Chapter 8: What Derek Did Next
Two days after the hearing, Derek knocked on my door.
He was in his work clothes again, but this time he wasn't holding a check.
He was holding a paper bag from the bakery two towns over — the good one, the one that had been there since the 1970s.
"I heard how the hearing went," he said.
"I wanted to say thank you."
"You called the board," I said.
"Before the hearing."
He nodded.
"I thought they should know where I stood."
I opened the door wider.
"Come in."
He sat at my kitchen table again, the same chair as before.
I put the pastries on a plate and poured coffee and we sat across from each other like two people who had been through something together, which I suppose we had.
"How are things at home?" I asked.
He was quiet for a moment.
"Honest answer?"
"Please."
"Not good." He wrapped his hands around the mug.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking since that night in the driveway.
About what I knew and what I chose not to look at."
"That's a hard thing to sit with."
"Yes." He looked at the table.
"She's done things like this before.
Not this exactly.
But — taking shortcuts.
Deciding that rules applied to other people.
I always told myself it was small.
That it didn't matter."
"It adds up," I said.
"It does." He looked up.
"The gnome.
When you told me about it — that it was your husband's — I went home and I thought about Frank.
I never met him.
But I thought about what it would mean to lose something of his and have it just taken.
Without anyone even asking."
I didn't say anything.
My throat had gone a little tight.
"I'm sorry," Derek said.
"For all of it.
For not paying closer attention.
For letting it get to the point where you had to defend yourself at a board hearing."
"You're not responsible for what she did."
"No.
But I'm responsible for what I ignored." He picked up his coffee.
"She's going to counseling.
We both are.
I don't know what happens after that.
But I'm not willing to keep pretending I don't see what I see."
We sat quietly for a moment.
"Frank," I said finally.
"My husband.
He planted those rose bushes the spring before he passed.
He put the gnome there to watch over them." I looked out the kitchen window at the garden.
"Silly, I know."
"It's not silly at all," Derek said.
Outside, the roses were starting to bud.
Early for the season.
We finished our coffee.
Derek stood to go, then paused at the door.
"The outlet," he said.
"I'd like to pay for the lockbox installation.
The electrician's fee.
Whatever it cost."
"Derek—"
"Please." He said it simply.
"Let me do that much."
I looked at him for a moment.
"I'll find the receipt," I said.
He nodded.
And then he was gone, down the porch steps and across the driveway, back to whatever he was sorting through on his side of the fence.
I stood at the window for a while after he left.
The gnome was back in its spot by the roses.
Small and stone-faced and exactly where Frank had put it.
I thought about what Derek had said.
About seeing things and choosing not to look.
I had done that too, in my own way.
Told myself Monica's small cruelties were just nuisances.
Kept the peace when I should have drawn a line sooner.
Maybe that was something we both had to learn.
I went to the drawer where I kept receipts and found the electrician's invoice.
$85 for labor and parts.
I set it on the counter for the next time Derek came by.
Then I put on my coat and went out to check on the roses.
---
Some people take and take until someone finally draws a line — and sometimes, drawing that line changes more than just one situation.
It changes what everyone around it is willing to see.
Have you ever had a neighbor, coworker, or family member who kept taking small things until you finally had enough?
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What did you do — and do you wish you'd acted sooner?
Share your story in the comments below.
