“Three hundred and forty.

Same as his quote in May.”

I closed the velvet box and held it, and the clasp made a small sound.

“Tuesday, then,” I said.

He took the pencil from behind his ear and wrote it on the back of his hand.

The trowel went into the soil at a slant, and Martha turned it with two fingers, the way she had been turning soil in that bed since the house was new.

“Not too deep,” she said.