AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Gus lingered on thestone path. From the darkness behind the screen door, I watched as he’d take a step, then hesitate. He looked lost, both in his thoughts, and among the overgrown perennials I’d desperately need to hack through once I finished my project at work.
The rain had stopped and the clouds unveiled a setting sun that was too bright, too orange, like the tissue thin petals of a California poppy, painting the corrugated tin roof and white walls in glowing watercolor.
Gus’s hand swept out, brushing the tops of the lupines that bloomed alongside the walkway. Cone-shaped hues of deep purples, lavenders, pinks, and blues bent inward, too heavy for their stems after the rain, the colors contrasting beautifully against the last of the day’s light.
I followed his gaze across the property, bracing myself for his distaste.
It was a lot, this garden. Too wild, too whimsical, and definitely too much to keep up with. To my eyes, it was a witch’s cottagedream sprung to life. To others, like my closest neighbor, it was an eyesore, and reason enough to burn me at the stake.
But this garden was mine. And before it was mine, it was Granny’s. There was nothing I loved more than our garden. The one thing she and I would always share.
When Granny moved us out of the mountains of Appalachia and into this house, I was seven. The first thing she did was rip out the lawn, slowly replacing the shallow-rooted, big box store fescue with native plants, stone walls, woven willow fences, and great, bushy native species. Over the years, she had created a half-acre Eden. Berry brambles and climbing roses lined the gravel drive. Crepe Myrtles shaded the house from the midday sun in the South, while old-growth linden and maple trees shielded the property on the western edge like sentries.
After Granny died, everything changed.
Now, curving stone paths meandered through invasive weeds instead of indigenous meadow. I no longer had time to cultivate beds for medicinal herbs, plants, and vegetables. Between work and more work, I barely had time to sleep.
In this soil, my hands learned the habits of the earth. My heart once beat in sync with the spirits of the plants. My body used to be governed by the cyclical nature of the seasons and their bounty. This garden had been my primer to life, and I’d let it become yet another place of decay and neglect.
Now Gus was walking within its boundary, and I felt exposed, naked. Something akin to embarrassment washed over me. I almost rushed out to him, needing to explain myself, that the lemon balm wasn’t usually quite so out of control, but I’d forgotten to cut it back when it went to seed last summer and now the little seedlings were everywhere. That no matter how important dandelions were for the bee population, they were too many for meto keep up with. And yes, I needed to prune the Wisteria, but it finally bloomed again this year and I didn’t have the heart to cut it back, so now it was going to take over the whole garage and I’d just have to be okay with that.
My fingers rubbed the worn aluminum knob on the screen door. As I debated whether to turn it or not, his eyes turned to my small movement, searching the shadows. A wide, good guy smile spread across his face and warmed my whole body.
That smile, that warmth, flooded me with an easy sense of rightness.
All is well, it told me.
This was Gus. My friend. There was no need to be nervous. No need to suddenly second guess every choice I'd made for the past decade. Gus brought out themein me. Just because we were going to be spouses didn’t mean that had to change.
“Are you coming in, or do you want dinner in the front yard?”
He hustled up the walk and found the creaky third step on the porch. A few feet in front of me, that smile lingered on his lips, but quickly sobered into something more like awkwardness. “I didn’t know you lived so far away.”
“I considered buying a place closer to Bethany and Soula, but the state government pays my salary, and sadly, that doesn’t make me a bajillionaire. I’d hoped we could live here. After... you know.”
I hadn’t really hoped we’d live here. Honestly, it hadn’t even crossed my mind that I might have to give up this house. “Is it too far? Do you need to be in Franklin? Is Spring Hill a deal-breaker for you? Because, with my student loans, I don’t think I could swing even half a mortgage up there.”
He looked up at the corners of the porch. The ceiling was haint blue, of course, same as his, because this was the south, and haintsand hags couldn’t cross water, or water-colored porch ceilings, apparently.
There was a lot to be desired about this house. It was in need of a paint job.
It was in need ofeveryjob.
Suddenly, the summer night had lost its heat. The incessant mating call of the jar flies roared in my ears. I held my breath as I followed his eyes over the spots where the white paint had flaked off the weathered gray clapboard, awaiting his disapproval.
“Decca, I live in a mortuary. This is incredible.”
I could almost breathe again. Except I couldn’t, because the way he looked down at me, it was like he’d never seen me before. His look was bolder, heavier, seductive. It melted my frozen feet and defibrillated my heart.
Inside, I gave him the grand tour.
It was a simple, small four-by-four, built in 1904. There were two bedrooms upstairs—the larger had been Granny’s until a few weeks ago, when I’d finally felt less guilty about taking it over. Downstairs was the kitchen, living room, dining room/office, plus a powder room under the stairs.
Of course, the kitchen doubled as an herbal apothecary and my office spilled out into the living room where, adding to the old-lady vibes, were crocheted afghans in 1970s oranges and browns, and a boxy tube TV that still worked, although since I no longer subscribed to cable, it was just another thing collecting dust.
“Well?” I asked, after his silence told me nothing of what was inside his head.
Don’t make me move. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have this place to come back to.
