"A good pruning stimulates the right kind of growth. Same holds true with people."

He was about to ask her what she meant by that when Annie said, "What should we do with the prunings, Grandma? Too bad we don't have a chipper. I've seen crews working on the trees that line the streets. They feed the branches in, and they're chewed up into a fine mulch that they spread under the tree, all in a matter of minutes."

"We have something better than a chipper." Leota Reinhardt's grin was pure mischief. "We have Corban." She looked at him and waved her hand in command. "Just cut the bigger branches into two-foot lengths. I'll get some string and you can make small bundles and stack them by the back door. I'll burn the branches a few at a time during the cold spots ahead."

"While Corban's doing that, Grandma, I'll start on the cherry tree," Annie said, folding the ladder.

Corban stifled his irritation. Little Miss Eager Beaver and the Slave Driver. What did these two women think he was? Part of the Conservation Corps? Breaking a dead branch over his knee, he tossed it aside, then picked up another branch. It would be easier to do the work as quickly as possible than to try to get out of it.

Pretty little Anne-Lynn Gardner was already perched on the ladder beneath the cherry tree. Corban broke another branch over his knee and tossed it aside. If he could get some information out of her, the whole day wouldn't be shot. "I take it you and your grandmother are close?"

"Not as close as I'd like us to be." She peered down at him, the saw poised. "Our family didn't come often, but when we did visit, my mother relegated me to the backyard. I hardly know my grandmother, Corban." She began sawing the dead limb. "But I'm going to remedy that."

Leota found the ball of twine in the laundry cabinet on the back porch. She was already exhausted. Just standing at the garden gate wore her out. The sunshine felt so good, but it also drained her of what little energy she had. Too many months of sitting inside in artificial light, she guessed. She had become as pale as a moldering corpse. Well, she wasn't sitting inside anymore!

She took her sun hat from the wall, where it had been hanging for two years, and went back outside. Her legs felt like lead as she went up the four brick steps to the cobblestone walkway that ran in front of the living unit Bernard had built for his parents.

Everywhere she looked, things needed pruning, thinning, tying up, and removing. Hours of work. For her, it had always been a labor of love. Would it be so for Annie? Poor Corban looked so grim. She had no illusions about why he had agreed to help: he was after information, probably interrogating Annie right now. Not that Annie could tell him much. The little darling wouldn't even realize she was being interviewed. It wouldn't enter her head that someone might want to use her.

Then again, maybe she was being unfair to Corban. It wasn't entirely his fault he was so puffed up with knowledge that he didn't have a lick of sense. Education was no less an idol these days than it was in the past. Corban didn't have her advantages. Sometimes the school of hard knocks taught more than the best universities in the land.

And You, Lord. You teach the heart as well as the mind. Sometimes the truth is hard to bear, but it's better to walk in the light of truth than to live in the darkness of lies.

She was panting slightly when she reached the gate. "You work quickly," she said to Corban.

His gaze flickered from Annie to her. She stumbled over one of the cobblestones. Keeping her balance, she gripped an arbor post.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Reinhardt?" Corban looked worried. What did he think? She'd keel over and die at his feet and his paper would go up in smoke? "I'm fine. Just old and clumsy."

"I'll get you one of those garden chairs."

"Buttering me up, are you?"

He paused and gave her a sardonic smile. "It's easier talking to you when you're conscious."

She chuckled. The lad lacked good manners, but he had spunk. She admired that. "So, have you been asking Annie all kinds of questions about the old lady while I was in the house?"

"I tried."

At least he was learning to tell the truth and not be pretentious.

Annie parted two branches and grinned down at her. "You are a great mystery, Grandma."

"It's good to be a mystery. Piques the interest. If I told Corban everything about myself, he wouldn't bother coming around, and I'd have to break in another volunteer." Corban returned with the American steel chair and plunked it down on the small, weedy lawn. He was clearly annoyed. "Well? Isn't it the truth?"

"You shouldn't tease him, Grandma. I'm sure he won't forget all about you after getting the information he needs for his report."

"You must be seeing sides of him I've missed." Corban's face turned red, whether from temper or embarrassment she didn't know. She looked him in the eyes. "If I'm wrong, tell me."

"I'm thinking about leaving right now."

"Oh, stop pouting. Before you go, move the chair over there in the sunshine. I'll be able to see better what Annie's doing to that cherry tree."

Corban snatched up the chair, maneuvered it through the gate, and slammed it down again. He came back and offered his arm for support.

"And I didn't even have to ask," she said, smiling up at him. She held firmly to his arm as she made her way over the rough ground of the back section. "Such a good boy, seeing to an old lady's needs." She settled herself comfortably in the chair. "Thank you, dear."

"You're welcome, ma'am," he said through his teeth.

She took the ball of twine out of her sweater pocket and held it out to him. "In case you change your mind about leaving." When he just looked at it, she said, "For the branches. Two-foot lengths. Did you forget already?"

"I was hoping you had." He took the ball of twine and went back to work.

Leota was warming to him. He was stiff and stuffy and self-seeking, but he might just be reachable. She leaned back, enjoying the feel of sunshine on her face. "Did you know an apricot tree can live up to a hundred years?"

"How old is yours, Grandma?"

"Sixty-five years old, or close to it. It was just starting to bear fruit when I came to live with Mama and Papa Reinhardt. I planted two cherry trees. One died. I never knew what killed it. One day it was healthy and the next the leaves were withering. I was worried some blight had gotten it and would spread to the other tree, so I cut it down quick and burned it. I did a lot of working and praying on that soil before I planted that plum tree to replace it."

"Sounds like a lot of worry expended on a tree." Corban tossed one tied bundle aside and started to put together another.

"It was 1944. Worry was part of breathing. The war was going strong. My husband was in the army, fighting in Europe. Seeing that tree die made me worry all the more about him."

Corban paused in his work and looked at her with a frown. "I don't get it. What does a tree dying have to do with your husband in Europe?"

"Nothing, I suppose, except that this was my victory garden. It's hard to believe everything will turn out right when your fruit tree dies overnight."

"Oh." He still looked confused. His smile was polite, but his expression said it all. He thought she was losing her marbles. "Did your husband come home?"

"Yes, he came home." Corban looked at her, waiting for more. She looked back and smiled. He could wait awhile longer. He wouldn't appreciate what she had to tell him. Not yet, at least.

"What was Grandpa like?" Annie said, still perched on the ladder. She snipped another branch, lowering it carefully through the others before dropping it.

"What has your mother told you?"

Annie went still on the ladder. "Nothing much," she said after a moment and started working again.

Poor Eleanor. So much anger, so much shame. All because she was too blind and too stubborn to want to see the truth. Lord, sometimes I wish I could shake that girl until the walls around her heart crumble. I imagine You know exactly how I feel.

"He was a good man, Annie," Leota said firmly. "He had a good heart. He cared deeply about many things. He was just . . . quiet."

Bernard hadn't always had the drawbridges up. There had been a time when he was like a knight mounted on a great steed ready to go into any battle. Hadn't he stormed her citadel and claimed her heart? She had agreed to marry him after four dates, the announcement coming as such a shock to his parents that they never quite got over it. Papa almost had, perhaps, but Mama hadn't fully accepted her until the end, and by then, it was too late to undo the years of damage.

For three years she and Bernard had been blessed with happiness. Then the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and turned their world upside down. Bernard had joined the army rather than wait to be drafted. She had understood his reasons, but that didn't stop the fear from almost eating her alive all the time he was gone. She had loved him so much she thought she would die without him. It wasn't until later that she came to understand that there were things worse than death.

Bernard Gottlieb Reinhardt had gone off to war young and proud of who he was: a loyal American willing to put his life on the line to bring Hitler down. His parents were as eager for Hitler's regime to be destroyed as he, for they followed the news of what the ego-mad dictator was doing in Europe. They prayed for their relatives living in Germany, agonizing over what might be happening to them. What they did hear was soul wrenching. Why couldn't others see what was really happening and get out of Germany before it was too late? They could come to America, the land of freedom and opportunity.

Freedom and opportunity . . .

Opportunities dwindled quickly for those who still retained thick German accents. Distrust abounded.

Poor Bernard had carried so much responsibility on his shoulders. He had gone off, not just to fight a war but to seek out two uncles and their families and find out what happened to them. If he could find them.

And, as God would have it, he did.

The Bernard Gottlieb Reinhardt who came home was not the same man who had marched proudly off to war. The veteran was a stranger, broken and filled with an anguish so deep that nothing had ever lifted him fully from the depths of his depression. Not even alcohol could deaden the pain he lived with until the day he died.

Corban said something to her, and shaken from her thoughts, she looked at him, confused, still lost in the mire of memories.

"Your husband, Mrs. Reinhardt. What did he do for a living?"

"Oh, he did lots of things. He painted houses for a while. Then he did drywall work. He was employed by a roofer. I guess you could say Bernard had so many different jobs that he became a jack-of-all-trades. You'll have to take a look inside the apartment behind the carport. Bernard built that for his parents. He did everything, even the plumbing."

She didn't see any reason to tell them that after the war Bernard couldn't seem to hold a job longer than a year. Something always happened: hurt feelings, a fight, poor pay, layoffs, firing.

"He became a handyman after a while. People would call him to do odd jobs. A little of this, a little of that. Whatever he did, he did well."

Annie was looking at her from her perch. When Annie smiled, Leota saw something in her expression that made her want to weep. Perhaps Eleanor had said more than Annie was willing to share.

"With that kind of occupation, it'd be impossible to save enough for retirement years," Corban said.

Leota's mouth tightened. She supposed he meant Bernard had left her without resources. That was true, but not something she liked to dwell upon. "There are more things to life than money, young man." She had no intention of going over Bernard's shortcomings as a husband or father. He had done the best he could.

"I didn't mean any slight against your husband, Mrs. Reinhardt."

The foolish boy was still fixed on his project, gathering facts, making suppositions. All wrong. "The fact is, we never talked about retirement," she said. "There wasn't time. In our generation, most people worked until they were sixty-five or seventy or were wheeled out the door feetfirst. Some got tossed out a month before retirement benefits were scheduled to start. Bernard died in 1970. And don't ask me how he died. I didn't request an autopsy."

When Corban winced, she closed her eyes, sorry she had been so abrupt. She sighed and opened her eyes to look into his. "There are things you can never understand, Corban, and I haven't the heart left to explain."

He frowned, searching her face. For the first time, she saw compassion. She smiled slightly. "It's not going to be as easy as you thought, is it? This project of yours."

"No, it isn't."

"What happened to you?" Ruth said when Corban entered the apartment.

"I've been doing manual labor," he said dryly, collapsing onto the battered sofa. He was exhausted, dirty, and annoyed. Glancing around the apartment, he felt slightly better. He had expected to come home to a mess, but Ruth had been busy. The rug was vacuumed, the pillows on the sofa plumped, the coffee table clear of its usual debris after one of her gatherings. "What happened? Was the meeting canceled?"

"No," she said in annoyance. "I just finished cleaning up. Everyone left hours ago. Where have you been, Cory?"

"At Mrs. Reinhardt's, helping her granddaughter prune fruit trees."

"Granddaughter?"

Corban heard the edge in her voice. Jealousy? Nice to know he was appreciated. "Her name's Anne. Eighteen or so. She's going to some art school in San Francisco."

Ruth leaned her shoulder against the kitchen door frame and crossed her ankles. She smiled, her expression enigmatic. "Pretty?"

"Very. Petite. Hair to her waist. Blonde."

"Natural blonde?"

"Nasty question."

She laughed. "Oh, forget it. People who live in the city and fancy themselves artists are a dime a dozen. Sounds like a ditz to me."

"You're being pretty cavalier, considering you just had a meeting with your women's activists."

Eyes flashing, she pushed away from the door frame and went back into the kitchen. "Do you want some dinner? I made a tuna casserole."

"I already ate at Mrs. Reinhardt's. Pork chops at $3.59 a pound." He laughed. Mrs. Reinhardt had made sure he knew how much his meal had cost her.

"Why are you laughing?" Ruth came back and stood in the doorway, a kitchen towel over her shoulder. "She sounds like a rude old biddy."

"Yeah, she is," he said, head back against the sofa. "Disagreeable. Snarls every other word at me. Orders me around like a personal servant. She hasn't an ounce of respect for my person."

"Does she know you're studying at the university?"

"She knows. That's just another strike against me."

"Why?"

He leaned forward, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Why do you think? She knows she's part of my project."

"You told her?"

"She didn't give me much choice. She nailed my ears to the wall the last time I was over there. It was either be up-front with her or get tossed out the front door. Figuratively speaking, of course."

"So are you getting what you need from her?"

"I'm getting bits and pieces. She feeds facts to me like dog treats. 'Sit up, Corban. Fetch, Corban.'" He thought of the dozen bundles of cut branches stacked neatly on her back porch. How many morsels of information had he eked out of her today? Every time he learned something about that old woman, more questions loomed.

Leota Reinhardt wasn't as simple as she seemed.

"Kiss her off, then, Cory. Just go to one of the senior centers and interview some people. Or go to one of those residential-care facilities. For heaven's sake, don't make such a big deal out of one old lady."

Easy for her to say. "I've gone this far with Mrs. Reinhardt; I'm not throwing in the towel now." Things she had said today had stirred a deeper interest. Talking to her, though, was like pulling up strings from a tapestry when what he was after was the whole picture. "She was different today. I saw sides to her I hadn't seen before."

"For example."

"She has a sense of humor. She can take a hunk out of you and then stitch you up in the same sentence."

"Nice," Ruth said dryly. "Are these new sides going to get your paper written?"

That wasn't what was bothering her, and they both knew it. Corban stood up and went to his computer. Pushing the Power button, he sat down. "I've got to write some notes while the information is fresh in my head." He clicked the word processing icon. He knew Ruth was still standing in the doorway; he could feel her looking at him. The air crackled with tension.

"Why don't we do something tomorrow, Cory? Go to a movie or take the ferry to Angel Island. Something. I've been worrying lately. Don't you think we're getting in a rut?"

They were in a rut, all right. One she had dug. Funny she should notice that now. Maybe she was feeling a little less secure about him and her situation. Well, let her. "We'll see." Pulling up the file, he started typing.