gardening, and had provided whatever he told her the soil needed … kelp and seed meal, crushed eggshells, lime and dolomite, even fish heads left over from the market. As a result of Sam’s labors, the garden had burst with flowers and lavish colors, until people stopped their cars on the road to admire it.
“Why, Sam,” Mary had said in pleasure, her face soft and wrinkly-smiled in a way he had loved, “you have a green thumb.”
But Sam had known it was more than that. Somehow he and the garden had become attuned to each other. And he had become aware, as few people were, that the entire world was sentient and alive. He knew instinctively which seeds to plant when the moon waned, and which to plant when it rose. He knew without being told how much water and sun the plants needed, what to add to the soil, how to get rid of fungus with a soap-and-water spray, how to control the aphid population by planting marigolds.
Sam had started a vegetable garden for Mary in back of the house, and it had produced fat, flavorful produce and all kinds of herbs. He had intuited that the squash liked to be planted next to the cucumbers, and that the beans liked the celery but didn’t want to be near the onions, and at all costs never plant the cauliflower next to the tomatoes. As Sam tended the plants, bees never stung him and flies never bothered him, and the trees extended their branches as far as they could to keep him shaded.
It was Mary who had encouraged Sam to dream of owning a vineyard one day. “Wine isn’t about drinking,” she had told him. “Wine is about living and loving.”
Deep in thought, Sam went to the corner of the vineyard, to check on a vine unlike all the others. It was large and gnarled, alive but not flourishing. No fruit, only tightly closed buds. Despite Sam’s best efforts, he hadn’t yet discovered how to make it thrive. And there was no silent communication, no sense of what it needed … just blankness.
When Sam had first bought the property at Rainshadow Road and walked the perimeters, he had found the vine growing wild on an easement. It looked like the kind of European vinifera vine that had been brought to the New World by colonists … but it couldn’t have been. All the vinifera had been wiped out by unfamiliar insects, disease, and weather. The French had developed hybrids with native species that produced fruit without needing to be grafted onto disease-resistant rootstock. Maybe this vine was one of those antique hybrids. But it didn’t resemble anything Sam had encountered or read about before. So far no one else had been able to identify it, not even a specialist who’d been studying the photos and samples that Sam had sent.
“How can I help?” Sam murmured, passing his hand gently across the large, flat leaves. “What’s your secret?”
Usually he could feel the energy in the soil and roots, as well as the signals of what was needed; a change in temperature, humidity, light, or nutrients. But the vine remained silent, in trauma, impervious to Sam’s presence.
Leaving the vineyard, Sam headed to the kitchen to make lunch. He pulled a jug of milk and a wedge of cheese from the fridge. While he was in the middle of assembling grilled cheese sandwiches, the doorbell rang.
The visitor was Kevin Pearson, whom Sam hadn’t seen in a couple of years. They weren’t friends, but they had both grown up on the island, which had made it impossible to avoid each other. Kevin had always been good-looking and popular, a jock who had developed earlier than everyone else and had gotten the best girls.
Sam, by contrast, had had all the physical substance of a string bean, and had walked around with his nose in the latest issue of
The strongest memory Sam had of Kevin Pearson was back in seventh grade, when they’d been assigned as a team to do a report on someone in the medical or scientific field. It had entailed doing an interview with a local pharmacist, making a trifold poster board, and writing a paper on the history of pharmacology. In the face of Kevin’s procrastination and laziness, Sam had ended up doing everything himself. They had gotten an A, which Kevin had shared equally. But when Sam had protested that it wasn’t fair for Kevin to get half the credit for work he hadn’t done, Kevin had given him a contemptuous look.
“The reason I didn’t is because my dad wouldn’t let me,” Kevin had told him. “He said your parents are drunks.”
And Sam hadn’t been able to argue or deny it.
“You could have invited me to your house,” Sam had pointed out sullenly. “We could have done the poster board there.”
“Don’t you get it? You wouldn’t make it past the front door. No one wants their kids to be friends with a Nolan.”
Sam hadn’t been able to think of a reason why anyone should want to be friends with a Nolan. His parents, Jessica and Alan, had fought with no boundaries, no sense of decency, screaming in front of their children or neighbors, in front of
Not long after the science project with Kevin, when Sam had been about thirteen, his father had drowned in a boating accident. The family had fallen apart after that, no regular hours for eating or sleeping, no rules of any kind. It had surprised no one that Jessica drank herself to death in the five years following her husband’s death. And there had been no small amount of guilt in the fact that somewhere in the mass of grief, the Nolan offspring had found it a relief that she was gone. No more phone calls in the middle of the night to come pick up a mother who was too drunk to drive after making an exhibition of herself at the bar. No more humiliating jokes or comments from outsiders, no more crises popping up out of nowhere.
Years later, when Sam had bought the land at False Bay for the vineyard, he’d needed to rent some heavy-duty landscaping equipment, and he discovered that Kevin had started his own business. They’d talked over beers, exchanged a few jokes, even reminisced a little. As a favor, Kevin had done some work for Sam at a fraction of his usual price.
Unable to fathom why Kevin could be at his front door now, Sam reached out to shake hands. “Pearson. It’s been a while.”
“Good to see you, Nolan.”
They took measure of each other in a brief glance. Sam was privately struck by the thought that Kevin Pearson, whose family had never allowed a no-account Nolan to cross their threshold, was now visiting his home. The former schoolyard bully could no longer kick Sam’s ass or taunt him with his social inferiority. In all measurable ways, they were equals.
Sliding his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts, Kevin walked in and cast a bemused smile around the entrance hall. “Place is coming along.”
“Keeps me busy,” Sam said amiably.
“I heard about you and Mark taking care of your niece.” Kevin hesitated. “Sorry about Vickie. She was a great gal.”
“No, thanks, I can’t stay for long.”
“Want to hang out in the kitchen while I make sandwiches?”
“Sure.” Kevin followed Sam. “I’m here to ask a favor,” he said, “although you may end up thanking me for it.”
Sam took a frying pan from the cabinet, heated it on the stove, and drizzled some olive oil into it. Having long ago realized that Holly wasn’t going to thrive on a bachelor’s diet of pizza and beer, Sam had learned to cook. Although he still had plenty to learn, he’d reached a level of basic competence that had so far kept them all from starving.
While Sam poured the tomato soup into a microwavable dish, he asked, “So what’s the favor?”
