Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“The annuals only last the season,” Patrick said, his voice carrying that rapid, breathless eagerness.
“We want something that comes back on its own,” I said.
He stopped the rack with one finger on a packet of purple coneflowers.
“These do not need to be replanted every summer,” he said.
“They have deep roots,” I said.
He took three packets of the coneflower seeds and two of the wild blue lupine.
“They will stay in the ground through the winter,” Patrick said, holding the small paper packets close to his chest.
“That is what we want,” I said, handing the cashier the coins from my pocket.
Clara was waiting for us on the farmhouse porch when we got back, her wire-rimmed reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.
She had a pair of canvas work gloves tucked into her apron pocket.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, walking down the steps to meet us.
Patrick held out the small paper packets.
“We are changing the color,” he said.