." He opened it to the first page and read aloud: "'Letters to James-the things I want to say but don't know how.'" The journal was filled with entries addressed to James