In This Rain Read Online Free PDF Page A

the height of the ridge and the slope to the stream.
    Sitting, he’d studied how the sun slid over the encircling trees, how the trees’ black shadows traveled across the yard, how the broad, uncared-for yard swelled in some places and fell in others. He’d noted where rocks broke the earth, where water ponded, where soil looked good.
    On the fifth day, after the Realtor’s enthusiastic call (“Green light!”), he’d driven into town. He’d loaded the truck bed with shrubs and perennials— lilac, peony, privet, and calendula— and bulbs you could count on: allium, iris. In the usual course of things— a course that ran through his former life, though not through this one— he’d have waited out the first round of seasons, to understand the shape and substance of the land, of whatever garden was already in it. Watching as branches leafed and blossoms inched forth, he’d have incorporated the surprises, delights, and disappointments he’d inherited into the work he was planning. That’s how he’d done it with the house he and Ellie bought when Janet was born, and he’d been rewarded with ragged masses of tulips in April, and a fragrant white wisteria that perfumed the air by the kitchen window all summer.
    But he couldn’t wait now. For two and a half years, he’d done nothing but wait.
    It occurred to him as he sweated in the chill wind, digging and covering, staking and tamping, that he’d chosen plants that needed time. Some wouldn’t bloom this year; it was too late. Some would, but tentatively, for practice. It would be next year, even the year after, before most of what he’d put in would feel comfortable enough to settle and unfurl. And some time after that until the colors, shapes, and scents would prove, or change, the pictures he’d woven in his mind of what this place could be.
    Now it was early June. Leaves, stalks, buds, and blooms luxuriated, stretching up and out. Colors glowed and perfume swirled on a sun-warmed breeze. Sharp or soft, fragile or plump, everything was exuberant, boisterous with release.
    *
    And here was Ann, sitting beside him, telling him she needed him.

CHAPTER
7
    Harlem: State Office Building
    “What happened here?” Edgar Westermann’s chest rose and fell with his attempt to recover his breath, but his voice was loud and fierce. He scanned the scene. Tom Underhill seemed to be in charge. A good man, Underhill, even if he did buy into a system that remained way overbalanced in favor of white justice. Still, it had taken a lot of years and some real knuckle-busters to get black detectives promoted in numbers and stationed in the community, and having men like Underhill around was better than the alternative.
    Edgar pushed through the usual New York disaster crowd, dressed incongruously well for rubbernecking because it was Sunday in Harlem. He’d almost reached the front when he heard a familiar voice: “Edgar, not now.”
    Ford Corrington. Should have known. Teeth instantly on edge, Edgar looked around for Corrington, and barked. “They tell me T. D. Tilden was killed! What the hell you mean, ‘not now’?” He turned his back on Corrington. “Tom Underhill!”
    “Yes, Mr. Westermann?” The detective faced Edgar across the yellow tape.
    “What happened to this boy?”
    “We don’t know, sir.”
    “You don’t know? Another black child lies dead on a city street and all the police can tell me is, you don’t know?”
    “He fell to his death. From the roof, probably. That’s as much as we know.”
    “Was he alone? Was there foul play? Does the roof have railings? What are conditions up there, did anyone think to check? Who’s the landlord— this another city-owned slum?”
    “We’ll answer all those questions in good time, Mr. Westermann.”
    “In good time? Is that what you said to the family of the young woman whose body was found in the East River this morning? Or did you say ‘Yessir, yessir, we’re on it’ because she was white?”
    “With respect, sir, you’re not this young man’s family. And I’d