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Chapter 8
Max
Iflipped over a pageof the horticulture guide, looking for inspiration for spring bulbs. Mrs. Jacques, one of our gardening clients, wanted me to prepare a garden box with bulbs. I didn’t know a thing about bulbs, only that they were a curious thing. You planted them before the ground froze, and they popped up in spring. How easy was that?
Mrs. Jacques had a love of tulips and daffodils, and she wanted to have them at the back of her sun deck, so she would be able to sit and admire them. Her new house had been deemed low maintenance with beds of evergreen shrubs and pebbles for easy care, but Mrs. J longed for some flowers. I refused to be discouraged after reading there were thousands of different types of daffodils and was intent on doing the research to see what would perform best in our area.
I’d already done the measurements for the box, and Dad was helping me with its construction. Doing a semester of woodwork in Tech Education class had proved to be useful.
When Mom called out that dinner was ready, I’d filled up two pages with names of daffodils and tulips. With some sprouting early, some late, I had in mind that I would create a box that provided Mrs. J with continuous blooms and color.
Contrary to just sticking the bulbs beneath the soil, I realized that there were a host of things to consider, like the height of the stem, and the time and length of flowering. If I was going to do it, it had to be right.
“Hey there. Whatcha been doing?” Dad was sitting at the dining table, scrolling through his phone. The plates were sitting on the kitchen counter, but Mom was nowhere to be seen.
“Figuring Mrs. Jacques’s box,” I said. “I don’t know whether to order the bulbs online or go down to the store. What do you think?”
“Well, depends if you know what you want. Michelle is very knowledgable. Have you spoken to her yet?” Michelle was the lady at garden center.
I shook my head, sitting down at my place, eyeing up the rib eye steak and baked potatoes she’d served up. “I’ve just been researching online. You know how many different types of tulips there are, right? And daffodils.”
Dad smiled. “Quite a few, I imagine. Does Mrs. Jacques have a preference? Maybe color or type. Then work from there.”
“Mmmm.” That would take a lot of time. As nice as Mrs J and her lemonade was, she could talk your ear off. When doing her yard, I always scheduled it last, otherwise I’d never make it to my other jobs on time.
Mom walked in from the living room, talking on her phone. “Uh huh. Yep. Okay. Take care. Talk to you later.”
She put the phone down on the counter and let out a laborious sigh as she brought over bowls of salad and green beans, and a basket of garlic bread.
“Everything all right?” Dad asked.
“Laura Carter,” Mom said as she passed the salad to Dad.
“How’s she doing?” Dad asked.
“Not good,” Mom said in a weary tone. Everyone felt sorry for Laura Carter, Phoenix’s mother, but in my mind, she deserved no pity. None at all. Mom’s gaze diverted from the garlic bread to me. “Have you talked to Phoenix this week?” Her tone was gentle and whispery, the way you spoke when you wanted to soften the blow of what you were about to say.
