Mario cleared his throat. Jenna held up her hand and mouthed, Sorry. He rolled his eyes, and Jenna made her way to the back of the store.
She hesitated before speaking. His back was still turned—she could leave now and he would never even know she’d been there. But even from behind, he felt good. Safe. A little like home.
“Sam?”
He turned. A slow smile stretched across his face.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
forty-two
Betsy
In the weeks after the storm, Betsy had mostly ignored her garden. There was so much else to do around the farm—clearing debris and hauling trash, finding the two missing cows and the owner of the rogue kayak. Helping neighbors whose homes or property hadn’t fared as well as theirs had. A tree had fallen clear across the garden during the height of the storm, crippling the split-rail fence on three sides and coating her carefully planted rows in splintered bark and wet leaves. With everything else going on, it seemed easier to just leave it and come back to it later.
But today when she passed the garden on her way back up to the house, the rich, dark soil called to her. What she thought would just be a quick walk down the rows to see what, if anything, had survived had turned into a half hour on her hands and knees in the dirt collecting handfuls of sticks and acorns and tossing them away from the garden.
She’d just paused in the shade of the oak tree when she heard the screen door open, then slam shut. She smiled. Ty was coming to check on her. When he reached her, he handed her a glass of ice water. “Remember what the doctor said. Don’t try to do too much.”
“I know.” She took a long sip of water. “He said to keep my stress level low. Gardening is about as low stress as it gets. And you’re going to have to stop worrying about me. It’s not like this is the first time we’ve done this.”
“I know, I know.” He reached over and brushed dirt off her cheek. “I want you to rest if you need it.”
“I will. You have my word. Now let me get back in there and fix my garden.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She still couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to go back to see Dr. Fields again. Or that Ty had been the one to suggest it.
“A lot has happened since we were there last,” he’d said. “We’re stronger now. Maybe we give it one more shot.”
She’d been hesitant to go back to that waiting room of muted colors and hushed voices, the blood draws, the urine specimens, everyone’s cautious optimism. But Ty had a feeling, so they tried one more IUI. It was as strange and awkward as it had been the other three times they’d done it, but this time they laughed as they left the office, their hearts not heavy as before. Ty took her out to an early dinner at LuLu’s and they celebrated with shrimp po’boys and dancing to a bluegrass band.
They wouldn’t know the results for at least another week, but unlike last time when she chewed through her fingernails while waiting on the call, this time she felt calm. Whatever happened, she knew they’d be okay.
She was walking down the last row of the garden when sunlight filtered through the high clouds and something caught her eye. Approaching carefully, she saw a bright-green shoot pushing up from the earth. It was next to the trunk of the fallen tree they’d yet to clear away—a few more inches and the bud would have been flattened. As it happened though, it stood proud and tall, unscathed by the storm, having pushed itself through the mangled vines and splintered wood of her garden.
She knew what it was. She and the girls had planted the autumn crocus bulb a few weeks before the storm. Addie had set the bulb down in the shallow hole and Walsh covered it with a layer of dirt.
The bud looked so vulnerable—a lone spot of life in the wreckage. She was tempted to protect it, to pluck it out of the ground and bring it inside the house where nothing could harm it. She imagined the green stem and delicate purple bloom perched in a milk glass vase in the center of her kitchen table, reminding her daily of life, precious and sweet.
But when her fingers closed around the shoot, she paused. Having weathered and survived the storm’s fury, the stalk felt strong and healthy beneath her fingertips. It had already proved itself. She pulled her hand away. It would do just fine on its own.
That night after dinner, she and Ty sat on the swing together on the back porch. Fireflies blinked in the darkness and cicadas scratched out their nightly concert. As they rocked back and forth, Betsy thought of the hurricane that had flung itself so mercilessly at the Gulf Coast. Weeks before landfall, the storm had begun as a puff of air, a gentle breeze that floated across Africa, picking up dust and dirt and red Saharan heat. It coasted to the ocean where it spread out over the water like milk from an overturned bucket.
The warm water of the Atlantic agitated that formerly gentle breeze, particles mixing and mingling, until it became a cauldron. A tempest. An angry, steaming force to be feared. It unleashed its fury at the point of landfall, then moved inland, leaving a trail of damage and upheaval in its wake.
Yet it also left behind unexpected beauty
