She'd barely wrestled the trash bin back in the garage when a big truck pulled up in front of the house. The first guy out of the truck lowered a plank and dollied off a huge box. "Where do you want this thing, lady?"
“Is it my fountain? In the middle of the yard, I thought."
“It takes electricity. Have you got a really long cord?" he said.
She wondered if this was sarcasm or a really stupid idea that sounded all right to him.
“Oh… no, I don't. I guess it'll have to go on the patio. I think there's an outlet by the back door. I never thought about what makes a fountain work.”
The next guy off the truck was her son Mike. He was grinning. "Show-off," he said as he passed her with a pot of purple and white impatiens. "Where does this go?”
Jane, as always, had made a list of what she'd ordered. She was an inveterate list maker. The kind of list maker who, when doing something not on the list, adds it so it can be crossed out. But her map of the yard was pretty awful. It had come out like a trapezoid instead of a rectangle.
“The big pot goes at the left end of the patio. The little one goes on the table. You do have the new umbrella for the table with you, right?”
She gave Mike the map and went to watch the man installing the fountain. It came in a lot of pieces that didn't look as if they'd all fit together. There was a pump (at least she assumed that was what it was) and tubing, clamps, and screws. The guy who was putting it together didn't even look at the directions. He must have done a lot of these before. He had a level and set the bottom basin in place, nudging small flat rocks under it until he was satisfied it was sitting properly. That was something she'd have never thought of.
This was the sort of thing, like scooping poop, that men were designed for. But she was glad once again that she had the cast and crutches as a good excuse for not being useful. Being a temporary invalid had a few benefits.
Apparently the man assembling the fountain hadn't noticed, however, and said, "Bring me a hose. We'll fill her up and see how she works." Why do men always consider appliances feminine? Jane wondered. The repairman she'd had in to fix the dishwasher two weeks ago did the same thing.
Jane stumbled to the reel where the hose was wound up, got drips on her sleeves while disconnecting the sprinkler, and dragged the hose to the patio, water dribbling down the side of her shorts and into her cast.
But it was worth the effort. Once the fountain starting circulating, it was delightful. The outlet at the top was concealed, and a slow, clear stream of water burbled out from it, trickling down into the first basin, filling it up and cascading into thesecond. Such a pleasant thing to hear water running so sweetly.
While she'd been watching the fountain installer and hauling around the hose, Mike and another young man had set out planters crammed with flowers where she'd indicated on the crummy map. She turned away from the fountain and was astonished at how nice the patio looked. So colorful and crowded with flowers in lovely pots. She had the awful feeling that she'd convince herself that she had to keep it all instead of renting it. It made the patio so inviting. She found herself looking at the table and thinking hard about getting some drinking glasses and little luncheon plates that would pick up the color of the flowers.
Show-off, she said to herself.
The workers were almost ready to leave in half an hour. When one of the other summer helpers who was aimlessly sweeping fallen petals off the patio asked how she had hurt herself, she told him she'd fallen off a runway while doing a fashion show. Mike overheard this and gouged her shoulder, laughing. He'd raided the box of doughnuts that Shelley had brought earlier and shared them with the other guys.
“Mom, this really does look nice. I'm glad you did this," Mike told her. "Are you going to spring for keeping the planters?”
Jane nodded and said, "I'm afraid so. It's going to cost the earth, but it looks so nice. You'll mow the lawn tomorrow evening, won't you? I'd hate to lose someone out there.”
When the doughnuts were gone, and plants watered, the fountain guy gave Jane a wad of printed instructions about maintaining the fountain.
“Could I maybe put a few really tiny fishes in it?" she asked, thinking how the flash of goldfish would improve the looks of the fountain.
The man looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Fishes get it dirty, have to be fed, and what would you do with them in the winter?”
He had a good point.
“Mom, try not to get carried away," Mike warned. "Remember what happened to you when you tried to cartwheel down the runway at that fashion show.”
The crew departed, strengthened by Jane's doughnuts. Only then did the cats reemerge from hiding in the field. They were roaming around cautiously, sniffing everything new to determine if these pots of stuff were friends or enemies. Jane levered herself down onto one of the patio chairs, leaned back, and looked around with an enormous smile. This wouldn't fool the real gardeners in the class, but it was so pretty she didn't care.
As she sipped at her soft drink she'd laboriously brought outside in her waistband, she thought about the tour that morning. Miss Win-stead's garden was magnificent. It would be pure joy to have a garden like that. But an enormous amount of work, because Jane couldn't imagine having or spending the money for rocks and workers.
Her mind drifted naturally to the end of the visit, when Miss Winstead had made that remark about being able to tear out anything or anyone who didn't satisfy a gardener. Meaning Dr. Eastman and his late wife. And she thought about Shelley's remarks about getting a security system. Jane didn't really believe Miss Winstead was a physical threat to Dr. Eastman, but she was a substantial psychological threat. She tried to imagine what horror it would be to have someone hate you so much that she went around to all your speeches just to make a fool of you and make nasty personal remarks. Especially around other people.
She put both feet up on another chair, carefully balanced the crutches on a third, and closed her eyes halfway — trying to picture her garden looking like Miss Winstead's.
Jane was sound asleep in the patio chair, a bad crick in her neck, when Shelley dropped the girls off. She was embarrassed by being caught sleeping, much less slumped inelegantly in a patio chair.
“Mom!" Katie said. "We learned to make chicken cordon bleu! We're fixing it tonight for you. Mrs. Nowack stopped at the grocery store and let us buy the stuff. You owe her twenty-three dollars and six cents.”
The girls went in the house, giggling with the shrillness that only teenaged females could stand to hear. Shelley strolled into Jane's yard. "Sleeping? You really are turning into a sloth."
“How did you know I was sleeping?"
“You have a print of the top edge of the chair on the back of your neck. It's a nice waffle look."
“Okay, okay. So I took a little nap. How do you like the yard?"
“It's gorgeous. You even got a shrubbery over by the fence. What is it?"
“A burning bush. Mike threw it in with the rest because he said I'm going to like it. It looks pretty boring to me."
“It'll be fantastic — if a bit small — in the fall," Shelley said. "It's one of those things Suzie Williams has in her side yard."
“Oh, those are great bushes. I had no idea what they were called. I understand I owe you more money."
“No, the shopping today was almost the same cost as that pork roast you picked up for me last week that I've never reimbursed you for."
“Do you really think the girls can make chicken cordon bleu?"
“Only if I supervise. Which I intend to do. Denise tried to make scrambled eggs a while ago and managed to use five bowls, three forks, and about sixteen whisks. And left them all out on the counter to congeal. Three inexperienced girls could destroy your entire kitchen.”
Jane struggled to her feet and, in getting the crutches, nearly knocked the flowerpot off the patio table. "I'm not getting much better at this," she said.
“You will," Shelley said as she went in Jan
e'sback door, leaving Jane to make it inside by herself and carry her own empty soda can as well.
Shelley's voice from the kitchen drifted over her. "Denise! Don't just abandon that bowl. Rinse it and use it again!”
Nineteen
The chicken dinner was only a moderate success, at least in Jane and Shelley's view. The girls had opened the oven so often to check on the progress that the chicken itself was ever so slightly underdone when they cut into it.
“Poultry needs to be fully cooked," Jane warned them. "At least pop it in the microwave for a minute to finish it up."
“Microwave?" Katie exclaimed as if her mother had said a dirty word. "The French don't use microwaves. It makes meat like leather.”
Jane replied, "The French were among the first countries to develop fabulous dinners with microwaves. I thought everyone knew that.”
Jane had made up this statement on the spur of the moment, but she felt she'd delivered it with great style and conviction.
“You lived in France, didn't you?" Shelley's daughter, Denise, asked.
“Off and on for several years," Jane said. One vote for her.
“That isn't what our teacher said," Katie countered. One vote against.
“Ask your teacher if she's ever eaten in France," Shelley suggested.
“I don't mean to discourage you girls, but birds really need to be well done. Put them back in the oven for a little bit if Katie feels so strongly," Jane advised.
“But the broccoli will be cold and soggy if we wait."
“I love cold soggy broccoli!" Shelley said. "Me, too," Jane added.
The girls did as they were told and the dinner turned out well enough even if the chicken got a bit too well done. They had to gnaw it rather than simply eating it. But the taste was good. And they could honestly praise the girls for this without alluding to the texture.
Jane sat back from the table, making her crutches, propped behind her chair, crash to the floor. "Sorry," she said, gathering them up. "Now it's time to clean up."
“We'll put everything in the dishwasher," Katie said. "Then we're going to a movie.”
Jane shook her head. "Not until the dishes are done and put away. That's part of cooking.”
Shelley took her aside and whispered, "If we want them to learn to cook, we need to give them a little leeway on the icky parts of the process. At least at first.”
Jane laughed. "Who was making them wash and reuse the bowls? Not me."
“But…" Shelley stopped herself and grinned. Then said to the girls, "You could hand-wash and dry them faster and still get to the movie in time.”
Jane had to get outside where she couldn't hear them bashing her plates around in the sink. Shelley brought them both cups of coffee and sat down opposite Jane at the patio table. "Have they broken anything yet?" Jane asked.
“Only a salt shaker," Shelley replied.
“Why were they washing a salt shaker?" "They weren't. It just got in the way.”
Jane sighed. "This seemed such a good idea. Now I'm wondering if we're all going to get ptomaine poisoning."
“Maybe they'll move on to desserts tomorrow," Shelley suggested. "Desserts can't poison anyone." "The cream can go bad."
“Why are you being so bleak?"
“It's my kitchen. You'd be bleak if they were trashing yours. Did you ask them to wash up whatever sticky stuff they got on the floor?"
“I put a mop out for them," Shelley said a little more cheerfully than normal for her. "It's so nice out here with all these plants. Jane, we really ought to learn to garden for ourselves. Picture a sweep of obedient plants in white and pink against your fence. That would be so pretty," she added, trying to cheer Jane up.
“What are obedient plants?"
“Nice little bushy things with spires of flowers. One of the few things that blooms well in the fall. My mother has grown them for years. I'm sure she'd be glad to dig some up for you. They spread so well she has to give baskets of them away every fall or they'd take over her whole yard."
“That doesn't sound very 'obedient' to me."
“The obedient part of the name is supposed to be that you can make them bend every which way you want. They look good with cosmos, which start blooming sooner, but last to frost."
“Whose gardens are we seeing tomorrow?" Jane changed the subject. Right now the idea of digging up part of the yard to put in a real garden was too daunting to consider. Though maybe later, when she wasn't stuck in the cast, it would sound better.
“Arnold Waring's and Stefan Eckert's. Although Stefan doesn't even claim to have a garden. He just wants one. We should have told him that you can rent one. Maybe we should team up with him and collect ideas from plant catalogs."
“Poor old Arnold, trying to keep up his wife's garden. What a chore it must be for him."
“I think he might like it," Shelley said. "It's probably a way he keeps his wife's memory alive and growing."
“Somebody told me once that gardens should die with the gardener," Jane said. "I guess I don't like that view any more than Arnold does. It's sort of like tearing a house down just because the person who built and lived in it is gone."
“You're having such grim thoughts this evening. What's really wrong?" Shelley asked.
Jane shrugged. "I'm meeching. I'm just sick ofeverything I do being so much more difficult. I've lost my freedom to drive myself. I can't take a shower without trussing up my whole leg. And every time I turn over at night, I bang the cast on my other leg. I had no idea a cast could make such an impact on my daily life. And be so itchy. And just think of how hairy my leg is going to be when it's taken off."
“You'll just wear a long skirt that day, and fling it down to your ankle the moment the cast is gone. It won't be on for long," Shelley said. "It wasn't all that bad a break. I'll bet you get out of it in three or four weeks. And I'm willing to drive you wherever you need to go.”
Jane laughed at that. "That's one of the worst parts of the experience!"
“I'm not a bad driver. I've never had an accident that was my fault," Shelley said defensively.
“You're a terrifying driver. You know that. You take pride in taking over any road you're on. Give you an ignition key and you turn into Attila the Hun, conquering the highways of the Western world."
“What a sissy you are," Shelley said. "No sense of adventure at all.”
The back door opened. Mel said, "The girls said you two were hiding out here. Jane! What happened to your yard?"
“I broke down and followed Shelley's example and rented a semigarden."
“It looks great." He took the chair between them and patted Jane's arm. "You look glum."
“Thanks. I'm having a pity party about my foot."
“Too bad you didn't break it when you were a kid. Having a cast then is a mark of honor.”
Jane made a conscious decision to at least act happy. Nobody was taking her complaints seriously. "Shelley's trying to get me to plant a real garden when I'm out of the cast."
“Good idea. I could help.”
Jane turned and looked at him. "How? Why?"
“I'd love to have a weekend or two renting guy machines. High loaders, trenchers, stuff like that."
“It must really be a guy thing. I don't even know what those things are for," Jane said with a smile. "And they sound like something that would scare the cats out of their skins. How's Julie Jackson doing today?”
Mel said, "She's getting better physically. Still no memory of anything about the attack. Apparently the hospital is willing to send her home in a day or two, so long as her sister and brother-in-law can stay over to watch her closely for a few days."
“I'm glad she's getting better," Jane said, "but I really meant, how is the case going?"
“I was too busy with another case nearly all day. I made a couple of stabs at getting in touch with Dr. Eastman. He doesn't seem to ever be home. I'm afraid I might have upset the boy who answers the phone by calling three or four times.
Now he's worried about where his boss has gone.”
“Aren't you?" Shelley asked.
“Not really. Why should I be?"
“Because the woman who was supposed to teach the class was seriously injured, and what if it had something to do with the class itself?"
“But, Jane, why would anyone try to stop her teaching what she writes about all the time?”
Jane hated it when Mel was so reasonable and she hadn't a good answer.
“I'll catch him later tonight," Mel said. "He might have just driven up for the day to the place he has up north. That's what the boy thought." He looked toward the house. "Were there any leftovers from your dinner? I didn't even get lunch today."
“One piece of leather chicken," Jane said.
“I think I'll stop for fast food," Mel said, getting up. He kissed Jane in a preoccupied manner and said, "Perk up, honey.”
When he'd gone, Shelley and Jane looked at each other for a long moment.
“Are you thinking what I am?" Shelley asked. "Yes. What's become of Dr. Eastman?”
Twenty
Jane was giving the cats fresh cat food about · eight o'clock that night when the doorbell rang. It was Arnie Waring again. This time with a crock-pot recipe of Darlene's three-beans, onion, and ham recipe in a heavy plastic container with a towel around it.
“I'm sorry I'm dropping by so late," he said, "but I started this after the garden tours and had to wait until it was done. I guess you've had your dinner already, but it heats up real good the next day." He set the container down and unwrapped it; it even contained homemade crackers in a well-sealed plastic bag.
Jane was touched. "Arnie, you're just trying to fatten me up. I don't need fattening. This is so sweet of you, though. And it smells fantastic."
“You could use some weight. I was always glad that Darlene was a bit plump. It made her even prettier."
“I guess that's true of some women," Jane said. Arnie went on, "This was my wife's favorite recipe, and mine, too. She made it every Wednesday night, which this is. I always cook it up on Wednesdays.”
Jane was torn. She wanted to say, Darlene is gone. Get your own life.
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