“And you’re doing this work yourself?” He ran his fingers through his wavy hair. “Wow, that’s cutting it close.”
“I know.” She pointed to her watch. “And I realize it’s almost closing time.”
He nodded. “Well, how about I help you with this? You have a calculator on your phone?”
“Sure.” She got it out, and suddenly he was giving her figures. As she calculated, he made notes on his phone until he finally told her they were done. “These are sort of ballpark figures,” he explained. “I don’t know how many rows you’ll plant or about any corners you’ll need to turn. But I’ll put enough together so that you’ll have more than you need. And you can just return the unused parts when you’re done. Along with the sprinkler system parts.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“I assume no one’s going to be working on your irrigation system tonight, so how about if we deliver the pieces to you first thing in the morning—will that work?”
“That would be fabulous.” She told him Grandpa’s address and he put it into his phone.
“The Michaelses’ farm?” he asked. “Does that mean you’re related to Alex?”
“He’s my grandfather.”
Jordan smiled. “Well, he’s a good man, that’s for sure. And I hear he’s going to grow pumpkins this year.”
“That’s right.”
He held up his phone. “I better get this ordered up.”
“Thank you.” She beamed at him. “You’ve been so helpful, Jordan. You really should tell your boss to give you a raise.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I might just do that. And the delivery should arrive about seven tomorrow? That okay?”
“That’s great.” Dillon actually liked the idea of waking up Margot that early. It was about time she started keeping a farmer’s hours. And since the grocery store was still open, Dillon stopped in to get the items on Grandpa’s list. She could just imagine Margot’s face when she saw bacon and eggs sizzling on the stove tomorrow morning.
CHAPTER
6
By the time Dillon got home, the house was quiet. As she put the groceries away, she was dismayed to see the kitchen was not very clean. But at least Margot had loaded and run the dishwasher. Dillon still remembered when Grandpa had given Grandma the portable dishwasher for Christmas. Grandma hadn’t wanted it at first, saying that the bulky appliance was in the way. But before long, she got used to it and even used its butcher-block top as a cutting board. As Dillon wiped down the counters and stove and table, scrubbed the sink, and swept the floor, she could almost feel her grandmother’s presence . . . and instead of feeling weary of the housework, she felt strangely soothed.
But as she gathered bed things from the linen closet, she felt resentful of Margot, who was upstairs sleeping in Dillon’s bed. Why was she doing this? Being so stubborn, and acting like her lavender project was some sort of a spiritual calling? And what would happen when she tired of the hard work and gave up? Would Grandpa be stuck with the mess? And who was paying for everything?
As Dillon settled into the sagging sofa, she wondered if it would be wrong to pray for Don to show up and beg Margot to return to him and continue living together in less-than-holy-matrimony so that Dillon could have her old bed back. Probably. Fortunately she was so worn out, she hardly noticed the sofa’s shortcomings. She realized she could probably sleep anywhere tonight.
When she woke the next morning, she wasn’t sure whether she was relieved to get up or not. Although her back begged to escape the sofa, she was still sleepy. But the aroma of coffee wafting in from the kitchen was enticing.
Grandpa greeted her as he spooned sugar into a mug.
“Bacon and eggs?” she asked as she poured herself some coffee.
“Count me in.” He nodded eagerly.
As Dillon laid bacon strips in the big cast-iron frying pan, she told Grandpa about her visit to the hardware store and the change in irrigation plans.
“A drip line makes sense,” he agreed. “I didn’t question Margot because she told me she was researching everything.”
“Right. Which brings me to another question. Are you paying for all this? Or is Margot investing in it herself?”
He sighed. “Margot doesn’t really have anything to invest.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem fair to put the expense on you. I mean, it could be profitable.” She actually questioned this. “But what if it all falls apart? Can you afford it?”
“Your grandmother got life insurance policies on both of us a long time ago. I’d assumed they’d lapsed, but it turned out she kept up the payments all these years. So, anyway, I can afford to help your mother with her lavender project.”
“Speaking of Margot, I wanted to wake her up early. The parts for the watering system will be here by seven and I think she should be up when the delivery comes, don’t you?”
He grinned. “You bet, I do. I’ve been telling her that farmers can’t afford to sleep the morning away. Gotta make hay while the sun shines.”
Dillon turned the flame down under the bacon, then ran upstairs and banged on the bedroom door, calling out that Margot’s delivery would be here in about fifteen minutes. “So get up—now!” Margot mumbled something unintelligible but, worried about the bacon, Dillon didn’t stick around.
It was almost seven when Dillon started dishing up breakfast, but Margot still hadn’t come down. “There’s the Atwood truck.” Grandpa pointed to the window over the sink. “I’ll go out and see to it.”
Dillon would’ve preferred to drag Margot out of bed kicking and screaming but knew it was pointless. Instead, she poured the orange juice and suppressed her desire to phone Don and beg or bribe him to come get Margot.
“I invited Jordan to breakfast,” Grandpa announced as he came in through the back door. “I hope you have enough.”
Dillon blinked then nodded. “Sure, there’s plenty.” She smiled at Jordan. He looked bright and shiny in a plaid Western shirt and blue jeans. She resisted the urge to smooth her bed-head curls, wishing she’d taken some time with her own rumpled appearance. “Have a seat.” She set down the two loaded plates, then turned back to the stove to scramble a couple more eggs. Fortunately she’d made lots of bacon.
“Want coffee?” she asked Jordan as she poured an extra glass of orange juice.
“Sounds great. I’m not used to such accommodating customers. Guess I’ll have to start making more morning deliveries. Say, Alex, your pumpkin seed should be here by Monday. Want it delivered?” He winked as Dillon set his coffee down.
“Why not?” Grandpa laughed.
“But we could be having oatmeal then.” Dillon sat down with her plate.
“So you’re growing pumpkins and lavender now?” Jordan asked Grandpa.
“Looks that way.” Grandpa glumly shook his head. “If anyone told me that a year ago, I’d have called ’em crazy. But . . . well, things change.”
“I sort of know how you feel.”
Grandpa nodded. “Yeah, I suppose you never planned to be running the family business.” He turned to Dillon. “Jordan’s dad passed away about a month after your grandma.”
“But we had more warning,” Jordan told Dillon. “My dad battled cancer for a couple of years.”
“Dale Atwood was a good man,” Grandpa said with respect.
“Atwood?” Dillon frowned. “Isn’t that the name of the hardware store?”
“Of course,” Grandpa told her. “Atwood’s Feed and Seed and Hardware.”
“Oh?” She looked at Jordan. “So you’re Mr. Atwood?”
He laughed. “Most people just call me Jordan.”
“Jordan’s been in charge of the store for about a year now,” Grandpa told her. “And doing a good job too.”
“We thought it was just to help out when Dad got sick. No one expected I’d stick it out this long. But the town sort of grows on you. Such a great family place. And, as it turns out, I like running the store.”
“Good
morning,” Margot said crisply as she entered the kitchen. “Are we having a party?”
“No, just breakfast.” Grandpa introduced her to Jordan, then lifted his coffee mug with a twinkle in his eye. “Feel free to join us.”
“You don’t expect me to eat that.” Margot turned her nose up. “Looks like a heart attack on a plate.”
“You go ahead and drink green slime if you like,” Grandpa teased, “and leave the bacon and eggs to us. We need some fortitude to help us work.”
“Speaking of work, I better get going.” Jordan pushed back his chair. “But I do appreciate the breakfast. Compliments to the cook.”
“Don’t sue us if your cholesterol count is sky-high,” Margot said lightly.
Jordan just laughed, but Dillon felt annoyed—and as if she were ten years old again . . . trying to make sense of her peculiar parent. As an excuse to escape Margot, Dillon walked Jordan outside, thanking him again for all his help. “I should’ve guessed you were more than just an employee at the hardware store.”
He grinned. “That’s okay. It took a while for the town to adjust when I stepped in for Dad. They’re barely used to me now.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “But I’m sure your dad would be proud of how well you’re managing the hardware store.”
“Well, it’s a family business. We do our best.” He thanked her again for breakfast, then hopped in his pickup and took off. As she watched the trail of dust behind the dark green hardware-store truck, she thought Jordan Atwood was a man of many layers. Not the kind of enigma Brandon had been, always keeping her slightly off guard. But Jordan was definitely a bit mysterious. He’d sounded amused by her assumption that he was an employee at the hardware store. As if he’d enjoyed the joke. And yet he wasn’t malicious.
Instead of returning to the kitchen, where she knew she’d only exchange more snipes with Margot, she headed for Grandma’s garden. It wasn’t long until she found peace there. Systematically weeding, hoeing the beds, emptying pots, getting everything all nice and neat and ready for planting. Even though it was physical labor, it didn’t feel like real work. Not like the stressful job she’d been doing since college. And the clean, cool morning air was like a tonic.
She continued puttering about the garden. Taking a sort of inventory. Some of the hardy herbs, including lots of mint, were growing. The well-established berry vines looked healthy, the strawberry plants had blossoms, and the fruit trees looked strong and healthy. Despite the neglect, Dillon thought Grandma would be pleased. And perhaps it wasn’t too late to plant a few things. Unless her memory was wrong, Grandma used to plant lettuce and several salad veggies into the summer.
Dillon returned to the house for seeds. She was relieved that Margot wasn’t around and snuck into the kitchen to refill her water bottle. Dismayed to see messy countertops and the sink full of dirty dishes, Dillon suspected this was Margot’s way of showing her dietary disapproval. But the kitchen would have to wait.
With her bag of seeds in hand, Dillon spotted Margot just standing in the south field. Her irrigation equipment was spread all about, but nothing was happening. Not wanting to know more, Dillon hurried back to the comfort of the garden.
Nestled into Grandma’s favorite lawn swing, situated in a shady corner, Dillon studied the planting schedule in the garden diary and tried to decide which seeds to plant. It was too late for most, and since no seedlings had been started in the greenhouse, Dillon knew the vegetable part of the garden might be on the sparse side this year. But at least it wouldn’t be full of weeds.
“Dilly-Dilly,” Margot called out in a sugary tone. “Where are you, girlfriend?”
Dillon tried to disappear into the shadows, pretending not to hear.
“Dilly-Dilly. I need your help.”
Dillon considered ducking behind the row of raspberries but knew that was childish. “Over here,” she called without enthusiasm.
“Well, well . . . just look at how nice Mom’s garden looks now.” Margot nodded approval. “I came out here last week, thinking I could grow lavender here, but it looked like too much work to clean it up. But you’ve made progress. And in such a short time too. Nice work, Dilly.”
“Just rolled up my sleeves.” She held up her dirty hands.
“Ugh. You should get yourself some good gloves.” She pulled a brand-new pair from her back pocket.
“Grandma never used gloves to garden.” Dillon closed the diary. “She said she needed to feel the plants with her fingers.”
“I suppose that’s okay if you don’t mind having farmer’s hands. But you’re going to need a manicure now.”
“Is that what you came here for? To lecture me about hand care?”
“No, of course not.” Margot’s smile looked desperate. “I really need your help, Dilly.”
Everything in Dillon wanted to scream in protest, but instead she set aside the diary and slowly stood. “I assume it’s with your irrigation project.”
“Yes. It’s more complicated than I realized.”
“Uh-huh.” Dillon followed her out, latching the gate securely behind her.
“I get the landscaping cloth spread out, and then a breeze comes and messes it up. But what I really need is help with those confounded tubes. It’s a two-person job.” As they walked to the field, Margot explained her basic layout plan. “I drew it all out—I want six rows with twenty plants in each. I need room for paths in between, you know, to walk through. It’s all pretty straightforward and simple.”
“But you still need my help?”
“It will make it go faster.” Margot’s irritation started to show. “And don’t forget, the plants are coming tomorrow.”
“I suppose you’ll need more help with that?”
“Well . . . there are a lot of holes to dig, Dillon.”
“Right . . .” Dillon knew by Margot’s tone that it wouldn’t help to poke at her. Still, it irked her to think how half-hatched this plan really was. But why was that surprising? Dillon went right to work, knowing that the best way to get through this was to simply get it done. Of course, the more she worked with Margot, the more convinced she became that her mother would never be able to finish this. Before long, Dillon was making suggestions . . . and then she began to call the shots, and finally she created a plan that would save both time and energy.
After one o’clock, the sun was hot and Dillon was hungry, but when she suggested they break for lunch, Margot balked. “We’re not even half done.”
“Obviously.” Dillon dropped the hammer she’d been using to drive the U-shaped stakes over the tubing. “But it’s not worth killing ourselves.” She marched back into the house, splashed herself with cool water, and quickly devoured a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and two glasses of milk. Then, refilling her water bottle and putting on Grandma’s old straw hat, she returned to the south field.
Surprised that Margot was still doggedly securing the tubes, Dillon went straight to work installing emitters into the tubes. Before long, she’d figured a quicker way to accomplish this and felt hopeful they’d actually finish the system before dark. She had just finished her second row when she heard Margot groaning.
“What’s wrong?” She turned to see that Margot’s face was flushed—and she was staggering.
“Margot!” Dillon ran to check her. “You’ve probably got heatstroke. Let’s get you inside fast.” Putting an arm around her mother’s waist, she escorted her into the house and sat her down in the recliner. Then she hurried to dampen a hand towel, laying it over Margot’s head. Trying to remember her high school first-aid training, Dillon pulled out her phone and googled “heatstroke.” “It says call 911,” she said with alarm.
“No, no, don’t do that,” Margot muttered. “I—I’ll be okay.”
“But it says it’s dangerous to people over fifty and—”
“I’m young . . . for my age.” Margot sat up straighter. “I just got tired.”
“And overheated.” Dillon stare
d down at her. “Your face is beet red.”
“I used sunscreen.”
“Not that kind of red.” Dillon read the first-aid treatment. “Okay, if I can’t call 911, let’s get you into a cool shower.” She helped Margot to her feet and into the downstairs bathroom, and with her clothes still on, she put her mother in the shower and turned the tap on to cool. Ignoring Margot’s shrieks, Dillon kept her there in the cool water, getting herself soaked in the process.
Finally, with Margot sitting on the side of the tub in a soggy heap, Dillon dashed to the kitchen, returning with a can of Grandpa’s favorite root beer and a glass of water. “Drink this first.” She held out the soda.
Margot scowled. “That’s loaded with sugar!”
“You probably have low blood sugar. Drink some and then you can have water.” Dillon watched with amusement as Margot polished off the whole can. Then Dillon handed her the water.
Margot sighed. “Thanks, Dillon. I feel better.”
Convinced that Margot was out of danger, Dillon wrapped a bath towel around her shoulders. “Better not go back outside again today.”
“What about the irrigation—”
“Never mind about that.” Dillon shook her head. “It’s not worth dying for, Margot.”
“You mean you’d care if I perished?”
Dillon couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Well, as long as you don’t plan to kick the bucket right now, I’m going to go back out to work on it.”
“Thank you, Dilly-Dilly.”
Dillon felt both rattled and relieved, but she refilled her water bottle and, with sun hat on, returned to the south field. After an hour or so, she came back to check on Margot. Then, reassured she was just fine, Dillon returned again to the irrigation project. It figures, she thought as she worked through the afternoon. Once again, Margot started something she can’t finish. And even though Dillon didn’t think Margot got heatstroke on purpose, it was hard not to feel vexed.
As the afternoon shadows grew longer and the air cooled significantly, Grandpa came out to check on the progress. “I hear Margot got too much sun.”
The Happy Camper Page 5
