The Probable Future

She had a large roll-along suitcase, her overloaded purse, and an overnight case. The rain was light enough not to be bothersome. Daffodil rain, that’s what Elinor always called it, Jenny remembered now, as opposed to rose rain, which was a sudden downpour in a dry season; or fish rain, a torrent of greenish water falling in buckets so that any right-minded person would run for cover. Jenny cut across the town green, where the war memorials stood. As a girl, she had often come here; she’d waited for Will to meet her in the shade of the plane trees, lying in the grass, looking up at the flat, wide leaves above her. She had never paid much attention to anything in town except Will, but now she slowed down. She had no choice, really, what with the suitcase and the overnight bag to tote along.

The Civil War monument, a soldier astride a great horse, was in the center of the green. It was modeled, some people said, after Anton Hathaway, the son of the mayor of Unity at the time, killed in a Pennsylvania battlefield. On the far side of the green was the black granite memorial dedicated to those who gave their lives in the Revolution. Jenny was out of breath by the time she got to that one, so she didn’t bother to examine it. Instead, she stopped and let the daffodil rain fall down on her. Funny how you could grow up in a place and never notice certain things. Jenny, for instance, had never realized that the plane trees had been planted in rows, or that the steeple of Town Hall was decorated with two golden birds, or that rain could smell so fresh, precisely like new daffodils.

Jenny was about to go on, past the green and toward Shepherd Street, when a car honked at her. It was one of those cute little SUVs, the kind she’d wanted to get after Will wrecked the BMW, and after their next car, an old Ford, was stolen from the parking lot behind the Hornets’ Nest Restaurant. But they’d never had enough cash for a down payment, even for something secondhand.

The SUV pulled up and the driver rolled down the window. It was Liza Hull from the tea shop.

“Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

Jenny threw her luggage into the back, then came round and got into the passenger seat.

“Thanks. I forgot you need a car out here.”

“Where’s yours? Break down?”

“I don’t have one.” Now that she was out of the rain, Jenny felt a chill in her bones. April was like that, sneaky sometimes, appearing to be mild as could be, until your teeth began to chatter. “No job either. Actually, I have nothing.”

“Untrue. You have your daughter.” Liza wasn’t one for self-pity. She explained that she’d been married and divorced and currently lived alone, no children, no pets. “Unencumbered” was the way she chose to characterize her situation.

“You’re right.” Jenny appraised Liza Hull. Back in high school she’d never taken the time to get to know her. “I do have my daughter. Even if she doesn’t speak to me very often.”

“Stella comes in to the tea house pretty regularly. I think she’s going through every dessert on the menu.”

Jenny laughed.

“I told her that one of your ancestors used to work for one of mine. Leonie Sparrow, the one who saved the tea house and started the fire brigade in town? Actually, I think I was named for her, and for another one of the Sparrows who was famous for her cooking. I guess it would be your great-grandmother, Elisabeth. My full name is Elisabeth Leonie Hull. If you’re staying around for a while, maybe you’d want to work for me. Continue the tradition.”

“Me? I’m not a baker.”

“You don’t have to be. I need a shop manager, which means waiting tables and balancing the books. Cynthia Elliot comes in after school and on weekends, but I really need someone else.”

“I couldn’t make you any promises. …”

“Good,” Liza agreed. “I won’t make you any either. Unless you think it’s demeaning to take people’s lunch orders and wash a few dishes.”

“Nothing’s beneath me. I married Will Avery.”

Jenny had expected a laugh, but Liza’s expression was dreamy. “Will Avery. Man, oh man. I had the biggest crush on him.”

They had turned onto Lockhart Avenue, where the big oak stood. Jenny had met Will a hundred times or more on this corner, for it was exactly halfway between his house and hers. The old tree was on the record books, if she remembered correctly. More than three centuries old, part of the ancient-growth forest, all of which had been chopped down by the colonists, all of it replaced by farms and fields, save for one single beloved tree.

The rain had eased off, leaving the air glassy. It was still humid, and the sweet smell of mint lingered, as it had so long ago on the morning of Jenny’s thirteenth birthday. There was a droning sound that reverberated, much like the buzzing of a thousand bees, the sort of hum that could wake even the drowsiest individuals and boil their blood. When they went a bit farther down Lockhart, Jenny saw that the noise was caused by a chain saw. Orange cones made for a detour around the base of the old oak, which had been ailing in past years, and now seemed to have finally died. The town council had voted to have the whole thing cut down before a storm could shatter the trunk, leaving limbs free to fall and strike electric wires and street signs.