A Month at the Shore (19 page)

She was able so easily to imagine all of them gathered together at their farmhouse on the hill during holidays, laughing, eating, getting along. That was the most important part of her idyll: that they be getting along. If they were able to do that, they'd be the first in a generation. (Their murderous Uncle Norbert most likely hadn't been very good company, and all of them knew personally what his brother had been like.)

It had begun to hit Laura that it was time—past the time, really—for the Shore sisters to marry, to have children, to begin renewing the Chepaquit branch of the clan. Hopefully, Corinne would do just that.

As for Laura
...

She thought of Max, but not with any sadness, because the idea of having children with him had somehow never been compelling. It was the first time that Laura had admitted it to herself, and she experienced a sudden, sharp feeling of grief: for the children that she never wanted to have with Max.

What was wrong with her? Was she missing a maternal gene or something? All of her adult life, her one desire had been to be financially and emotionally independent. Given her mother's situation, it seemed a logical goal.

But now, suddenly, here she was, obsessing about her biological clock! Of all the irrelevant daydreams!

It was all Ken's fault. He was playing havoc with her emotions; messing with her head. Or her heart. She wasn't sure which.

She tried to tell herself that her attraction to him was nothing more than a dramatic rebound from Max. Or that she was working through a leftover teenage crush. Or even that she was being insecure and vindictive and trying to get back at Ken's mother by seducing her son. She was ready to buy any theory except the scary one: that she might genuinely be falling for the guy.

No way.
Clearly the answer had to be a, b, or c.

Methodically, Laura put away the iron frying pan and drained and scrubbed the sink. Today was not about Ken. Today was about Shore Gardens, and pleasing the customers enough to make certain that they'd come back.

Was that so hard?

She could do that.

Their first customer was an hour early and came with her own carload of plants: Miss Widdich had agreed to sell Shore Gardens eight dozen herbs to bolster their already depleted stock.

Laura was impressed by
the robust health of Miss Wid
dich's plants; their roots were punching their way out of the waterholes in the three-inch pots. Nonetheless, she felt uneasy about buying from the woman; she didn't know why.

Corinne pooh-poohed her reluctance. "It's not as if we need FDA approval of the plants, for Pete's sake. They're
plants."

Interestingly, Snack had even greater reservations than Laura. "We don't know what kind of hybrids the old lady's created. Just because she says something is tarragon—"

Corinne was getting in a snit by now. "Well, at least we know it's not marijuana," she said as she added the new arrivals to their stock on an outside table. "I saw enough of your plants to be able to tell the difference."

Taken aback, Snack said, "How did you know I used to grow weed?"

"Please. The things towered six feet into the air. You couldn't exactly miss them."

'Those were for private consumption," Snack muttered. "I was never a dealer."

"Neither is Miss Widdich! What is this thing you have against her? You remind me of certain good citizens of Salem."

Laura hardly heard their bickering exchange. She was browsing through the handwritten ID stakes in the pots and becoming even more uneasy.

Sylvia Savory. Silver Sylvia. Sylvia Sage.
At least five of the herbs were tagged with the name, obviously bestowed on them by Miss Widdich herself.

"We're a little heavy on Sylvias here," she mentioned to the others. She rattled off some of the labels.

Corinne shrugged and said, "Sylvia is a good horticultural name. Doesn't it mean 'woods'?"

"Most herbs don't grow in the woods. They need sun. Lots of it. It's not the most logical name to use. Here's what I was thinking—do
es anybody remember Sylvia Men
dan? That gorgeous girl who worked here for a couple of months one summer and then suddenly quit and moved on? Remember? Dad was in a black mood for weeks after she left.
Her
name was Sylvia."

Laura was remembering how disappointed Miss Widdich had been that she, and not Sylvia, had been the one to deliver a dozen fragrant white roses on that foggy summer solstice. It had seemed odd at the time; it seemed even odder now.

Corinne said, "But that was a million years ago; Miss Widdich couldn't possibly remember someone who came and went through here so fast. I imagine she's thinking of someone more recent, if she's thinking of a specific person at all."

"Of course she has someone in mind," Laura argued. "Horticulturalists name plants after specific people all the time."

"I don't see what any of this has to do with us—but if you're so curious, then
ask
her."

"I can't. I'm not her friend the way you are. You ask her. But do it in front of me. I want to see her reaction."

"No! It's too personal. If she'd wanted to explain, she would have. You're the one who seems obsessed with Sylvia Mendan, not Miss—"

"Will you two knock it
off already?
"

Laura glanced at Snack, who immediately looked at his watch. "Look, am I supposed to bring down the damned prunus or not?" he snapped. "I've got a lot to do before the opening gun—unless you two plan to find someone else to be your
fricking
clown."

Whoa
. Was that why he was being so testy? Because he dreaded putting on the harmlessly silly clown suit?

Somehow
... Laura didn't think so.

"No, forget about the prunus," Corinne said, easily as edgy as he. "The plums and the cherries are done bloomi
ng
anyway. But why don't you bring down a few shrubs? Say, two or three daphnes, and maybe one or two viburnums. We'll put them near the entry so that people will pick up on the fragrance."

Snack turned to go, but Corinne added, "I suppose, bring a couple of the weigelas too. The buds will give us a shot of color, even though the blooms aren't open yet. As for any trees
... the weeping ones would have the most impact now. Two of those. We'll move the rest of the trees to their new spot tomorrow."

With an impatient sigh, Snack marched off, only to be called back again by Corinne. "Do you really think you'll have the compost area scraped clear to use for a display area by then?"

"I will if I don't have to stand around
here
all day."

"Go, then; go. I know you're almost done," said Corinne.

Snack practically jogged out of the greenhouse in his dash for the tractor. Corinne looked concerned. "Is that just enthusiasm, do you think?"

"Hard to say. I wish I knew," Laura murmured.

"Oh, there you both are," came a voice behind them. It was Miss Widdich herself, leaning on her cane and struggling with a gallon pot of Sa
int-John's-Wort, its cream-and-
pink marbled leaves spilling luxuriously over the edges. "Would you be able to ring this up for me, even though you're not open yet? I don't have this variegated version, and I must say, it's stunning. This one is all you have?"

Laura recognized that had-to-have gleam in Miss Widdich's eye; collectors were like that, whether it was a Hummel or a hypericum that they were after.

"I'm afraid that's the last one," she said. "But it will fill out so fast; it should get you started, at least. You don't have to pay for it, Miss Widdich," she added. "Consider it a gift for helping us out."

"Thank you. Then I'll be on my way. I want to get this in the ground, and a bit more done, while it's still cool. It's going to be a scorcher—for May, anyway."

"Another record, I'll bet. And still no rain in sight," Corinne fretted. "Oh,
why
didn't I stock more drought-
tolerant plants?" Shading her eyes, she scanned the blue, sunny sky in a fruitless search for clouds.

Laura said, "You did fine, Rinnie. We have plenty of low-water plants. People are going to buy the biggest bloomers, anyway—no matter what the season's forecast."

Corinne's confidence seemed to be drooping under the rising sun, and Laura could see why. This was it, their moment of truth: they were betting the ranch on having a great sell-through during Founders Week. Although serious gardeners had been shopping and planting since April, the more fair-weather types, and certainly the summer people, didn't get going until Memorial Day weekend.

"I'll carry this to your car for you," Laura volunteered.

Miss Widdich took her up on her offer. "Thank you, dear. I think I overdid, the other day in the garden."

Or something.
From old lady to Amazon to old lady again in a couple of wee
ks: the difference in Miss Wid
dich's condition was more than a strained muscle or two. Either she had been faking being strong, or she was faking being weak. It didn't take a physical therapist to figure out which was more doable.

Miss Widdich sighed heavily. "And to think I once planted a row of eight-foot-high arborvitae for a side hedge. By myself. And now I can't even carry a pot. Never get old, Laura; never get old."

"Oh, I don't know," Laura said as she loaded the plant in the trunk. "It's better than the alternative."

She was being flip, but the remark went over like a lead balloon. Miss Widdich gave her a withering look and said sharply, "What is
that
supposed to mean?"

"It's just an expression, Miss Widdich," Laura said, backing off quickly. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Astonishing, how the woman was able to turn Laura into a teenager quaking in her shoes again.

Laura gave her an intimidated smile and said, "I'll see you this afternoon at the workshop?"

Please let her stay home with her dolls and her pins.

"I'll be there—if I live that long," Miss Widdich said darkly, and she slammed the trunk of her big black Ford.

Jitters,
Laura decided. For whatever reason, there was a plague of them going around. She herself felt as though she were backstage on opening night. What if they didn't come? What if they came and didn't like what they saw?

Take us or leave us, folks
, she wanted to shout.
Just make up your minds so that Corinne can get on with her life.

And by the way, that goes for me, too, damn it.

****

By ten-thirty, the lot was full, the help—Melissa—was overwhelmed, and La
ura was in a state of shock. Ev
eryone in Chepaquit seemed to be there, eating cookies, drinking coffee, collecting balloon animals—and buying everything in sight.

Billy was staggering around like a dancing bear, emptying wagons, loading cars, and generally acting as traffic control officer. His gap-toothed welcome was as cheery as any Wal-Mart greeter's as he flagged cars into tighter and tighter parking spots.

Snack, amazingly, seemed to fit right in with the lively carnival atmosphere. Orange and chartreuse suited him well, and so did big giant feet. He squeaked, he honked, he hammed it up. The kids loved him, even though his balloon creations looked more like aliens than dachshunds. During the lulls—there weren't many—he drove the old green Deere, still wearing his big giant feet, back and forth between the far reaches of the nursery and the loading area, bringing back more stuff to sell.

He hadn't quite finished clearing the compost pile, but it hardly mattered: there wasn't time to set up a proper display of trees, anyway. Besides, people seemed to enjoy roaming the different sections of the nursery, probably as much for the view of the sea and the cool breeze as anything else. What was not to like?

As for Corinne, she was everywhere at once, giving advice, ringing up sales, hunting down just the right plant for just the right person. Freckle-faced and flushed with joy, she couldn't look more radiant if she were wearing a wedding dress and leaving a church. It was a thrill for Laura to see.

Gabe was there and lending a hand, which might have had something to do with Corinne's joy. He had walked across the road shortly after they'd opened their doors for business, and almost immediately, Corinne had drafted him as her assistant. Gabe didn't know much about horticulture, but he was willing and able to find more boxes and trays, snug up the pots to eliminate the gaps on the tables, and do whatever it was that a guy Friday was supposed to do and still maintain a councilman's dignity.

It helped that Gabe knew everyone in town; he was able to talk up the nursery and encourage each citizen, by name, to go out and drag back his or her friends. People teased him about running for mayor a year early and handed over their babies for him to kiss. And meanwhile, his big, gentle mutt Baskerville ran around and barked at the birds and slobbered over the kids who took the time to pet him.