“It feels like it is.”
He looks at me for a second, then says:
“I’ll come back tomorrow. Around the same time.”
I stare at him.
“Are you assigning me homework?”
“Yes.”
I smile. I can’t help it.
“Yes, sir.”
He turns toward his truck and I watch him go. Somewhere between the first plant and the last, I stop wondering if I made a mistake buying this place. Looking over this garden that’s taking shape, I wonder what else might grow here in Cady Springs, Colorado.
Chapter 10
Troy
Istep out and leave Rainey’s place before it turns into something else. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way. She’s got what she needs to start and she seems genuinely pleased with it. I’ll bring her some more plants tomorrow — something different. But the planting is not what’s pulling at me. It’s her.
I like the way she didn’t argue when I corrected her. Rainey didn’t try to prove she knew better. She adjusted, knowing she could do better and she got better at it. Most people don’t do that. Most people either shut down or fight you on it.
It’s nearly noon by the time I roll up my own drive. The greenhouse sits to the side of the cabin. I enter it, the air thick with the smell of plants, soil and plastic. I walk through the rows, checking the trays, running water for the seedlings. It’s humid already, even with the vented windows propped open. I check the root systems on a couple of tomato starts, running my thumbover the fuzz on their stems. Everything in here is on track. It feels good and looks predictable.
I water, pull a few weeds from the gravel underfoot, then pause and lean back. The hose is dripping between my boots, and I realize I’m just standing in all this wetness. Why would it take me so long to notice it? Probably because I can't get Rainey out of my mind. I keep hearing the echo of her laugh. The memory of her facial expression flashes in front of me. She had this surprised pride on her face when she saw those lettuce starts in the ground.
Rainey’s a hot mess. But she works harder than she says she does. And she doesn’t scare off easy. That shouldn’t mean anything, but I keep thinking about it anyway. Most people don’t surprise me. So far, she has.
I finish up greenhouse chores and head inside to grab lunch. While standing at the sink washing up, my mind drifts back to the way she crouched down and ran her hands through the dirt; the way she bit her lip and looked up at me. It was like she was waiting for approval but not daring to ask. I don’t know what to do with that kind of need, except keep showing up for it.
After lunch, I head out to the property to check the drip tape and fencing I’d run last season. Most people don’t realize how much goes into getting a garden to stay alive up here. The wind alone will rip a brand-new row cover to shreds if you don’t anchor it right. I check the edge of the beds, make sure there’s no sign of vole damage near the ground line. It’s holding.
I move along, running a hand down the welded wire at the edge of the berry patch, testing for weak spots. At the far end, I crouch and find a small spot where something’s been digging. Fox or raccoon, probably, but nothing devastating yet. I press a finger into the print and test the depth. Not deep enough for a coyote. I’ll patch it tomorrow, maybe run an extra layer of hardware cloth when I get to town for supplies.
I make a note on my phone, then catch myself, annoyed. I used to remember things. Now I have a note app open for a trip to the hardware store I don’t actually need yet.
I finish the outside chores and check the weather on my phone, then sit at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee that’s gone lukewarm while I stare out the window. I should eat something more than a sandwich, but I’m not hungry. There’s a line of sunlight on the floor that tracks the whole way across the cabin. I follow it with my eyes, let my thoughts drift. I don’t want to think about Rainey, but she crowds in anyway.
I try to focus on the rows I need to plant next week, the invoices I have to send out, the retainer check for the fence job up near the lake. But every time I settle into the work, she’s back in my head, digging holes with too much force and not enough patience.
Rainey is the opposite of subtle. Every reaction is visible, right under the skin. I know people like that. I know how their energy burns up fast, and how quickly they can walk away when it runs too hot. I’ve made all my mistakes with women like that. They light up the whole room, but then they disappear, and all you’re left with is the echo.
I tell myself this is just a neighborly thing. She’s new here, she needs the help, and it’s the right thing to do. But I’ve lived here too long to lie to myself. I don’t go this far for people I don’t care about. Not anymore. Not since— I shut that line of thought down hard.
Instead, I pull up a short list for tomorrow. I’ll bring her some tomato plants. Not the basic six-pack from the commercial flats, but the ones I start from seed in January. Three varieties: one that fruits early, one for slicing, one that doesn’t split in wet years. She doesn’t know the work that goes into each, or the patience. But maybe she’ll learn to like the process.
I walk back out to the greenhouse. Working with plants, getting my hands in the dirt always takes the extra edge I carry off of me. The air in there is a living thing, thick and green. I pace the rows until I feel the edge come off. Then I crouch down at the far end and pinch off a spent blossom on a tomato start. The smell of the plant hits me in the face—sharp, slightly bitter, alive. I think about Rainey’s hands, the way she curled her fingers around that first lettuce start, holding it like she was afraid she’d break it.
I pull a flat of seedlings and set them on the prep bench. I go down the line, picking the best ones. The ones with sturdy stems, not leggy or fragile. I don’t choose the prettiest. The ones that make it out here are the ones that survive a little struggle. I like that about plants. They don’t waste time pretending. They grow or they don’t.
I know I’ll see her tomorrow. I know she’ll probably say something that makes me want to either laugh or walk away, and I’ll do neither. Instead, I’ll show her the tomatoes. I’ll watch her try to hide how much she likes the smell of the leaves on her fingers. I’ll make sure she doesn’t over-water. She’ll probably do it anyway.
I’ll show her how to bury the stem deep, how to lay the roots sideways so the plant gets stronger. I’ll watch her plant them, even when she’s sure I’m not watching. I’ll keep my mouth shut while she messes it up, because that’s how you learn, and because I know she’ll figure it out.
Rainey’s the kind of person who doesn’t stop moving until the thing is done, or at least until it’s ruined well enough to start over. There’s a stubbornness in her I respect, even when it makes her life harder.
