Unable to sleep once her mind began churning with ideas and the day ahead, she rose early one morning and padded to the kitchen. She was at the kitchen table with a pile of old Southern Living magazines and a thick stack of gardening books when Ty shuffled into the kitchen.
“Morning,” he mumbled, then kissed her cheek, his face still warm with sleep.
Ever since the night of the festival, they’d been polite with each other. Kind, gentle—casual, even. But there’d been a vein of tension running through all their interactions. They’d yet to go back to the conversation they’d had that night. Conversation, argument, fight—she didn’t know what to call it, only that it felt like they’d stuck their toes into untested waters. The morning after, he’d slipped out of bed early, and neither of them had brought up the topic again. Now, almost a week later, she wondered if they should just let it drop altogether.
His eyes scanned the table, taking in the array of books she’d dog-eared and pages she’d ripped out of the magazines: “Flowers for Southern Home Gardens,” “Plant These Now to Reap a Fall Harvest,” and “Planting in the Dog Days of Summer? It Can Be Done!”
Ty smiled.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” he said. “I think it’s great. It’s about time.”
“What do you mean?”
He poured coffee into a mug. “I’ve seen you poking around out in the garden. I figured it wouldn’t be long before you decided to give it another go.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can’t stop thinking about getting in there and getting my hands dirty.”
He smoothed his hand down the back of her head. “Whatever you decide to do with it, it’ll be great.” He opened the porch door and slid his feet into his boots. “What about peas? Is it the right time to plant those?”
She leaned over and pulled a book toward her. Southern Vegetables for Every Season. “I don’t know, but I’m sure this will tell me.”
“I’d love some field peas. Oh, or purple hulls.” He closed his eyes and she knew he was imagining the meals his grandmother used to cook. He’d told her about them—piles of field peas, collards, butter beans, fried okra, thick hunks of cornbread. She’d never cooked like that, but maybe some late-season peas would be a good place to start.
After a field trip from ABC Daycare that afternoon, Betsy buckled the girls into the car and drove up the road to Sweet Peas Nursery. She could have driven farther to a big box garden center, but she preferred the smaller garden shop that only folks in Elinore and the surrounding small towns knew about. Plus, the owner, Marjorie Clarke, was an old friend. She and Marjorie had grown close back when Betsy worked in the garden often. She used to visit Sweet Peas at least once a week to purchase plants or seeds, or sometimes just to chat. Marjorie had lived in Elinore for seventy-five of her eighty-two years. She knew everyone and, in Betsy’s estimation, everything about both gardening and life.
Betsy parked in the dirt parking lot and helped the girls out of the car. A tire swing and a small plastic slide were set up in the shade under the low arms of a live oak to the side of the shop. The girls made a beeline for the tree, squealing and yelling.
“Y’all be careful on that swing,” Betsy called. “I’ll be just inside.”
She stepped onto the creaky front porch of the shop. Inside, Marjorie was ringing up a customer while her great-grandson Malik, who was at least a foot taller than the last time Betsy had seen him, slid a pallet of butter daisies into a brown paper sack. While Marjorie finished up, Betsy walked through the shop, trailing her fingers on pots of ivy, small hand-painted birdhouses Marjorie’s husband, Moses, made, and delicate wind chimes that clinked together in the blast of air from the window AC unit.
Behind her, Marjorie sent the customer out the door with one of her customary strong-armed hugs that belied her age and small stature and a few last words of wisdom. “Now, don’t forget to water those sweet things. They’re not fussy, but they might rebel if they get too thirsty. Just like Mo if I don’t keep enough sweet tea in the house.” She laughed and patted her friend on the back, then turned to face Betsy.
“My dear.” She held her arms out. “It has been much too long.”
Enveloped in Marjorie’s soft arms, Betsy smelled fresh soil and the faint aroma of Bengay. It was a familiar scent she’d missed. “It’s good to see you, Marjorie.”
“Mm-hmm, it is.” Marjorie pulled back and held Betsy by the shoulders, looking her up and down. “You don’t look any worse for the wear, although with those two young’uns running around out there, you have some explaining to do. It’s been a while, but not that long.”
Betsy smiled. “They’re my nieces. They’ve been spending some time with us this summer.”
“Well, that’s nice. Always good to have family around. Isn’t that right, Malik,” she called.
The young man popped his head up from behind the counter and slyly hid his iPhone behind his back. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Your daddy’s out on a delivery, but when he gets back, I imagine he won’t want to see you sitting there playing on that phone.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sighed and grabbed a spray bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels. “I’ll
