Page 43 of Dear Debbie

That makes me feel even worse. The last time Ken took a fishing trip, I was the one he asked to water his plants. I can understand after our conversation yesterday, though, why he wouldn’t want me wandering around his empty home. Not that I’d take a piss in his plants or anything like that, but, well, I’d be tempted.

As I trudge back to my office with my cup of coffee, I can’t seem to shake a sensation in the back of my head that something isn’t entirely right here. Ken goes fishing all the time, but he usually gives us a few weeks’ notice. And there’s something strange about the fact that the people he told were contacted electronically rather than with a phone call.

Impulsively, I grab my phone and find Ken’s number under my favorite contacts. The last thing I want to do is chitchat with my boss after our conversation yesterday, but my Spidey sense won’t stop tingling. Something is wrong.

I grip the phone as it rings in my ear. Again and again until it goes to his terse voicemail:

This is Ken Bryant. Leave a message.

If he went on a fishing trip, it makes sense he wouldn’t have phone service. Or else he left his phone behind while he’s sitting in the middle of a lake, just him and his fishing rod. That’s the most logical explanation.

So why can’t I turn off this buzzing in the back of my head? Maybe it’s because in all the years I’ve known Ken, he has never once taken a spontaneous vacation. Every time he’s taken so much as an afternoon off, he’s given us several weeks’ notice. This is very strange behavior.

Maybe I should go check on him.

But that might not be a great idea. If he is home, Ken wouldn’t appreciate it if I showed up at his front door. And if he’s not home, that sort of thing might be looked at as trespassing by a disgruntled employee.

I’m sure he’s fine. I’m sure he’ll be back on Monday.

34

DEBBIE

Without my advice column to work on, I spend the morning in my garden.

I love gardening. I find the repetitive motions of planting, watering, and pruning to be very relaxing. Almost meditative. I feel so much satisfaction after spending the day outside when I look out on my yard at the fruits of my labor. Multiple studies have shown that gardening reduces stress, anxiety, and depression. After working for a morning in my backyard, I feel so relaxed and zen.

Screw that Home Gardening magazine. They can go straight to hell.

Opium poppies are actually surprisingly easy to grow. They are my favorite of all the flowers in my garden. I’ve been doing it for years, so I’ve got it down to a science. Unlike my children, who change every single year, leaving me fumbling to keep up, poppies follow a natural and predictable cycle. My little poppy flowers are nearly at the end of their annual cycle.

In a month or so, I will shake the seeds all over the garden to begin the cycle anew. I’m careful to strategically plan the distribution of seeds, and by spring, the flowers will bloom in bright bursts of color. The color is so vivid that it almost seems to glow with a mystical intensity. At the height of the season, my garden looks ethereal.

By the late fall, the petals will have fallen off the flowers, and the pods will start to bloom. I will then harvest them for seeds. And, of course, opium.

Today, I walk out into my yard barefoot. I don’t do it all the time, but I love gardening in my bare feet. I love the feel of the dirt between my toes, and it almost makes me feel like I’m part of the garden. My task for the morning is to get rid of all the stray leaves that have fallen into the yard, and there are enough of them that it keeps me busy for nearly two hours. By the end, there’s soil caked into my fingernails and in the creases of my palms, and of course, my feet are caked with it.

As I’m washing the dirt off my hands in the kitchen sink, I think about what I want to make for lunch. I pull out my phone and idly check the website for the Hingham Household. It’s the only local paper, so they might have a news update on Coach Robert Pike. But nope, it’s still that video of Garrett and Sierra having sex on his desk. Apparently, he hasn’t managed to get it down yet.

Oh, Garrett.

While I’ve got my phone out, another idea hits me. It might be nice to have some company. So I reach for my phone and shoot off a message to Harley:

Sorry for the late notice, but any chance you’d like to grab lunch?

Immediately, three bubbles appear on the screen. Harley doesn’t usually work on Thursday mornings, so she must be home.

Sure! But I don’t have a lot of time. I’m teaching a spin class at one.

No problem. What if I bring some food to your house? I can make sandwiches.

Before she can respond, I quickly add:

No avocados. I promise.

The response takes longer this time. She’s clearly thinking hard about what she wants to say. It probably doesn’t help that the last time I made sandwiches, three people got seriously ill with food poisoning. But I’m not going to give Harley food poisoning. I’m sure she realizes that.

Sure thing! See you soon!