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Everyone in Harlow knows our house on Benson Street. Sometimes fans of Pop’s books from away stop by for a peek if they happen to be on vacation, although they tend to be disappointed by it; just your typical New England saltbox in a town that’s full of them. A little bigger than most, set back from a good-sized lawn dotted with flowerbeds. My mother planted those and tended them until she died. Now Jimmy Griggs, our handyman, keeps them watered and pruned. Except for the daylilies growing along the picket fence out front, that is. Pop likes to see to them himself, because Mom loved them best. When Pop waters them, or just walks their length, limping slowly along on his cane, I think he does it to remember the woman he always called “my dear Sheila.” Sometimes he bends to caress one of the blossoms—crowns that form on leafless stems called scapes. The blooms are yellow, pink, and orange, but he particularly likes the red ones, which he says remind him of her cheeks when she blushed. His public persona was crusty and a bit cynical—plus there was that dry sense of humor—but at heart he was always a romantic and could be a bit corny. He told me once that he kept that part hidden, because it bruised easily.
Ruth knew where the house was, of course. I’d seen her cruise past in her little Corolla several times, and once she stopped to snap pictures. I’m sure she also knew that Pop was most apt to walk our picket fence, looking at the daylilies, at midmorning, and if you don’t know by this point that she was a very determined lady, I haven’t done my job.
Two days after our off-the-record talk in the Koffee Kup, she came slow-rolling down Benson Street, and instead of driving past, she pulled over and stopped right next to the little signs on either side of the gate. One says PLEASE RESPECT OUR PRIVACY. The other says MR. CARMODY DOES NOT GIVE AUTOGRAPHS. I was walking with Pop as I usually did when he inspected the daylilies; he turned eighty-eight in that summer of 2021, and even with the cane he sometimes tottered.
Ruth got out and approached the fence, although she made no effort to try the gate. Persistent, but also mindful of boundaries. I liked her for that. Hell, I liked her, period. She was wearing a flower-printed mask. Pop wasn’t, claimed they made it hard to breathe, but he’d had no objections to the vaccinations.
Pop looked at her with curiosity, but also with a faint smile. She was good-looking, especially in the light of a summer morning. Checked shirt, denim skirt, white socks and sneakers, hair pulled back in a teenager’s ponytail.
“As the sign says, Miss, I don’t give autographs.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s what she wants,” I said. I was amused by her chutzpah.
“My name is Ruth Crawford, sir. I wrote and asked for an interview. You turned me down, but I thought I’d try one more time in person before getting on the road to Boston.”
“Ah,” Pop said. “Me and Butch, right? And is serendipity still your angle?”
“Yes. Although I don’t feel I ever really got to the heart of the matter.”
“The heart of darkness,” he said, and laughed. “Literary joke. I’ve got a bunch of them, although they have been gathering dust since I retired from giving interviews. A vow I intend to keep even though you seem like a nice woman, and Mark here tells me you’re well about it.”
I was both surprised and pleased to see him extend a hand over the fence. She seemed surprised, too, but she shook it, being careful not to squeeze too hard.
“Thank you, sir. I felt I had to try. Your flowers are beautiful, by the way. I love daylilies.”
“Do you really, or are you just saying that?”
“I do really.”
“My wife did, as well. And since you’ve been kind enough to compliment what my dear Sheila loved, I’m going to offer you a fairy tale deal.” His eyes were sparkling. Her good looks—and maybe her chutzpah—had perked him up the way a splash of water seemed to perk up his dear Sheila’s blooms.
She smiled. “What would that be, Mr. Carmody?”
“You get three questions, and you can put my answers in your article. How is that?”
I was delighted, and Ruth Crawford looked the same. “Totally excellent,” she said.
“Ask away, young lady.”
“Give me a second. You’re putting me under pressure.”
“True, but pressure creates diamonds from coal.”
She didn’t ask if she could record him, which I thought was smart. She tapped her lips with a forefinger, maintaining eye contact with Pop as she did it. “Okay, question one. What did you like best about Mr. LaVerdiere?”
He didn’t stop to consider. “Loyalty. Trustworthiness. They come to the same, I suppose, or almost. Men are lucky to have even one good friend. Women, I suspect, have more… but you would know better than I.”
She considered. “I think I have two friends I’d trust with my deepest secrets. No… three.”
“Then you’re lucky. Next question.”
She hesitated, because she probably had at least a hundred of them and this short interview over our picket fence, for which she hadn’t prepared, was going to be her only shot. And Pop’s smile—not entirely kind—said he knew the position he’d put her in.
“Time is ticking away, Miss Crawford. Soon I’ll have to go inside and rest my tired old pins.”
“All right. What’s your best memory of time you spent with your friend? I’d like to know the worst time, too, but I want to save my last question.”
Pop laughed. “I’ll give you that one for free, because I like your persistence, and because you are easy on the eyes. The worst time was out in Seattle, the last cross-country trip I imagine I’ll ever make, looking at a coffin and knowing my old friend was inside. His talented right hand stilled forever.”
