Chapter 11

The oddly named Stinking Iris Garden Shop had a faded stenciled sign in the window that said "All Things for Garden and Household Plants." A tiny bell over the door tinkled, signaling Nora's entry.

The shop was long and narrow, stuffed to the rafters with gardening tools and greenery, plants and lights and gloves, wheelbarrows and hanging baskets and pruners. A chemical floral scent tickled her nose, reminding her of the mix Grandpa used to spray on his flowers to keep the bugs away. The shop felt muggy; the air-conditioning was struggling to keep up.

She came to a halt beneath a tangle of hanging baskets. "Hello? Is anyone here?"

There was a rustling toward the back of the shop, and then a man appeared in the doorway to a back room. He was as broad as he was tall and filled the entire threshold. He was wearing a green leather apron, some rubber boots, a knit beanie, and sported a beard that hung halfway down his chest. "Yes?"

"I was wondering if you could help me." Nora held up the pot of dying plants. "They've lost their oomph."

"Their what?" He looked at the pot she was holding. Then at her. His face morphed into a frown, and he suddenly strode forward, his hand out for her pot. Nora was so startled that she hastily shoved it into his hands. He held it up in front of him, eyeing it critically as he turned the pot one way and then the other, examining it.

"I, ah... I think they might be dead, but I'm not sure."

He turned before she could think of an answer and went to the back room with her pot.

Nora was momentarily rooted by surprise. But she quickly followed him.

He took her pot to a table, yanked open a drawer, and bent over it, rummaging around so roughly that metal things were clanging.

"I had an accident, so I was out of my office for a while, and when I came back, they looked like this."

He had nothing to say to that. Then again, he was still in the drawer, muttering to himself, until at last he held up what looked like tiny pruning shears. "Haworthia is desperately hard to kill, and yet you've almost managed to do it."

"I hope not. I'm so sorry, but I—"

"I'm going to prune away the rot and we'll see what we've got." He began to work on the plant like it was a delicate sculpture, cutting off leaves that were limp and lacking fullness. They fell to the table, a little pile around the perimeter of the pot. When he was done, the five plants that made up the pot were trimmed down to their centers. He gingerly nudged what was left with his pinkie, then grunted, gave her a stern look, and stalked off across the room.

He returned with a bottle. "A teaspoon in a cup of water twice a week for three weeks. No more, no less. Make sure the pot drains. And for God's sake, don't leave it alone. Can you commit yourself to this pot for three weeks? Yes or no? Because if you can't, I'll keep it here and look after it for you."

She couldn't help her smile. "Yes." This man clearly hadn't meant to be amusing, but she had to admire someone who took plants so seriously.

"Where's this garden of yours?"

"How... how do you know I have a garden?"

He squinted at her. "Because you're in a garden store, miss. It's not in some desperately hot backyard where you pay a poor immigrant to look after it, I hope."

"No, it's..." She swallowed. "It's in a community garden."

"Oh." He looked abruptly interested. "And what do you grow there?"

A very good question—it had been so long that she didn't know. And whatever had been there was certainly dead now. "Some, um... tomatoes? And squash, I believe. Hydrangeas, maybe?"

The shopkeeper tilted his head curiously, probably unable to understand how she didn't know what she grew.

"I..." She rubbed her nape. "I had this accident, and... well, never mind that. It needs work."

"Mm." He looked at the plant. "What else can I do for you?"

He could show her how to revive Grandpa's garden. But Nora shook her head. "How much do I owe you?"

He waved his hand at her. "Take it. I'm doing the poor thing a service. Just do as I said. And promise you'll care for your garden and not leave it to rot. Commit to it."

"Well, now I'm brimming with confidence," she muttered.

Her head was starting to hurt. She rubbed her temple. "The thing is, I don't know if I can salvage it. It was my grandpa's garden. He died, and then I..." Then she'd what? He'd died and she had what?A sour feeling spread in her belly. There was something else she wanted to say, but the words hid from her, buried under her sorrow. "I don't know if I can bring it back to life."

The man looked at her with concern. "Of course you can. Nature seeks to heal what is broken."

A tender shoot of hope broke through the piles of thoughts and feelings she'd been collecting for the last few years, piles she still needed to sort and put away, feelings she needed to find words to express. She had the crazy idea that maybe this man understood what she didn't understand herself. Had Grandpa led her here? No, that was impossible. But maybe. She held out her hand. "I'm Nora."

He took her hand in his beefy one. "Nick."

"There is one other thing." She pulled the dead tomato plant from her bag. The one that had died in her apartment while she'd been rehabilitating. It was encased in a Ziploc tomb now.

Nick winced when he saw the carcass.

"Grandpa gave it to me last year."

"But it died because, what... your accident?"

Not exactly. Because she'd often felt as if she was treading in a soup of persistent malaise and couldn't touch the bottom. Because she could hardly take care of herself after Grandpa died, much less this plant. "I hoped maybe it wasn't totally dead. Maybe I could plant the roots in his garden."

"Give it here. It could be diseased. You don't want to add a disease to your garden." He took the bag from her. He walked to a rack with a display of a variety of seeds, carefully searched through them, then tossed a packet at her that she missed and had to bend down to pick up. "Try that." He disappeared in the back. When he returned, he didn't have her dead tomato plant; he had a tray with little pots for seedlings and a bag of soil and a jar with something in it that looked like ground sage.

"I plant the seeds in that?"

"I suppose you could toss them out the window and wait for Johnny Appleseed to come along, but you'd have better luck if you planted them." He went behind the counter and came back with a pamphlet. It had a picture of a tomato on the front. "Read this front to back. Don't skip a single word, do you hear?"

She heard him, all right. "Yes. Thank you."

"And this." He thrust the jar at her. "It's nothing but worthless tomato dust from your grandpa's gift to you. But sprinkle it in with your seeds for good luck."

Gratitude sparked in Nora's heart. "That's perfect."

"It's not perfect; it's probably an exercise in futility. But gardening is often more about hope than skill."

Nora liked this guy.

"You'll be needing to carry a few things when you go to your garden, so you might as well get a proper tote," Nick said and took a green and white one from a rack. "Come back when you're ready to plant. And you'll need a garden guide, so better find one."

"Can't you guide me?"

"Absolutely not."

And yet somehow she knew that she'd be back and he'd guide her. She had the comforting idea that Grandpa had steered her to Nick for that very reason. Thanks, Grandpa.

She left his shop with some garden tools all neatly placed in her new garden tote and went home to germinate the pods like a proper gardener.