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A day ago, he’d been in his best suit for Rose’s funeral, but now Hart was back in his regular gear: a long-sleeve tee and cargo pants, pruner in his holster. He didn’t like to plant anything at night, preferring daylight so he could make sure the process turned out right, which was why he waited for sunup to go to the Wish Garden.

He walked out of the French doors with purpose and bounded down the stone steps of the terrace. But as he plowed a straight line to the hedge maze, something caught the corner of his eye, luring him off the golden gravel path. Crystal blue water shimmered between the straight lines of the potted yew trees, and though he couldn’t see her, Hart knew she’d be there.

Twenty-six acres of pristine gardens, but Heather never ventured much farther than the pool. It was too cold to swim, but she only needed a chaise lounge, a throw blanket, and a book. Today it was Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow.

Heather turned to him before Hart even called out to her, and there was no way for him to gauge the expression on her face, with her eyes shielded by her ever-present sunglasses. Since she’d wished to change the color of her eyes, Heather had to live with her consequence—sensitivity to light. But even when she swept the shades over her forehead, Hart still couldn’t tell what his sister was thinking. If he expected a frown or condolences or even a hello, he was sorely mistaken.

“Why didn’t you come to the funeral?”

Heather’s expression remained infuriatingly breezy. “She wasn’t my friend.”

A bitter chuckle sputtered out of Hart. Whenever he found that he had nothing to do with his hands, they inevitably reached for his pruners. Now he palmed them, his thumbnail scraping the part of the handle where metal met smooth molded grip. “She wasn’t your friend,” he repeated. “But I’m your brother.”

There was a time when that would’ve meant something. When Heather and Hart were as inseparable as any two twins would be. And for a moment, as Heather watched Hart across the pool deck, he felt that connection between them. Felt it in the way her typically sparkling eyes dimmed as they locked with his. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Heather finally said.

It was more than he thought he would get from her. If not exactly worth the detour from the hedge maze. But then she went on. “You seem to be handling it well.”

When their mother died, Hart and Heather had to find ways to “handle” their grief, their emotions, life itself. When it came to handling anything, the twins had failed in their own unique, catastrophic ways. So now Hart chose to be surprised, rather than offended, by the casual callousness of his sister’s words.

Did he look like he was handling it well? Because it was all he could do not to sink into the white tile where he stood. “I guess I’m getting good at this,” Hart said. A morbid joke. The kind of inane thing you say when the wound is still fresh. When real life seemed like it was happening to someone else. Maybe he looked fine on the outside because this was just a case of grief becoming more manageable the more you had to deal with it. Or maybe it was the fact that Rose being gone was only a temporary thing. A mistake that he could fix. Hart was going to make sure of that.

“Too good,” Heather muttered.

“What?”

“ Too good ,” she enunciated.

“What the hell does that mean?” Hart asked.

Heather didn’t bother to explain herself. It seemed like this would be the extent of her condolences. Hart had stopped understanding his sister a long time ago. Not just her choices and emotions, but her non sequiturs. She used to be normal, but now there was always some measure of loopiness about her, sober or not. Hart chalked up her bizarre antics to grief. And, of course, the wish-making. So much wish-making that it’d messed with her mind.

Before Hart turned to leave, there was one more thing he wanted to ask his sister about. “Have you heard from Lowell Chamberlain?”

Heather’s face, a mask of carefree calm thus far, cracked. A crease formed between her eyebrows, and she sat up, her bulky throw falling to her lap. “Why are you asking me that?”

“He wasn’t at the funeral, either,” Hart said. “He was Rose’s best friend and he wasn’t there.”

“Again,” Heather said, “why are you asking me ?”

Hart’s thumbnail continued scraping the pruner’s grip, his palm slick against it. “Heather, I know you guys were hanging out. I don’t know what you were doing with him—”

“And I don’t like what you’re implying,” Heather said.

“I’m not implying anything.”

“I barely know the guy.” Heather slid the sunglasses back over her eyes, signifying the end of the conversation. “I don’t know where he is.”

Hart had no reason to think his sister was lying. And he also didn’t really care to devote any more time to someone who’d blown off his best friend’s funeral. Without another word, he turned to go. He’d climbed the three short steps to the path between the trees when Heather’s voice stopped him.

“Are you going to the garden?” she asked. There were many individual gardens on the grounds, but only one Heather could have been referring to.

“Yes,” Hart said.

Heather lay back against the chaise, pulled the blanket back up around her, and directed her attention back to her book. She let Hart go with a few parting words. “Good luck, H.”