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“You’re a hard woman to miss,” he remarks, tugging the brim of his navy USS Battleship North Carolina ball cap to shade his grizzled face from the sun.
I stand out like a sore thumb in crowds, but Mr. Johnston has been telling me for years he much prefers the way I dress to the “get-ups” he sees at the Farmers Market. He once complimented me on a dress, saying his wife had a similar one when they dated. Though the time we compared the colorful lines on my leg from my tattoo to the fading wisps of blue diffusing into his forearm after over half a century, Mr. Johnston told me for as beautiful as the flowers were, he worried for the soul of any woman who needed as much ink as I’ve adorned my body with.My, how times have changed,I thought.
“Come along.” He holds out his weathered hand, holding mine daintily when I accept.
Poor Mrs. Johnston, Mr. Johnston had to have been quite the charmer in his day.
“I’m around the bend,” I say to Bhodi, pointing beyond the next row of hanging plants.
My son is counting blooms on a squat table brimming with pots of phlox, Shasta daisies, and coneflowers. A few feet away, Mrs. Johnston sits in the shade of the warehouse building. There’s an oxygen tank attached to her wheelchair. She has a bright floral top on, a blanket spread over her lap, and a large red umbrella already open behind her for when the direction of the sun changes later in the afternoon. Her face moves a fraction and I catch the corners of her mouth lifting. She’s been where I am; trying to give a boy a chance to spread his wings, but still unsure of how to let go and keep the baby she raised safe.
We turn the corner. Mr. Johnston wheezes, clearing his throat. He picks up a teensy forest green pot with a crippled plant in the soil.
“For you, my dear.”
The majority of the flowers in my kitchen he’s given to me in the same manner. It’s the inevitable outcome of visiting a great old soul’s stall when you can’t help yourself but tend to the branches in need of TLC.
“What is it?” I ask like always.
“You’ll have to wait and see.” He shakes a finger at me, replying in his usual manner.
My cheek draws up. “Not even an idea of if it prefers sun or shade? Mr. Johnston, you give me too much credit.”
“Have you killed one yet?”
“Well, no.” I’ve over-watered a few trying to figure out what the plant needed.
“Then it’s settled.”
“Do you want me to return it?”
I politely inquire the same thing each time. I had brought the first, a plumeria, back to life and tried to return it to Mr. Johnston to a considerable amount of scolding about returning a gift and hurting an old man’s feelings.
“Heavens, no. Just show me the picture on that camera phone of yours.”
The way it comes out, I half expect Mr. Johnston to have used “newfangled”. I’ve taken out my cell to show him my success stories since that I’ve posted on my private social media account.
This was supposed to be a quick stop at their market stall. I need a new pot for a plant that’s outgrown its dirt home and to get Mrs. Johnston’s opinion on her favorite ceramic. Per her usual, she chooses the brightest and most colorful. Mrs. Johnston would get a tattoo.
I place my new little treasure inside my purchase and Bhodi carries the two for me as we stroll toward the crosswalk for the next building, passing the fruit and vegetable vendors. The smell of strawberries accosts my nose and we agree to buy a bushel before going home when Bhodi leans into me and begs for spring fruit. It’s too hot to leave any of this in the car. In the sun they might soon wilt too.
“Holly, wait!” Cece calls from behind us.
She and Sylvie Rhys scamper across the lot, giggling. Her tote bounces behind her, filled with green leafy vegetables.
Today, Dusty has a deck to build and Laurel’s ex has Emory, giving her a much-needed day to herself. So, when Cece offered to meet us out for brunch—which is more akin to lunch given my sleep schedule—and the rest of our girlfriends heard, they decided it was mill girls’ day out at the Farmer’s Market.
“Oh, good! I thought we were late,” I say.
“I needed a few things for dinner, so we tried to plan accordingly. And you know what they say, better late than pr— uh, in Kimber’s condition.” Cece bites her tongue and blushes, glancing at Dusty’s daughter. “I’m still getting used to this.” She touches Sylvie’s honey locks apologetically. She’s new to parenting.
“Agreed… And you’re doing fine. It’s only been a few months since you and Dusty started dating for real, and I haven’t once heard a negative comment from Sylvie Rhys—or Renata.” I tack on Sylvie’s grandma’s name.
We continue walking to the farm-to-table restaurant. The kids are up ahead.
“It’s the opposite.” Cece tucks her hair behind her ear, biting her lip. “We’re getting lots of questions from daddy’s little princess.”
“She’s eager to move things along?”
