My garden gave a gentle tug on our bond. I tickled back. Instead of prepping for a houseful of hungry males, I threw on a summer dress and laid claim to my favorite chair, with its chipped and faded turquoise paint. My toes quickly found their way under matted stems of low-growing chamomile, the connection to soil easing my exhaustion. Canes laden with raspberries and blackberries arched over my shoulder, tumbling fruit into my upturned palm. I popped the berries one by one into my mouth, tugged my dress high enough to expose my legs, and let the sun on my skin and the juice on my tongue make for a delicious midday treat.
This garden had nurtured me as a child. After I moved back into the house, fixed the fence, shored up the raised beds, and amended the soil, we picked up where we’d left off.
The plants had things to say about the creatures moving through the soil at their roots, starting with their daily vermiculture report. They added vague whispers of larger creatures on their way to my island, creatures that carved through rock, flew through the air, and swam the waters. But given my plants’ loose relationship with the concept of time, I didn’t know if the creatures they spoke of had been here for decades or were more recent arrivals.
I fought the urge to stand and run. Moments from yesterday flashed across my eyelids, from the frozen heads to the oily presence at the marina to the symbols drawn in blood over my walls and floor. I pulled my plants closer, asked for more stories, and returned to floating along with the rootlets below and the bees above until the arrival of a car and distant voices roused me from my late-afternoon stupor.
“Mom!”
Harper, his girlfriend, Leilani, and Thatcher stomped across the grass, the tops of their backpacks visible behind their heads. I hugged the kids and sent them in to shower and unpack.
Close on the heels of the three teens, a pickup truck loaded with two bright yellow kayaks drove past the entrance to the driveway, stopped, and backed up. Wes’s hair shone garnet red in the slanting light when he stuck his head out the driver’s side window, waved, and skillfully maneuvered the vehicle onto the grass. Tanner unfolded himself out of the back seat and reached back inside the car for an armload of shopping bags.
A few minute later, Wes and Kaz were bickering in front of the outdoor grill, Leilani was apportioning bread dough while she chatted with Harper, and Thatch hustled through the kitchen, gathering plates and utensils.
“Dude,” Thatch said in his brother’s direction, “grab that end.”
Harper leapt to help reposition the oak table, adding a long bench to one side and enough chairs to accommodate seven diners.
“We’re starved, Mom,” Thatcher said. “Haven’t eaten much more than instant oatmeal and those homemade power bars Harper’s been experimenting with, y’know, the ones that taste like tree bark.”
“Hey! I’m working on it!” Harp tossed a stack of cloth napkins at Thatcher’s head.
Thatcher ducked and laughed. I dreaded the day their bantering no longer echoed through the house.
“And Mom,” Thatcher added, sidling next to me, “those guys with Tanner? They are so cool.”
The ultimate compliment from a teenager.
Twenty minutes later, food was on the table: two platters of grilled vegetarian sausages, a cutting board of fresh-baked focaccia and three styles of goat cheese. I poured ratatouille into a ceramic bowl, tucked in a broad serving spoon, and took my seat at the head of the table. Tanner chose the chair next to mine.
Once the scraping of chairs and bench legs had ceased, Wes tapped his beer bottle with a fork and cleared his throat. “Begging everyone’s indulgence, I would be pleased to offer a blessing before we eat.
“Mother Earth, Father Sun,
Bless these bodies, All and One.
Bless the soil, rain, sun and air,
The hands that toiled to bring us this fare.
So Merry Mote and Blessed Meet,
Grace is done, and it’s time to eat.”
He lifted his head when he finished and grinned. “Dig in!”
“Can you hand me the bread?” I asked.
Tanner had longer arms and was closer to the board. He set it between us. I ripped off two chunks and handed him one. Leilani had topped the slabs with rosemary and fleur de sel. My mouth watered, and I groaned—quietly, but it was definitely a groan—as I chewed.
Sun-ripened wheat, ground into flour, formed the body of the bread. Nimble fingers had pressed and pulled the dough into shape and coated it with olive oil. Those same fingers acted as a conduit to and from a youthful heart, one filled with promise and the shy desire to please, and be pleasing, and to nurture.
I glanced at Leilani. She was feeding a bite of bread to Harper.
“Do you sense anything?” I whispered to Tanner.
He stopped chewing and surveyed the table. Everyone was absorbed in passing platters and filling. “No.”
I pointed to the bread. “Take another bite. Chew slowly. I think she’s a witch too.”
He did as I suggested, studying Leilani while he chewed. Both his eyebrows were raised when he turned to me, nodded, and gave a quick thumbs up.
Now, what do I do?
Instinct. I trust my instinct.
“Leilani, this bread is delicious. Did you add anything special? Any secret ingredients?” I asked, doing a bit of seat-of-the-pants planning on how I could steer the conversation toward magic without completely freaking out Harper’s lovely girlfriend.
“When I’m in the kitchen, I just do what feels…natural,” she said, “what feels right. Although I do talk to the ingredients when I’m working and I can never follow a recipe exactly.”
“It tastes like you put a lot
