Chapter 20

At the Stinking Iris, Nick eyed Nora's tomato plants with an expression of either severe disdain or abject awe. It was hard to tell with him. He slipped his pinky under one tiny leaf and bent down, peering closely at it.

"What?" Nora demanded. "What is it? Is something wrong? I did everything you said."

"Don't get your panties in a bunch," he said gruffly. He straightened up, then stalked off, disappearing into the back room. He returned moments later with some sort of meat thermometer–looking thing and thrust it at Nora.

"What's this?"

"It's to check the pH balance of your soil."

"My what?"

"Listen closely now. You won'thave a snowball's chance in hell of growing tomatoes if the pH balance is too high. This is mine, aye? Bring it back." He thrust it at her again, forcing her to take it.

"Gee, Nick, you're trusting me with your plant-o-meter?"

"It's a pH meter. Know your tools." He muttered something under his breath, walked over to a display, and picked up a pair of knee pads. "I'll give you the garden club price. But you'll need to join the Green Thumb Club if you want the 10percent discount. Gloves are on sale next week."

Nora was delighted by the prospect of joining a garden club. "You'd let me join?"

"We'll discuss it. It might be your only hope."

She smiled and put the pH meter in one of the tote pockets. "Thanks again, Nick. I'll bring it back, I promise, when I come to get my gloves. There's something else I want to show you." She reached into the interior of her bag and pulled out three bulbs wrapped in newsprint. She placed the bundle on the counter.

He unwrapped it. "Where'd you get these?" He turned one particularly muddy specimen over.

"My parents' house. While they were playing tennis, I snuck in and dug them up. Do you know what they are?"

He gave her a withering look. "Calla lilies."

"They were my grandmother's favorite, and my grandfather always had a patch of them."

"Trying to make amends, are you?"

Amends.

"Nothing wrong with making amends," Nick said. "Just a little tougher when the affected party is no longer with us. These need loose soil. And lots of water. You can't drown a calla lily."

Couldn't drown Nora November either, apparently.

That thought suddenly sent her soaring back to the beach at Surfside, standing there in the cold wind, her feet sinking into wet sand. The water had been so choppy—little whitecaps everywhere, the clouds purple and gray on the horizon. You're a calla lily, the buzz whispered.

"They're like everything else," Nick continued. "They're self-sufficient to a point, but you can't neglect them. Everything withers with neglect."

The buzz grew. Somewhere in Nick's garden lecture, an internal whisper was growing—if she neglected herself, she would wither. It was as simple as that, and yet it was as hard as bringing Grandpa's garden back to life.

He reached under the counter and produced a mesh bag. He put her bulbs in them. "Loose soil. Plenty of moisture. You got that?"

"I've got it." She picked up her flat of tomatoes and the mesh bag.

"By the way, I've got some dahlia tubers coming later this week that you might like. Come back when you can. And take some pictures," he commanded as she went out.

***

The first thing Nora noticed when she walked through the gates of the Goodfellow Community Garden was the birdsong. Optimism. It was astonishing how quickly the sounds of the city could fade from her consciousness. She'd been coming every chance she could get, even cutting out of work early when James told her the coast was clear. She felt she was in a whole other universe in here, especially on a gorgeous spring day.

She surveyed other plots as she passed through, muttering her congratulations on jobs well done. When she reached her plot, she took a moment to appreciate what she'd accomplished thus far. She'd successfully removed most of the weeds. She still had to trim some mystery plants that looked like they might come back to life. At least they weren't yet dead, so there was that.

She placed her flat of tomato plants on the ground and took out her pH meter. She thrust the needle into the soil and watched the digital display race up to number eight. She realized instantly that she'd failed to ask a very important question, because she didn't know what that number meant. She took a picture of the reading with her phone to show Nick. He'd act like he was perturbed that she didn't know, but privately he'd delight in explaining it and instructing her what to do next.

She took a spade from her garden tote and her new knee pads, pulling them up over the legs of her thrift store overalls, then set to work digging holes for the tomato plants. She liked the feel of pushing her fingers into the soft earth—the same earth her grandfather had dug—and the slightly pungent smell of soil that had been lovingly cared for by her grandfather over the last years of his life. It felt good and natural to her. However, she could see the utility of gloves, given how dirty her hands were.

She moved easily down the row, planting her seedlings. She knew how to do this part—it came back to her like waking from a dream. She was back on the ranch, on her knees beside Grandpa, digging her hole a foot from his. He'd shown her how to tap the seedling from the flat, how to settle it squarely in the hole and softly tamp the earth in around it.

Before she put each seedling into its hole, she dropped in a penny. Grandpa always added a penny to each new planting. "Make a wish, kid," he'd say jovially, and she'd think of one, really think of one, then blow it onto the penny. She wondered how many pennies were buried at the ranch. He'd promised her that those wishes were the best wishes and they would all come true.

None of them did. Her dad was still her dad. Her mother was still her mother. She was not a princess or a pirate or any of the other things she'd wished to be.

Still, traditions ran deep. With each tomato seedling she planted, she took out a penny, made a wish, blew on it, and dropped it in the hole. Planted the seedling. Went to the next.

Her wishes were much simpler now. She wished for a burrito and beer later (she couldn't be all about personal growth). She wished the buzziness would disappear. She wished the plants would grow. She wished she'd find the corner store guy. She wished she could feel it again, that emotional connection, that heady, sizzling sensation of knowing that the man standing in front of you could be the one. That light that sparked in the heart when the rest of the soul felt dark.

She wished, she wished, she wished.

When she'd finished planting all twelve, she found a spot and planted the calla lily bulbs. In loosesoil, as instructed. She brushed dirt off her knee pads and began to return things to her garden tote. When she had everything packed up, she looked at her plot. "I'll be back in a couple of days to check on all of you."

A breeze rustled through the plot, making it look like the seedlings were waving at her.

She made sure the footlocker was locked, and the rusted chair was tucked behind it, then hoisted the garden tote on her shoulder and started out. On her way to the main gates, a shadow swept past her peripheral vision and she turned her head, trying to catch it, always expecting Grandpa. He wasn't there, of course; he never was—but her gaze landed on some beautiful tomatoes. She halted.

Those were awe-inspiring tomatoes in Plot Seven. The closest thing she'd seen to the tomatoes in Grandpa's celestial garden. She shivered—she was almost convinced that Grandpa had sent those tomatoesto remind her, to remind her that she could do this. She could grow this garden.

She stepped into Plot Seven. The tomatoes weren't as big or as perfect as Grandpa's, but they were ripe. She touched one, her fingers brushing against the firm, fireplug-red skin.

"Get out of there!" She heard a shout and something hit Nora square in the back, then fell with a dull thud. She whipped around and looked down to see a broken clump of dried clay at her feet. Someone had thrown clayat her.

That someone was Catherine Henry, star of the stage. She was standing beside her wheelchair looking murderous. "What in the hell do you think you're doing? Do you think that's any way to fit into this group?" She swept her arm to indicate the community garden.

Nora looked around them—several of the other gardeners had turned toward the commotion.

"Don't you want to fit in?"

That question sank its talons into Nora. Yes. She wanted to fit in. All she had ever wanted in her entire life was to fit in. She glanced down at the tomato she'd come so close to pulling from the vine, like she was entitled to it. Just like David November would have done. She looked back at Catherine. "Yes, I want to fit in here more than you know."

"You damn sure don't act like it," Catherine said. "That's the worst offense you could commit, taking from another plot without permission. I can't believe you even tried."

"Me either," Nora said. "I'm usually a big rule follower." Understatement. "But they're amazing, and I—"

"He's been working hard on this plot, long hours, and you think you can waltz in here and take one."

"I wasn't thinking," Nora said. "They looked..." Like Grandpa's tomatoes in the sky? Good grief. She pressed her fingertips to her temple. She imagined someone else's grandpa working in this plot, taking excellent care of his plants, growing killer tomatoes and boasting about them to his friends. Hell, this grandpa had probably planted pennies here too. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"Just... keep your hands to yourself," Catherine warned her. She sat heavily in her chair and heel-toed back to where Walter was pruning the Venus flytraps. Nora could still hear Catherine over the breeze. "You wouldn't believe... That little chit..."

Nora turned and walked out of the community garden. All her buoyantfeelings were sunk by the shame that seemed to live like a permafrost on her soul. Would it ever melt? What would it take?

She shook her head as she put her things in her car. Speaking of shame... she couldn't get all woozy now. She had that damn Sunday dinner tonight.