The Forest Is Dating My Father

How it begins

My father set the table for three and left the kitchen window open for his date.

I had driven six hours to discuss his roof. The rain had found its way into the spare bedroom again, and at seventy-four he had decided a bucket counted as a long-term architectural solution. I expected an argument. I did not expect the good plates.

'Who's coming?' I asked.

He checked the gravy. 'Mara.'

'You haven't mentioned a Mara.'

'You haven't asked.'

That was unfair, mostly because it was accurate. I called on Sundays. We discussed weather, blood pressure and the dangerous habits of the neighbor's ladder. I had not asked whether he was lonely because I knew the answer and disliked what it expected of me.

At seven, the hedges leaned toward the house. A fox crossed the lawn carrying a small bunch of roots. My father opened the back door.

A woman stood on the step. She had gray-green eyes, soil beneath her nails and a coat that seemed to have been persuaded into the shape of a coat rather than sewn. When she smiled, something in the orchard loosened.

'Clara Ren,' she said. 'Your father has told me about your work.'

Landscape architecture. Car parks pretending to be gardens. Offices whose developers wanted trees to be both mature and easily moved. I looked beyond her at the old woodland, recently rezoned for a retail development. Every branch was still.

'Do you live nearby?'

'Yes.'

'Which house?'

My father gave me the look he used when I asked a client the price before hearing the problem.

Mara stepped inside. A single leaf fell from her sleeve and landed beside my plate. It was an oak leaf. Outside, the nearest oak lifted one bare branch, as though testing whether I had noticed.

'Your father,' Mara said, 'has been very careful not to answer questions on my behalf.'