The Big Dirt Nap

were members of Springfield's elite, but because they, and I, had been players in the biggest news story to hit the town since the hurricane of 1938.

I willed the coffeemaker to speed up. My appointment with Caroline was for nine o'clock and I had a twenty-minute drive to the Sturgis home. I didn't want to be late. Anna saw me eyeing the clock and shooed me out of the kitchen.

'Get dressed. And fix your hair. I will bring you the coffee when it's ready.'

It says something about my current grooming habits when the cleaning lady is giving me beauty tips. I hadn't totally gone to seed. I still worked out religiously—that part hadn't changed since my move from New York—but I had to admit my hair was getting a little shaggy. It was just easier to pull it into a ponytail and put on a baseball hat. And like most gardeners I had perennially grubby hands.

I took a quick shower and pulled on jeans, a boy's thermal T-shirt, and the hoodie I wore the previous night. Back in the kitchen I twisted my wet hair into a knot and fastened it with a big clip. Then I took a fistful of bangs and distributed them evenly across my forehead.

'That's a very attractive look,' Anna said, handing me a mug. 'You look like you are going to deliver newspapers on your bicycle.'

'Gracias.'

It was the kind of crack I expected from a woman in full war paint and rhinestones at breakfast. And Anna wore her plus size regally; where I neurotically counted every calorie that passed my lips, Anna happily indulged in whatever culinary delicacy struck her fancy, with no shameful morning-after guilt, no slavish adherence to slimming black. More to love, she'd say. I was trying hard to adopt her philosophy.

'Kids don't do that anymore,' I said, shaking some cereal into my coffee, 'deliver newspapers. Nowadays, they have Internet consulting gigs. I met a ten-year-old last week who had classier business cards than I do. Ivory laid stock—looked like Crane's, for crying out loud. She was leaving a stack of them at the Paradise Diner in a little metal holder near the real estate booklets. Eerie.' I poured more coffee over my cereal.

'That's disgusting. You should eat something more substantial than that.'

'I'm multitasking.' I spooned the concoction into my mouth. 'I had a big breakfast yesterday; I have to be in Greenwich by nine,' I said, checking my watch. I took a last spoonful of cereal, grabbed my backpack, and bolted down the stairs. 'I'm outta here.'

'Are you going to see Mrs. Sturgis? Make sure you get one-third upfront,' she said as I flew out the door. Always looking out for me. 'Usted nunca . . .' she started to yell, 'you never remember.'

I'd try. But Caroline Sturgis was one of those women who didn't think much about money because apparently she'd always had it. She always paid, but she always paid late. Last year Anna had suggested we start charging her one percent interest; we did, and she still paid late. Bills were minor annoyances to her.

Caroline lived one town over, where the house numbers were harder to see because the front doors were so far from the road, and the mailman could listen to an entire pop song in between deliveries because the mailboxes were that far apart.

The Sturgis home had been designed by a student of Frank Lloyd Wright—poor guy, he was probably ninety years old and still referred to as a student. Caroline's place was magnificent—lots of levels, built-ins, and fireplaces—and all natural materials: stone, wood, and slate.

The long, wooded driveway led to the side of her house and the deck, which faced a private pond. To the right of the house was a small garden and a shallow reflecting pool. Beyond that were Caroline's tennis court and a large barn renovated to serve as a guesthouse. On the fringes of the property was the town's arboretum.

It cried out for Prairie or Asian garden themes, but Caroline wouldn't hear of it, preferring annuals and a cottage look more suitable to a New England saltbox. It killed me. And if the 'student' was still alive it'd probably kill him, too.

Last year she'd let me test one perennial grass in a container near her tennis court, so I had my fingers crossed I'd get to push the envelope again this year and go beyond mere petunias and alyssum. It could be a notable addition to my resume, the way the Peacock house had been last year.

I pulled into the Sturgises' driveway through two stone pillars topped by Mission-style light fixtures. Following the drive around to the left, I continued about a hundred yards to a separate three-car garage. As I was getting out, the garage door opened; the driver was just as startled as I was. He leaned out of the car, with a stunned expression on his face, and backed out a little too fast, kicking up pea gravel and spinning his tires. He put the car into drive and pulled out, crushing some snowdrops at the side of the driveway.

Inside, Caroline heard the tires squeal and came to the screen door to see what was up.

'Hi, Paula,' she said, shielding her eyes and watching as the car pulled onto the road. 'I don't know why he has to drive like that. He can't be late; he's been reading the paper for the last forty minutes. C'mon inside.'

He was Grant Sturgis, Caroline's husband. I just caught a glimpse of him, but he looked slightly familiar. Caroline thought we might have met at the opening ceremony for a garden I restored, but with his bland features and sandy hair, Grant could be mistaken for almost any slight, not unattractive, thirty-to forty-year-old man. Generic, both-hands-in-their-pockets guys who could be found in every restaurant, mall, and private club in the country.

Caroline, on the other hand, had a spark. True, it was currently hidden under a velvet headband, and the safe suburban armor of flats, slacks, cotton shirt, and sweater tied around her neck, but it was there. And in danger of combusting, if she kept feeding it alcohol.

I'd met her two years ago. She was dropping off and I was furnishing my new house at the Springfield Historical Society's Thrift Shop. We shared a few laughs over some of the merchandise—long, skinny prints of big- eyed children, crafts projects gone horribly wrong. We also shared a fondness for the two older women who worked there, known affectionately as the Doublemint twins because time and friendship had turned them into carbon copies of each other.

When Caroline found out I had a garden business she squealed that I was just the person she was looking for, although I had a feeling she was lonely, and anyone that day would have fit the bill. We went back to her place and after a brief discussion of the colors she liked we had a handshake deal. I would plant a thousand spring bulbs all around her tennis court. It wasn't my idea of a beautiful design but clients were hard to come by, especially in September, so I said yes. Each year I encouraged her to be more adventurous.

My entire house could have fit in Caroline's kitchen, and on the spotless marble countertop was a pitcher that experience had told me was filled with mimosas. Strong ones.

As the client, Caroline Sturgis could get as highly smashed as she wanted to at nine in the morning. Good sense and something my doctor had said to me at my last checkup about 'high liver enzyme levels' kept me on the straight and narrow. A big part of my last job had been social networking and that had inevitably involved a certain amount of drinking, but those days were over, especially now that I had a mortgage and two employees counting on me to make payroll. And I couldn't afford to be fuzzy-headed if there were power tools around.

Caroline poured herself a tall one and me the same despite the fact that I'd waved my hand over the heavy- bottomed tumbler she'd set out. I moved the glass to one side and set up my laptop to bring up the garden rooms I'd envisioned for her property. The screen quickly filled with pictures of small shrub and perennial beds I thought would work for the various spots in her garden. She pretended to pay attention but I could see her mind was elsewhere. Right then it was on her drink, which she downed as if it was straight orange juice.

'Caroline, is this a bad time? I can come back later.'

I didn't really want to, but I needed her full attention or else she'd revert to impatiens and petunia mode, instead of even considering the more substantial changes I was proposing.

'No, no. Don't go. This is as good a time as any. You've done all this work and here I am daydreaming.'

If it was a daydream, it wasn't a pleasant one. Caroline's normally smooth forehead was as wrinkled as a Klingon's and there were two deep grooves in the shape of the number eleven at the top of her nose.

She let me drone on about ornamental grass, Russian sage, and rudbeckia, but she was lost in thought and it wasn't from weighing the benefits of miscanthus versus fountain grass. I worried about mixing business with personal stuff but decided to ask her what was the matter.

'I just feel so useless these days,' she said. 'Molly's away at school and Jason will be leaving in January. And Grant's been traveling so much lately. He just got back from a week in Boston, and now he's off to Chicago for four