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“Colette’s strawberries are over there, under the straw. That’s the trick with them. You need three to five inches of mulch to overwinter the plants.”
I follow her stubby finger to the far corner. “That looks like a lot of strawberry plants.” The patch takes up at least a quarter of this entire garden.
“Colette loved her strawberries. Sold almost forty quarts at the farmers’ market last year!” Muriel says proudly.
I have no idea how much forty quarts is, but I can guarantee it’s far more than a person like me—who doesn’t
eat strawberries—could ever want. “So, there is a local farmers’ market where I can buy fresh produce?” As in, I can avoid all this work?
“Yup. Every Friday afternoon from end of June till September in the community center. They sell all kinds of stuff. Produce, local honey, jam. Colette made wonderful jam. We served it at the Ale House for breakfast. People can’t get enough of it. If this year’s growin’ season’s as good, I reckon you’ll be elbow-deep in mashed berries for a good three weeks.” Muriel’s head bobs up and down. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll help you with your first batch, so you get the hang of it.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, though I feel anything but thankful. Yet again, Muriel assumes I intend to spend my entire summer gardening and preserving.
She doesn’t clue in to my reluctance. Or maybe she does, but she refuses to acknowledge it. “We need to make sure things keep growin’ in here.” Her brow is furrowed as she studies the barren dirt again. Her best friend’s garden, that she laid to rest after she laid her best friend to rest.
Maybe that’s what is at the root of Muriel’s dogged determination to mold me into the consummate gardener—loyalty.
“I best be gettin’ going. I promised Teddy I’d make him an omelette.” She makes to step away but then stalls, her lips twisting, the wrinkles around her mouth more pronounced. “This ain’t none of my business—”
I struggle to school my expression. Sentences that start with those words are never welcome.
“But I’m guessin’ Jonah likes to have control.”
Hearing her use the word “control” to describe Jonah makes my irritation flare. A controlling man is not appealing. “He likes to have his say. It’s not about control,” I correct. Jonah is assertive and he knows what he wants. Those are appealing qualities.
Her head tilts in a “you silly, naive girl” way. “Men like him don’t do well havin’ no say over things like finances.”
She’s Toby’s mother, I remind myself, biting my tongue and forcing a smile.
“You know that resort? All those acres we own?” She juts her thumb in the direction of the Trapper’s Crossing resort. “That’s my family’s property. Teddy married into it. But the day I told him that we were gettin’ married or to quit wastin’ my time, I knew it would become as much his as mine. I still had a hard time lettin’ go, seein’ him as having an equal say. Took a few years to get used to the idea of that, especially for a stubborn broad like me. And I’ll tell ya, those were some hard years.” She shakes her head. “But there is no labeling ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ once you’re married.”
“We’re not married.”
“And you won’t ever be if you two let a big pile of money get in the way of it happening.” She points at the house. “It seems you’ve already made some big commitments to each other, buying this place, all the way out here. Rings and a ceremony … that’s all for show. It’s the day-to-day stuff that makes a real marriage, and out here where the winters are long and cold, you don’t wanna be at odds with your other half, believe me. You’ll need him.” She smiles knowingly. “I get what I want when it comes to the resort. Teddy thinks he’s runnin’ things around there, and I let the fool think it. Everybody wins.” Her pat against my shoulder is firm, and yet somehow comforting. “Do me a favor and listen to a willful old goat who had to learn the hard way.”
I find myself nodding dumbly.
* * *
“You two need to come down to the Ale House at the end of the month!” Muriel hollers, throwing a leg over the seat of her ATV. Behind it is a metal rack and on that rack sits a long, slender gun. The sight of it is unnerving. “It’s our annual chili cook-off. A good way to meet locals. The seasonal folk start lurking then, too. Comin’ up to open their cabins.”
“I like chili,” Jonah announces from his spot on the covered porch, leaning against the post, his shapely arms even more pronounced folded over his chest.
“I’ll have Toby send a list of everything we need to prep the soil. You go on and get that stuff for Calla. She’s got a lot of work ahead of her this summer.”
Jonah grins, enjoying this far too much. “I’ll be happy to help Calla with her garden in any way I can.”
She waggles her finger at me. “And don’t forget, tomorrow, eight a.m. at the Burger Shack. They’ll …” The low rumble of the ATV drowns out the rest of her words, and then she’s off, speeding down our driveway.
“Bet she could shoot a sprinting deer from a thousand yards with gale force winds,” Jonah says, equal amounts amusement and admiration in his voice.
“If she doesn’t just order it to drop dead.” I sigh with defeat, my gaze drifting over the expanse of water. The snow melted weeks ago, leaving behind a frozen blue surface that gleamed in the sunlight but that locals no longer dared test with their recreational toys. It seemed like the spring thaw happened overnight. It began with patches of dull black ice and slush appearing, and then the jarring sound much like a cracking whip as fissures formed and ice chunks broke off, to nudge each other like slow-moving bumper cars as they floated to the shoreline. There, they dissolved into the cold blue lake that stretches before me. Early in the day, the surface is glass, a perfect reflection of the sky and clouds above. But now a slight breeze in the air creates a ripple across its surface.
Lately I’ve found myself inclined to sit on the porch with my morning coffee and admire the yawning expanse of water, land, and mountain. I never thought of myself as a person who gravitated to water, but in this vast wilderness and solitude, there is an unparalleled calm that comes with starting my day here.
This morning, though, there will be no finding calm, my peace suitably disturbed. I don’t have the energy to deal with Jonah, not after dealing with Muriel.
I climb the porch steps and push through the front door, kicking off my rubber boots along the way to the kitchen, aiming for the laundry room where our mop bucket is stashed.
