I brush past her and continue around to the driver’s side, where I open the door. But the damn women won’t let up.
“If there was a man around…”
Anger flares in my veins. I’m tired of being judged for being a single mom. I don’t see her taking on any of the single dads in town. “Why don’t you just fuck off?”
She gapes at me, and I grab my takeout cup and croissant from the roof and slam the door. I stick the van in reverse and ignore the amused spectators on the sidewalk as I pull out into traffic.
My hand shakes as I bring the coffee to my lips. As I take a long sip, my anger turns into annoyance at myself for losing it at the old biddy. I can’t afford any more scrutiny, not now that my livelihood depends on the people of this town.
My gaze catches Noah’s in the rearview mirror.
“Fuck,” he says in his baby voice and giggles.
“Oh no. You don’t say that.”
“Fuck,” he says again. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
Great. I’m judged enough in this town, and the last thing I need is a two-year-old who swears like a sailor. But at the same time, there’s something so joyful about the way he says it, with his chubby cheeks dimpling as he cusses.
I exhale and avert my eyes before he sees me laughing.
I’m swearing at old ladies and teaching my son bad words, and it’s not even 9 a.m. I’m not getting any mother of the year awards.
Ten minutes later, I pull onto my street. There’s a sleek hybrid parked outside my place with a woman sitting in the front seat who can only be the reporter.
I drive my battered and dusty van past her shiny car and pull into my driveway. My mood lifts as I pass the Rose & Thorns Garden Designs sign that’s hammered into the front lawn. It’s been eight months since I started my own gardening businesswith the help of a small business bank loan and a lot of late nights. And that sign, with its thorny rose logo outside my home, makes me proud every time I pass it.
I converted the old garden shed into a workroom and installed a greenhouse as a nursery. So far, I mow a lot of lawns, but my talent really lies in landscaping design, which is why the Huntington job is such a big scoop. My first major client, or paid one anyway, if you don’t count the work I do for Joel at Jake’s Retreat.
“Paige Hayes?” The woman has followed me up the drive. Her smile is as bright as the sheen on her car. “I’m Daphne Willcocks fromHope Matters.”
I wipe the coffee off my hand and shake hers. “Sorry I’m late. It was a rough morning.”
I pull open the backseat door and unbuckle Noah. He squirms to be let out, and I swoop him into my arms and onto my hip.
The woman’s smile softens. “He’s adorable.”
Noah gives her his best dimpled grin, all signs of the tantrum gone, and I offer a silent prayer that he doesn’t curse. But my good little man stares wide-eyed at Daphne and waves his chubby little fingers.
“Hello,” he says in his baby voice.
“He is so cute.” She smiles so hard I can practically hear her ovaries popping.
“You wouldn’t think that if you’d seen him this morning.”
I grab my purse with my spare hand and shunt the door closed with my hip. “Where do you want to start? I converted the shed to a workspace, and there’s a greenhouse out back.”
“Let’s take a peek in the shed.”
The shed is nestled next to the house. When Mom owned the place, it held her rusty gardening tools, piles of old pots, and an army of spiders. I cleared it all out and painted it vibrant green, and Hudson helped me install a workbench and shelves. Now, flowerpots line the outside, adding a splash of color.
“You really built this up all on your own, with this one to look after too?”
I fish the keys out of my pocket and unlock the padlock that secures the door to the shed. “Sure did.”
I push open the double doors, and light floods the place. The smell of lavender hangs in the air, and a stray spider scuttles across the floor, one of the lucky survivors.
Sketches are strewn over the workbench, and a corkboard is plastered with images—my mood board for the Huntington design. On the other side of the shed are my gardening tools, hanging on hooks to save space.
